So, my classmates knew me as a loner. But that didn’t mean I wanted it to be that way forever. Just because things hadn’t worked out before didn’t mean they couldn’t in the future.
I looked at Trevor, who was jabbering about some kind of deal he had made that week. He stopped when he found me staring at him.
“Something wrong?” he asked. “You need another drink?”
I looked down at the remnants of my third glass of whiskey, which was nearly empty. I had reached my self-imposed limit for the night, where I was tipsy but wouldn’t be hungover the next morning.
I pushed the glass away.
“Let’s dance,” I said, and held out my hand so he could lead me to the back of the bar, where a bunch of people had started an impromptu dance floor next to the juke box. As the lazy riffs of “Beast of Burden” came on, Trevor pulled me into his chest and swayed awkwardly and out of sync with the music while Steve, Eric, and Cherie all watched with interest. He smelled like bourbon and body spray, but I enjoyed at least the feel of his arms wrapped tightly around my waist and the muscles of his chest beneath my cheek.
“Hey,” he said as the Stones launched into the chorus the second time. I looked up, and he touched his nose to mine.
All right, why not? Jagger asked if he was strong enough, and I closed my eyes as Trevor leaned in.
His tongue slipped into my mouth and touched mine before darting out again. He did this again. And then again. It was…not pleasant. Like being kissed by some kind of reptile. When I pulled away, he moved his mouth, rubbery and wet, to my neck before leaning back with obvious, drunken desire gleaming in his muddy brown eyes.
“You’re really hot, you know that?” His words were slightly slurred. “I have a total thing for redheads, and you are at least a nine. Maybe even a ten by Boston standards.”
“Um, thanks,” I muttered. My long red hair, which was wavy, unruly, and roughly the color of an heirloom tomato, was almost always the subject of tired come-ons. I was proud of my natural color, but was like these guys literally couldn’t see anything but the top of my head.
“You want to get out of here? My place is just off Newbury.” Like Chase, the street name was meant to impress—Newbury was a nice part of town, and expensive.
Five minutes ago, I might have said yes, but I had no intention of having sex with Captain Jabbing Tongue of the Good Ship Sexism that night. I gently untangled myself from Trevor’s grip and was careful not to answer the question. “I’m going to stop in the ladies’ room.”
Trevor nodded happily. “I’ll just go close out my tab, honey.”
I ducked through the crowd back to the booth, where Cherie hooted and Steve pretended not to notice me.
“I’m heading out,” I told them as I grabbed my coat.
“Skylar’s gonna get some!” Cherie crowed, clearly worse for wear. “I saw you making out on the dance floor. Girl got a hot date!”
I snorted. “Hardly. Trying to get rid of one, if you know what I mean. I’ll see you guys on Monday. Tell Eric I said bye, wherever he went.”
Cherie and Steve waved slurred goodbyes, although Steve’s was a bit lackluster. I checked the bar, where Trevor was patiently waiting for a bartender to ring him up. Once he turned his back to sign his tab, I wove around the crowd and out the front door.
Outside I was met by the makings of a full-on Nor’easter as a blast of snow and wind pummeled me in the face. At least ten other people were standing on the curb, trying without any luck to hail cabs driving by, all of them occupied.
“Shit,” I muttered, checking to make sure Trevor hadn’t come out yet. I buttoned my wool pea coat and wound my scarf around my neck, wishing I had foregone my pencil skirt for pants and my goose-down parka. It might have made me look like the Michelin Man, but at least I’d be warm. The nearest T-stop was at least ten blocks away, and I was going to have to walk. Damn.
“Skylar!”
As one particularly cold gust nearly knocked me over, a cab stopped in front of me, with Eric popping out the back window.
“Hey!” I greeted him as I stepped out to the car. “I thought you were already gone.”
“You’re never going to catch a cab right now. Need a lift? Caleb is dropping me at a friend’s place a few blocks away before he takes this one back to Chestnut Hill.” He nodded his head at the unfamiliar guy sitting in the front, who waved. “You could call for a car and wait at my friend’s place if you want. That is, unless you wanted to go home with Douchebag in there.”
I followed his glance to where Trevor was pushing open the pub door. I turned back in a hurry. “Shove over and let me in, will you?”
~
Chapter 2
The cab dropped Eric and me in front of an enormous house on Beacon Street that directly faced the Commons. It was built in the nineteenth-century style that was everywhere in Boston, with four or five stories of gray brick punctuated by black bay windows. Unlike most of the buildings surrounding the park, the double-doored entrance didn’t have the telltale buzzer that usually marked multiple units. Only one occupant lived here.
I turned to Eric. “A friend?” I joked. “Or sugar mama?”
“You’re fucking hilarious,” Eric said. “She just works here.”
Handsome in a Norse hero kind of way, Eric had a reputation as something of a player in our class. I had known him since starting law school. Maybe it was because we were both from New York, but I had always thought of him more like an brother-type than the ladies' man he was to everyone else. We shared the same dislike of large social gatherings, but for slightly different reasons. I didn’t like to mix business and pleasure, whereas Eric tended to do it a bit too much, and his exploits often crossed paths at group functions.
“Anyway, definitely no sugar,” he said. “She’s a housekeeper for some rich bastard. Place is freaking amazing; she lives downstairs in the mother-in-law.” He shrugged. “It’s nothing serious.”
I grimaced. “Gross, man. You didn’t have to invite me on your booty call.”
Eric laughed as he walked toward the house. “Don’t worry. I’m sure we can wait at least until your car comes.”
“Wanna bet?” I asked, but followed him anyway.
The snow was starting to come down even harder, and already the pavement was covered with a thick blanket of the stuff. I cursed myself again for forgetting my snow boots, which I normally toted with me to and from work in the winter. Boston sidewalks in January were no place for Manolos.
“Careful!” Eric called back as he turned past and took a short flight of steps to a basement-level entrance, where he pressed a doorbell.
“She doesn’t answer the regular door?” I asked.
“Servants’ quarters,” he said with a smirk. “I guess most of the houses like this on the park have them converted into something different, like a garage, but this guy had them remodeled for the help. He is seriously loaded. He has a live-in driver too.” Eric shook his head, feigning disgust, but the obvious longing in his voice was harder to hide. Who wouldn’t want that kind of money?
“Hey, mister, come on in!”
The door was answered by a petite, pretty girl with wildly curly brown hair and a small, broad nose. The slight lilt in her voice informed me that she wasn’t originally from the United States, and as she smiled warmly, I couldn’t help thinking that was to her benefit. People in New England weren’t known for welcoming strangers into their homes, but she looked at me as though I were an old friend.
“Hi, I’ve been waiting for you! Come in, lindos, you look frozen!”
Eric and I followed her through a narrow hallway that ended in a large common room outfitted with two sectional sofas, a flat screen TV, and a kitchenette at the far end. Across the room a doorway led to another hall, where I could see several doors in the dim light and a staircase leading up to the main part of the house.
“Thanks for letting me wait here for a car,” I said. “Walking around in this stuff is murder on sh
oes, you know?”
“No problem,” she said, her accent even more apparent now. “I know exactly what you mean. I’m Ana, by the way.”
“Skylar,” I returned. I took her hand, but was surprised when she pulled me in for a quick peck to each cheek. “Where are you from?”
Ana smiled again. “Obviously not from here, huh? I’m moved from Brazil a few years ago. I like to see how people react when I kiss them on the cheek. New Englanders are so nervous about it; it’s so funny!”
“Well, I’m not from New England,” I said. “New Yorker, born and bred. We’re not quite so skittish.”
Ana laughed with a nod and pointed to a rack where I could hang my coat. Eric’s was already there, along with his shoes, pointed neatly out from the door.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he said, wrapping his arms around Ana’s impossibly tiny waist and nuzzling her neck. “David and Phoebe around?”
“No, David is on vacation this weekend. Went to Miami, lucky duck. Phoebe is off too,” she said as she leaned into his embrace. Their easy touch with each other made my chest squeeze a little with envy. Some people seemed to find that kind of rapport so easy. I never had.
“What about the Lord?” Eric was asking. “Think he’d care if I stuck around tonight?”
“Well, he’s not home right now. Why do you want to know, you naughty boy?”
I took a seat on one of the couches and thumbed fixedly at my phone while Eric and Ana said their very intimate hellos. Then she turned to me.
“Skylar, have you ever had a caipirinha?”
I looked up and shook my head. “Can’t say that I have. What is it?”
“It’s a Brazilian drink made with cachaça, which is kind of like a rum.”
“Oh, I’ve already had a few tonight. And it’s getting kind of late.” It was almost eleven-thirty.
“Come on, Crosby, have a few with us,” Eric wheedled from behind Ana. “It’s a Friday night, right? You gotta have some fun some time, and there’s nobody here who's going to try to feel you up. Only Ana has to deal with that.” He pinched Ana’s butt, causing her to shriek and scamper away.
“It’ll be the perfect thing to warm you up before you go out into the cold again,” she added, heading into the kitchenette. “I’ll make you one. You hate it, no problem. You like it, maybe you have another, eh?”
“Okay, okay,” I relented with a grin. She was so sweet and friendly, it was hard to say no. I could see why Eric wanted to come over.
Unsurprisingly, the drink was delicious, a blend of lime and sweet without the cloying taste of rum. I had already knocked back two and was dancing samba with Ana in my stockinged feet before I thought to check the time again.
“Oh, shit!” I yelped. “It’s past midnight! I really have to call a car if I’m going to catch the T home.”
“You do that,” said Eric, who had taken my place with Ana in a much more intimate way of dancing. I sank into the couch while he maneuvered her toward the hallway on the other side of the apartment.
“Eric!” she batted him helplessly on the shoulder but allowed herself to be steered away. “Skylar, make yourself at home,” she called in between bouts of giggles. “I just, ah, have to show Eric something in my room.”
With that lame excuse, they were gone, leaving me trying to find cell phone service. I stood up and paced around the room, but there was no signal.
“Shit,” I muttered to myself as a throaty laugh floated down the hall. I made a face. I wasn’t overly eager to listen to Eric having his way with Ana, no matter how charming she was. Aside from the fact that it skeeved me out to hear to my pseudo-brother getting it on with his lay of the week, I also didn’t care for the reminder of just how easy it was for some women to enjoy themselves that way.
Maybe I wouldn’t have been so frustrated if the lackluster reaction I’d had to Trevor were the exception, not the norm. But it always seemed to come back to that, whether it was during the first, crucial kiss, or later on, when I was supposed to be screaming with ecstasy.
It wasn’t that I was into the wrong gender either. No, I was definitely interested in men, but they just couldn’t seem to keep me focused long enough to enjoy myself. I'd become distracted by the lighting, the uncomfortable chafing between bodies, or the weird shape of my partner's nose. It didn’t help that most guys couldn’t seem to distinguish my clit from my elbow, or if they could, didn’t have a damn clue what to do with it. Maybe some girls (like Ana) could get off from pure friction, but I sure as hell wasn’t one of them.
Another, much louder giggle escaped from the hallway, followed by an ominous thump. I scowled and headed toward the stairs. Ana had said that the owner wasn’t home. As another yelp erupted from the hall, I decided to take my chances with trespassing to escape what was starting to sound like an amateur porn flick.
~
I opened the door at the top of the stairs into one of the largest and most beautiful kitchens I had ever seen. The entire thing was easily as large as my apartment, with dark wood cabinetry and white marbled countertops bordering the periphery. Two huge farmhouse sinks faced each other on each side of the room, bookending a double oven and a six-burner Viking stove. In the middle of the kitchen was a large, marble-topped island, surrounded by several stools and topped by a hanging rack of gleaming copper pots and pans.
An airy, adjacent room containing a tufted, cream chaise lounge and a farmhouse table sat directly off the kitchen, creating a sense of space and luxury in a common area that still managed to be comfortable. Large picture windows looked out onto a small courtyard garden planted over the servants’ quarters. I wasn’t much of a cook, but if I were, this would undoubtedly be my dream kitchen.
I checked my phone. Still a dead zone. I pushed through the kitchen door into a hallway that passed a bathroom and led into another massive, open room. A huge, white stone fireplace lorded over one wall, and gaping bay windows looked out over the snowy Commons. Dark wood floors continued from the kitchen and were covered with several plush sheepskin rugs, the kind that begged a person to fall asleep on them in front of a crackling fire. The walls looked like they had the original dark wood wainscoting, above which they were painted a warm cream color and bore a number of gorgeous modern art pieces.
Whoever had decorated the place knew their business, or paid someone who did. The aesthetic was warm yet posh, traditional yet modern, inviting yet imperious. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that every furnishing in the room was likely worth more than everything I owned put together, but I felt oddly comfortable there, wishing for nothing more than to sink into one of the overstuffed sofas for a long nap.
I walked over to one of the bay windows and looked out at the park, which was nearly deserted in the snowy conditions. Beacon Street was also quiet as the occasional car made its way very, very slowly down the road, careful on the not-yet salted concrete. The snow was quickly morphing into a blizzard; flakes were coming down in sideways droves. The T-Stop was only just across the park, but it might as well have been across the entire city.
I sat down on the wide sill, which was trimmed with a few pillows for such moments. Nights like these made me yearn for the comforts of my family’s cozy old house in Brooklyn, with its big front porch and my room carved into the attic. There I would snuggle up in the armchair next to the window and watch the snow gather on the oak tree outside while my father and grandmother chattered downstairs about the news and neighborhood politics.
Bubbe and my grandfather had owned the house for almost thirty-five years before he had passed away when I was a baby. Since I had left for law school, it was just the two of them in the drafty old place. But despite the fact that they were sitting on a million-dollar piece of property, they refused to sell it and kept my bedroom open for me whenever I was able to come home.
That was happening less and less these days. I had lived in the house with Dad and Bubbe through college and during my year on Wall Street, but I left for Boston when I was offered a spot
at Harvard. I had no regrets, but the demanding schedule of classes, studying, and interning had reduced my bimonthly visits to holiday weekends and breaks.
I pressed my nose up to the cold glass. My dad would love being stuck at home on a snow day like this, when he wouldn’t have to empty trashcans at the crack of dawn, but could sit in his armchair all day if he wanted to. Before college, I’d join him. We'd play Risk and watch old movies until we crashed on the faded plaid couch in the living room. A snow day in Flatbush was magical; in Boston, it often felt cold and unfriendly. Except maybe in a house like this.
The front doors swept open with a bang. I jumped from the windowsill, sending my phone onto the floor with a clatter. I scrambled down to find it, and when I stood up, I found four pairs of eyes staring at me.
There were three men, all of whom looked to be in their thirties or early forties, and who were dressed impeccably in tailored suits and the kind of cashmere overcoats that cost as much as my food budget for a year. One had brown hair and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Another had a mustache framing very thin lips. The third was probably the handsomest man I had ever seen. Clean shaven but for a bit of stubble, he had a ruddy, tanned complexion that betrayed a life that couldn’t be lived entirely in an office, and ear-length, sandy blonde hair brushed back from his face. The wind had made a few stray locks topple forward in that sexy, carefree way only certain men can pull off. He looked edible.
The other person was a very pretty woman, also dressed in a suit and overcoat, albeit much more fitted ones. With black hair tied back from her face, very pale skin, and bright red lips, she was beautiful in that severe way only a few very powerful women can pull off. All four people stared at me as though I were a stray animal that had managed to find its way inside the house. Come to think of it, that wasn’t entirely incorrect.
“Sterling,” said the mustached man with a mischievous grin. “You didn’t tell us you had company waiting for you.”
“No,” said the woman in a tone that implied she was not at all happy with my presence. “He didn’t.”
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