by Jess Bentley
“Bunny, give it a rest.”
“I was right!”
Picking my glass back up, I finish the rest of my champagne and then hold it in the air until the bartender notices me. I'm going to need a lot more alcohol.
“I was right! Say it!”
“I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“Say it!”
I just shake my head.
She smacks my knee. “Dahlia, I want you to admit it. If not for me, then for you. I was right. All this time, you've been all buttoned up, all living inside your head, pretending that you had no emotions, no desires, nothing. You've always been, you know… uptight.”
“I am not uptight!” I gasp, appalled.
“Oh please. You are the uptightest.”
I squirm in my chair, looking over my shoulder to make sure those other women aren't listening in on this.
“I'm not. I'm just cautious. I don't see any reason to go around —”
“— what? Go around being free? Being happy? Giving that a shot?”
“There's no need to be sarcastic.”
She sighs. She presses her lips to the side and tips her head. “Okay, fine. I take that part back. But seriously? Isn't this better? Can’t you admit it just a little bit?”
I think back, pondering last few days, the last couple weeks or so. Maybe she's got a point.
“It is sort of fun.”
She nods, her eyes bright and gleaming.
“It is fun!” she agrees. “Because, you know… I was right!”
Fine, whatever, she was right. I'm not going to say it out loud.
A few more people come into the room, shuffling toward the lounge chairs, coming up to the bar. Stan walks another couple of women toward the bar and delivers them, then returns to his post at the front door. In moments, the concert begins. Bunny squints at the closest LED screen over the top of her drink.
“Damn, that is a good-looking man,” she sighs.
“What? Are you serious? Kirkman?”
“Oh, yeah… I've always loved him. I mean, just look… it's like he glows! He is sort of amazing.”
I make a face, but try not to say anything. Bunny’s taste in man is not always the most awesome, but what's the harm? She certainly seems to know a lot more about these sorts of things than I do, anyway.
The VIP room fills up a little bit, but never gets congested or overflowing. Halfway through the concert, the tables are set with a modest but delicious buffet of paella, shrimp cocktail, and oysters on the half shell. Bunny loads up a plate and munches on it hungrily as she watches the concert through the screens, absorbing every moment.
After the show is over, I realize I am starting to feel a little bit tipsy. I've never been a very heavy drinker. Two glasses of champagne are usually my limit. I'm pretty sure I've had three. The one in my hand might be number four? I should definitely stop.
“That was amazing,” Bunny breathes. She slides from her barstool. “What do we do next? I brought a bag… should we go play slot machines? Is there a pool or something?”
“Well… Kirkman probably be here in a few minutes, so do you want to wait?”
Her eyes go wide. “Kirkman? He will? Here? Oh —”
Her gaze floats over my shoulder, and she looks shellshocked. Her lips fall open with a small popping noise.
I look over my shoulder and see that the door is open again. Kirkman saunters in, bouncing slightly at the knees as though he is still performing. He waves over his head at a couple of the businessmen in the corner, then sweeps the room with his eyes. He sees me and jerks his chin in greeting then pauses, looking at Bunny. She makes a tiny, strangled squeal as he begins to walk toward us.
“What do we do?” she asks quickly. “Dahlia? Am I supposed to be here?”
“Just smile.”
Kirkman rolls his eyes at me. “Where's your boss?” he asks me.
“Checking for strays, I imagine,” I answer. “He'll be here shortly. Do you remember Bunny?”
He smiles with one corner of his mouth, sliding his eyes over every inch of her where she stands.
“Of course I remember her,” he says. “I liked your other costume. This one is better.”
Bunny casts her weight to one side, perching her fist on her hip and cocking her head. She instantly transforms, burying the nervous fangirl deep inside and turning immediately into the sultry vixen I know and love.
“Your costume is okay, too, I guess,” she answers saucily.
Kirkman turns his back toward the women gathered at the end of the bar who are all staring with their mouth hanging open, obviously displeased. He swings into a barstool next to Bunny and drops his elbow on the bar so he can perch his head on his fist.
“You wanna take a picture?” he invites her.
“Excuse me, I'll be right back,” I say in a rush. She seems to like him, but I'm just going to have to get away.
When I get to a safe distance, I look back. Now that I can't hear the words that are coming out of his mouth, he doesn't seem so bad. Bunny sure seems to be into him. She's doing her best flirty cheerleader impression, bouncing up and down on her toes, sticking her chin in the air. She's very sassy little person, I'm sure he'll like her.
“What is going on over there?” comes a voice close to my ear. Instantly my body thrills, and I'm electrified.
I don't turn around. Instead I edge backward millimeter by millimeter, trying to get closer. I feel August’s hand snake around my waist and he pulls me tighter to him.
“I think Bunny has a new crush,” I murmur, quietly enough that he has to be very close to hear me.
“Well, isn't that convenient,” August says, his breath trailing over my ear, down the side of my neck. I shiver and sigh, wishing we were alone.
“She will be okay with him? Should I do something?”
“Just let her have her fun,” he answers.
I nod, sure he's right. Bunny knows what she's doing. She's known all along.
Chapter 45
August
Ron holds the remote out in front of him, way in front. I wonder if he realizes he doesn't have to do that. It's not like it makes a difference.
The TV makes a little boop noise every time he thumbs down to the next entry in the lineup. He scrolls through all the NHL games, looking for baseball.
Twirling my beer bottle slowly in my fingers, I watch the condensation form droplets and rub them out with the pad of my thumb.
“This all right?” he asks absentmindedly.
“Sure,” I agree without looking at what he's putting on.
The familiar sounds of a sports match fill the air. I don't even have to watch. I'm just here holding down the other end of the sofa for Ron.
Suddenly I realize, I have never asked him about his love life. He was always there for me with Trina, then later suggesting other women in his office like Kelly… But I never even asked him about other women. He has never brought it up either.
“Ron? Do you date?”
His beer bottle pauses halfway to his lips, just for a second.
“Date? Like women?”
“Yeah, women.”
Ron shrugs and drinks his beer. “I don't think about it much anymore.”
We sit in silence. I know I’m not going to get much more out of him. If Ron wanted to say more, he would have.
Finally he finds a show and his hand drops back into his lap. It's soccer, strangely. Or football, I guess is what the rest of the world calls it.
“I didn't know you followed soccer,” I say.
“I guess it’s what’s on,” he answers vaguely.
There's a team in yellow, and another team in green. The announcer is speaking so quickly I'm not sure if it’s English. It might be English. It might be just English with an accent. No idea.
“Ron… Listen…”
My voice trails off. Why is this so hard?
“Ron…” I start again. “Man, I need to ask you something.”
&nbs
p; He sets his bottle down on the end table, still not looking at me. “Ask away.”
“I was just thinking… well…”
English. I am pretty sure it’s English but maybe with something like a German accent. Pretty sure.
We sit there in silence for a good long time. I feel like half the game goes by. Finally Ron turns his head toward me.
“Were you saying something?”
“Ron… I think… I'd like to date Dahlia.”
The crowd goes wild. The announcer yells something.
“With your permission,” I add. “Only with your permission.”
“She's twenty-one,” Ron says, his voice even and implacable. “She doesn't need my permission.”
I shrug helplessly. “That might be true… But I need your permission, Ron. I need to know that you and I would be okay. That you would be okay. It's important to me.”
He gets up from the couch walks away. I don't move, listening to the thunderous sound of my heartbeat my ears. After quite a long time, he returns, sitting down and placing two fresh beers on the coffee table in front of him.
“Dahlia is… she's my girl, August,” Ron says softly.
“I know that. I have nothing but respect for that.”
He picks up his beer, watching the TV screen intently over the top of the bottle opening. After a long swig, he puts it back down.
“As long as you know that,” he continues. “You gotta know that. You gotta do right.”
The game moves along, with the yellow team rushing to one side, the green team rushing to the other side. The crowd roars its approval and disapproval. Guys in black and white striped shirts hustle alongside the action.
Near the end of the game, Ron is almost finished his beer. I hear the front door open and Dahlia and Bunny walk into the foyer.
“As long as you understand that,” Ron says again, his voice barely audible under the sound from the front of the house. “She's everything in the world to me.”
“Thanks,” I choke, my voice thick with emotion. I know that's the most emotional conversation Ron has had in a long time. He's usually happy just to have me next to him. Not talking, not about anything important anyway. He's always aware, always even. He's a rock. But there's nothing more than he needs to say.
I totally understand.
Epilogue
Dahlia
“Berner Security, how can I help you?” I tap the Bluetooth to push up the volume. The voice on the other end of the line is tinny, maybe far away.
“Can you speak up? We may have a bad connection.”
The caller is from Malta. It's a small country — one of the smallest in the world — on the other side of the planet. One of August’s former clients needs an escort during a trip. I jot the details into my iPad and then tuck it in my bag and disconnect the call.
The interns huddle around the kitchen island, tapping on the laptops. Business has been extraordinarily good since Kirkman decided he loved August in retrospect. He tweeted about him a few times, and new contracts came rolling in. Celebrities, musicians especially, love to get hooked up with other celebrities. August, for the moment, seems to be just the right guy.
It's funny, for someone who needs to be on the down low so much, August seems to enjoy a tiny slice of the limelight. He looks amazing in an Armani suit, following closely behind Rihanna or Brad Pitt. We had a brief contract with the Kardashians that ended well, but found ourselves back in DC working with a senator I'm not allowed to name.
In the short time that I've been here, I've seen twenty-two of the United States and three other countries. Malta will make four.
The front door opens and August strides in, quickly refilling his coffee cup as he moves swiftly toward the back of the loft space. He's been working on a new series of apps that track image locations on Instagram and his programmer told me earlier that he had made progress.
But first, he has to kiss me hello.
He swerves, coming right for me, his expression instantly changed. He's not scowling, he's not distracted. He's focused only on me for this brief moment. I smile warmly, opening my arms so that he can lift me briefly off my feet, kiss me deeply, then set me back down.
“Hello,” I breathe, as soon as I catch my breath.
“Hello, beautiful,” he says in a soft, intimate voice. Everyone else in the apartment averts their eyes politely so we can have this brief, stolen moment.
He finishes with a sweet peck on the tip of my nose and then rushes back off to the back of the space so he can talk to the programmer. For the thousandth time, I have to sit for a moment to collect myself. Every time he walks into a room, I'm swept away all over again. My heart races, and my breath seems to leave me. I tingle everywhere. I am distracted by deluge of thoughts that invade my mind. I can't wait to get him alone, to be his.
The phone rings again and I connect the call, taking down more details. It's more new business, something I will need to run past August before I answer them yes or no, but I promise to contact them tomorrow with a response. This time, it's the Romanian diplomat, wanting to negotiate an agricultural treaty in Washington. Even though Romania has their own security detail, I guess August’s reputation is fairly well-known at this point.
Finally the day ends, and our employees drift off one by one. They’re dedicated people, but I'm happy to see them leave, to carry on with their own lives.
Finally, we are alone.
August unbuttons his shirt as he approaches me, his eyes hungry and direct.
“Show me,” he growls as he approaches.
I smile and shift toward him, spreading my knees. Slowly I pull the fabric of my skirt up my thighs, tantalizing him with millimeter by millimeter of exposure. His gait doesn’t waver and he falls to his knees in front of me, biting the inside of my knee gently as I slowly reveal more of myself to him.
I hear him groaning under his breath, growling as he kisses a line from my knee up the inside of my thigh. My body pulses a response, ready for him immediately. I feel myself swelling, feel my belly clench with desire.
“You smell so good,” he says as his mouth closes over my sex, I feel his teeth gently through the fabric of my panties, and his hands push my knees open wider.
Roughly he drags the fabric to the side so his tongue can plunge into me, finding my clit, swirling against it.
“Oh, yes, yes,” I sigh, grinding against his mouth. My hands find the back of his head and I push my fingers through his hair, pulling him closer to me. My thighs close over his shoulders as my body writhes against him, pushing me over the edge until I climax in a sudden shudder of joy.
“Delicious,” he sighs, wiping his mouth of the back of his hand as he pulls my skirt back down modestly over my thighs. I gasp for breath, trembling.
“Here, drink this,” he suggests softly, handing me a cool glass of water. I bring it to my lips and drink gratefully, feeling the temperature seep through my body like an autumn mist.
I feel him tugging gently on my hand. “I hate to tell you this, darling, but we need to be going,” he reminds me gently.
“Oh, right… the charity auction."
I try to gather my wits again, piecing it together through the fog that's entered my brain. Stubbornly, I push myself to my feet and stand there, wobbly and rickety as an old sailboat.
“You look perfect,” he sighs.
“No, I should shower? Change?”
“Don’t you dare,” he says with a wink.
The auction is in Arlington, a beautiful colonial town with a lot of politicians and celebrities. As we drive, I open my window to drink in the fragrant night air. He cherry blossoms are in bloom again, and the scent is notably intense tonight.
“Any new business?” he asks.
“Three calls today… would you like to go on a cruise?”
He sucks his teeth. “Well… are you telling me that you would like to go on a cruise, Dahlia?”
“Oh, I think I just might,” I admit. “Private yacht i
n the Mediterranean. Just for a week or so. Can we?”
“Hm. If you’re really excited, then I suppose we can.”
“I am very… very excited,” I assure him.
As he navigates the BMW through the cool evening air, I marvel at how everything is different. Just about six short months ago I was living with my father, struggling to keep my entry-level job, lonely and aimless.
Now I'm free to have as much ambition as I want. Free to explore the things I'm good at. August has been encouraging me to re-enroll at the University, to finish my degree in criminal justice. I feel like I can do that.
But first, I want to go to Malta. I want to go to Greece and his Pakistan. I'd like to see if the water really does flow the opposite direction and Australia if possible. August has opened up whole new world to me, one that only existed in YouTube videos before. People I followed on Instagram. I didn't know people really have this kind of life.
I finally get my wits back about me by the time we get to the valet. August opens my door and I climb out, taking his hand as we enter the event. We stroll the perimeter, observing before taking our seats. This is not actually security detail, it's simply an opportunity to network. But still, reconnaissance is always wise.
The atrium is arranged with dozens of tables with items on them, displayed artfully on velvet pedestals. Each one has a number, and the intention is to try to “buy” the item of your choice by bidding on that number. I find an antique-looking pendant in a small box, next to a small framed painting of a landscape. Halfway through the landscape, there's a small girl. I can barely make her out. She's wearing a bright pink dress, and I think she's blowing on a dandelion, wishing the seeds away.
“You see something you like?” August asks me, kissing the back of my neck lightly.
“This, I think,” I say, running my finger over the ridged frame of the small painting. “There's something about it…”
My voice chokes up at the end, and I swallow hard.
I shake my head to clear my thoughts.
“Excuse me, that is so weird. Sorry. It's just a pretty painting, is all.”
