Dangerous Alliance

by Kyra Davis

  I take the plastic bag out of my purse. Inside is crushed green powder.

  “What’s that?” Lander asks, genuinely bewildered.

  “It’s rat poison,” I say, my voice hollow, even to my own ears. “To kill a rat.”

  Lander doesn’t respond immediately. He just absorbs the meaning of my words as he stares at the bag. “Adoncia,” he finally says, his voice steady but urgent. “What did you do?”

  I finger the bag, making the green powder float this way and that. “Nothing,” I say softly. “White left with Javier.”

  “Wait, Javier was there? Did he see you?”

  “No.”

  “What the hell was he doing—”

  “White was supposed to die!” The words come hurtling out of my mouth, bellowing through the room and ricocheting off the walls. I get to my feet and start pacing the bleached wood floors. “We play these stupid Scooby Doo games, trying to work out the mystery of who did what when and who knew, and in the meantime these people, these murderers, are out there living in the lap of luxury, literally destroying the world! I mean, drug cartels, Lander? Russian mafia? Iran? As far as we know they’re funding terrorists! And we’re sitting here, twiddling our thumbs, talking about some Mickey Mouse operation in Delaware? Are you fucking kidding me? These people don’t need to go to prison, they need to die! Don’t you see that? They killed Nick Foley and when they did that they killed my mother. My mother!” I grab a vase worth God only knows how much and hurl it across the room, watching it shatter into a hundred pieces as it smashes against the wall. “They need to die, Lander,” I say, softer this time, the tears slipping down my cheek. “I want these people to die.”

  Slowly, Lander stands up, walks behind me, and puts a hand on each of my arms. I wait for him to tell me to calm down, that I’m being unreasonable, but he says nothing, and the relief that comes from this gentle silence, from feeling understood, is so overwhelming I fall back into him, allowing him to hold me up as he kisses my hair.

  “I shouldn’t have called you when Jessica was on the verge of overdosing.” The tears are flowing freely now and my words are staggered as I gulp for air. “I was supposed to just let her die. That’s what I wanted. That was my plan. And then I was going to make it look like a murder and pin her death on Travis. I had it all set up. There’s a paper trail that points to him . . . everything I needed to make it work. He would be on trial right now for murder, not fucking money laundering. And Jessica, that bitch who lied about my mother on the stand, she would be dead! And Sean White, he should be dead. But when the chips were down I was weak and I was slow and now they’re winning. Every breath of air they take is another knife wound to my heart. I’m not even alive anymore. I mean how can I be, right? How can I be alive when every single fucking day I die just a little bit more?”

  Slowly he turns me around; his eyes are so calm, so focused. He’s hearing me. Somebody is finally hearing me.

  And somebody cares.

  I close my eyes as his kisses find my tears, pulling them away from my skin, warming me, centering me. I reach out and grab his shoulders, grateful to have something solid to hold on to.

  “You’re hurting,” he says, whispering the words against my skin. “You’re incredibly angry, but Adoncia . . .” He pulls away, holds my face in his hands. “You are more alive than any person I have ever met.”

  My lower lip trembles. If I move, if I so much as speak, I will weep.

  “That’s why you’re hurting and it’s why you’re angry,” Lander continues. “Because life was taken—from Nick Foley, from your mother. They lost their lives and you know what that means. And it’s why Jessica is still alive and it’s why you would never have gone through with your plan to poison Sean. Because you appreciate the value of life in a way that they never could.”

  “No,” I say, pulling away. “That’s not true. That can’t be true.” I put my hand over my stomach as if trying to press back the pain that is knotted in my gut. “White talked about my mother tonight . . . If you had heard the things he said . . . Lander, he truly does deserve to die! I have to believe that . . . I can’t . . . I . . . I have to believe that!”

  “Adoncia—”

  “Don’t you understand? What you’re saying, it means that they can hurt me in ways that I can never hurt them! And why? Because I value their life more than they value their own? That’s not how I think! That can’t be who I am!”

  He’s standing there, watching me, his eyes so kind, so sympathetic . . .

  I shake my head fiercely, stepping farther back. “You’re wrong! I don’t value life for life’s sake! Not for people like them! And not for people like me.” The tears have started again; they’re pouring down my face, blurring the room into some kind of abstract nightmare. “You’ve given me comfort, you’ve given me kindness and passion and I thank you for that, I do. It’s why I’m here, right now, in your home, in this room with you . . . But the reason I’m still on this earth? The reason I’m alive is revenge. That’s the only thing that keeps me here. That’s all I care about. If I didn’t have revenge I would’ve given up on my life years ago. I’d have no reason to go on.”

  “I believe you, to a degree,” Lander says, his voice so soft, so tender it hurts. “But, Adoncia, when everything had been taken from you, when you had nothing—no money, no family, no real home, no love—did you give up?”

  I open my mouth to answer but then shake my head when I can’t find the words.

  “No,” Lander continues. “You never gave up. Instead you gave yourself the quest for revenge, you gave yourself a reason to live.”

  I’m trembling, the room is spinning, and I hold on to the back of an armchair for support. “But . . . but it’s not like that,” I plead. “Because when the revenge is gone, once I’ve made them all pay, then I can give up. I will, I’m sure I will.”

  “Just as you were sure you were going to let Jessica die?” he asks. “No, you’ll just find another reason to go on. You won’t let the world stop you. You may have your flaws, but a lack of tenacity isn’t one of them.”

  I’m clutching the armchair, trying to breathe. Does he know what he’s doing? I have trained myself to be ruthless, to be callous, to be a walking, talking weapon whose whole purpose is to destroy my enemies at all costs. But what Lander is saying . . . Does he know that he is challenging the very essence of how I define myself? Does he get that?

  I close my eyes against the spinning room, trying to clear my head. Another reason to live, another reason . . . What could that possibly be?

  Could it be him?

  My eyes fly open and I try to see him through the tears. Could Lander be my reason to live? Could he give me that?

  Because, I realize with a sad little jolt, I would like that. It’s a gift that I covet. When my world of revenge is gone I’ll be lost. But if he could just let me make him my world, if I could just make this man my home . . .

  . . . if he could just love me.

  In a moment of confessions these are the words I still cannot utter.

  Pain, so much pain. For years all I’ve let myself feel is anger, but now he’s weakened that armor, and all the hurt and confusion and fear that I’ve been suppressing for so long are flooding through me like a tsunami irreparably altering my internal landscape. My knees are weak, I can barely stand. I reach for him, extending my open hand toward him. “Help me,” I whisper, “make me feel the things you say I am. Make . . . Make me feel alive.”

  In an instant he’s holding me, wrapping me up in his arms, his scent, tickling me with his breath. My mouth finds his and I kiss him like I’ve never kissed him before. The kiss is so deep and so very urgent, like I’m going to consume him . . .

  . . . like I want to be consumed.

  His hands are moving under my shirt, up my back; I feel his skin against mine and I’m so grateful for that and so demanding of more.

  I’m tearing off his shirt as he rips off mine. Nothing can be between us, this is my need
, this is my life.

  His hand weaves into my hair and pulls, forcing my head back so he can kiss my neck, and I welcome it, welcome the pleasure and the pain, welcome anything that can make me feel present, in this moment, anything that will force me to celebrate my own vitality while still being overwhelmed by his. I feel him loosen my bra and I desperately work on his pants. In seconds all our clothes are tossed about the room, discarded like the needless impediments that they are. He’s so beautiful, every muscle so defined, so perfect, he’s made his body his temple and I fall to my knees in worship, wrapping my lips around his erection, letting my tongue feel the shape of each vein, of his every detail. For over half my life revenge has been my church, but now he is my idol, golden and mystical. This has to be mine. He has to be mine. He has to give this to me . . .

  . . . and I have to be his.

  I hear him groan as I continue my ministrations, and for me that groan is like a Beethoven rhapsody, making me rejoice in the pleasure I can give him, celebrating the victory of being able to make him want me, to make him need me.

  He pushes on my shoulder and I fall back, my legs bent under my thighs, my arms raised straight back behind my head as he lies on top of me, gripping my shoulders, his face just inches from mine as he thrusts inside of me, moving his hips in circular motions as he explores me. His lips find my ear, my cheek, and then my mouth again as his hands move to touch my breasts, which are now begging for his attention.

  And as the kisses continue I realize . . .

  . . . my idol is worshipping me.

  Exhilarated, I arch my back a little more, bringing him in deeper, making the two of us one.

  When he pulls away from me I almost cry again, the agony of losing our connection for even a moment too much to bear. I pull my legs out from underneath me, raise my knees to my breasts, crossing my ankles so I’m curled up in a ball, comforting myself for this temporary loss.

  But Lander is far from done with me. He kneels before me, and grabbing my hips, pulls me onto his angled lap. My feet are now pressed against the hardness of his chest, giving me the leverage I need as he enters me, moving back and forth, testing and delighting in the tight friction we’ve created. He is so magnificent as he moves against me, such a tantalizing vision to behold.

  I want this man to love me.

  I uncurl my legs, placing them on either side of him, pressing down into his hard floor with the base of my feet. He leans over me, one hand right above each of my shoulders, but when he tries to press my hips down onto the ground I stop him. With a small hand gesture I motion for him to stay still as I lift and lower my hips, controlling our rhythm. With each small thrust I only take in half of his cock, knowing that I am creating a sweet torture of my own. Again he groans, his eyes wanting so much more from me, wanting everything.

  I want this man to love me.

  With one powerful thrust I push my hips all the way up, taking him in completely, and I can see the ecstasy play across his face as I continue. I know what I’m doing to him, know that he is on the verge of filling me with everything that makes him a man.

  But when I bring my hands to his sides, making my body completely open to him, he finally pushes my hips down to the floor, pressing his pelvis against mine, entering me at a higher angle, moving inside of me in a slow, sensual, dancelike movement, forward around, back around, driving me crazy, while his pelvis massages my clit.

  I’m going to come, there is no holding back anymore, and as the orgasm takes hold I feel him pulsating inside me, filling me, and I hear him calling out my name.

  “Adoncia.”

  Lander, my lover, is the only one who calls me by my real name.

  I want this man to love me.

  chapter fifteen

  * * *

  The next few days blend together like raindrops in a puddle; not one is distinguishable from another. We don’t talk about Sean White or what I might or might not have done to him. We don’t talk about my anger, my pain, or my reason to live. Sometimes the more important parts of life have to be put aside just so you can get through the day. And these days there was a lot to get through.

  Each day I call Micah and lie. I tell him I haven’t seen Javier. I don’t know if anyone associated with the Gables or HGVB has seen him either. Micah takes the news in stride. As far as I’m concerned the only thing that is important is that he thinks I’m spying for him.

  And I do about a thousand little errands for Jessica in preparation for the party. Lander does whatever it is he does, talking to his mysterious detectives, conferring with his “man” who is working on the encryption, sharing little, promising everything. I imagine myself as the star of a dark version of Annie, always singing that the crimes will come out tomorrow.

  Travis has little to do with me. I serve Jessica when I work on Monday, and on Tuesday there are so many last-minute details to take care of I almost forget that I’m not really there to be a personal assistant, that I’m not supposed to care how this dinner turns out. Because when every moment is about flower arrangements and seating charts and who’s getting the vegetarian meal and when will the champagne be served . . . Well, it’s hard not to get lost in that. It’s almost as if Jessica is planning a wedding. But maybe this is what the rich do. They plan wedding after wedding, labeling them by different names (political fund-raiser, Harvard alumni dinner, themed costume ball). These events don’t end in marriages, but then the real weddings—the big ones with the tiered cakes and the ten-thousand-dollar gowns—those aren’t really about marriage anyway. They’re about the production. And by those standards, this dinner Jessica has orchestrated for Sam Highkin is one spectacular ceremony.

  Jessica sends me down to the venue early, to make sure that all her last-minute requests are being carried out. Robyn, the event manager, a fortysomething woman with narrow eyes and a neck like a giraffe, is frantic with all the adjustments, and the two of us decide to partner up and make it happen. Jessica shows up only minutes before Sam Highkin’s campaign staff, and there’s no denying that she looks positively lovely. Her high-waisted, short-sleeved silk dress hovers between a pale yellow and nude, with a keyhole neckline and embroidered gold flowers on the shoulders. It’s a tailored cut that flares, just slightly, midthigh. The whole thing seems to be a nod to the 1940s styles that might have been worn by Lauren Bacall or Ingrid Bergman. Nothing racy, but figure flattering and literally dripping with sophistication.

  And the funny thing is, Jessica looks comfortable wearing it. More than that, she looks confident. As members of Sam Highkin’s campaign team trickle in, she greets them with a balance of grace and aloofness. Her eyes are a little glassy, but other than that you can’t tell that she’s a regular pill popper. If anything, she comes across as a quintessential old-money socialite.

  But it’s not until Travis shows up a half hour later that I realize that for tonight, the rules of the game have changed. For when Jessica spots him walking through the door, her shoulders remain relaxed; she doesn’t cower or fold into herself as she so often does in his presence.

  No, tonight she simply curls her lips into a benign smile. And when he approaches her he does the unthinkable.

  He gives her a kiss on the cheek.

  To say this is out of character is an understatement. Before this moment the kindest thing I’ve ever seen Travis do for Jessica is refuse to talk to her.

  But tonight? Tonight they seem like a perfectly normal, if not overly affectionate, married couple. Travis addresses the campaign staff, shaking hands, saying a few words to this one, then to that one as Jessica stands by his side looking like the model political wife.

  They’re wearing their game face, I realize. The way Travis treats her in the privacy of his home is one thing, but he won’t make a spectacle here. Here he is a figure to be feared, but also to be admired. He’s an actor . . . like me.

  It’s tempting to just sit back and watch the performance art, but there’s too much to do, and so as their play continues I run
around with Robyn, making sure that all of Jessica’s whims are being realized to perfection.

  At some point the event manager taps me on the shoulder and points to her watch. “The guests will be here soon; you have to change,” she says.

  “Right.” I glance over at Jessica, who clearly had all the time in the world to put herself together perfectly. I would have liked to have gotten dressed at Lander’s, or even at my apartment, but Jessica had no interest in allowing me that luxury.

  “I moved your dress and other things out of my office,” Robyn continues as she straightens out a place setting.

  “All right.” I sigh. “I’ll change in the ladies’ room.”

  “Um, no, that’s not what I meant.” Robyn laughs as she steps away from the table to examine her work. “I moved you into our bride’s dressing room. You deserve at least that much.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary.”

  Robyn turns to me and gives me a look. “Your boss is extremely particular and she seems to have a hard time making up her mind. If you hadn’t helped me I’m not sure I would have been able to pull all this off. So yeah, I think providing you with a decent room for you to change your clothes in is absolutely necessary.”

  I smile my gratitude. I like Robyn, and to be honest I like being appreciated by a person for whom I’m not bending over backward to please or destroy. I follow her out of the room as she leads me through wood-paneled corridors, past doors leading to ballrooms and smaller private dining rooms. “We only have one other event tonight,” Robyn says as we pass an open door with people mingling inside. “A retirement dinner, and that will be wrapping up in about an hour, so then it’ll just be you guys. It’s a good thing because I suspect Jessica is going to demand all our attention, and I really can’t afford to get on a Gable’s bad side. I hear that after Jessica hosted a fund-raiser last year at The Orchid she managed to get six people fired for not refolding the napkins of the guests who got up to use the restroom.”