East Rising (Naive Mistakes #2)

by Rachel Dunning

  And this was wrong.

  And I was so fucking crazy to be thinking that shit!

  But I did, and that's how I felt. So I went with it.

  When my crawling, raw, sensitive skin finally chilled out, I called out, "Dorian, it's not you. Relax."

  He yapped some more behind the door. I'd really freaked him out. A good sign I figured. I guess if the guy was a sleazeball who'd been only out to use me, he'd be blaming me now or something.

  When it no longer felt like I was about to come by just walking, I stood at the sink, looked myself in the mirror. I looked sexed up, hair all frazzled and sweaty. Damn, this could've been hot if I'd taken it all the way...

  I couldn't help thinking of That Fucking Man, again!, in that moment, about the first time he'd touched me, and how he promised my first time with him would be:

  If I ripped your dress off, it would be on a silk bed in front of a crackling fire. There'd be champagne, Perrier, wine, fucking diet lattés if you wanted. But there'd also be you, and me, alone, and nothing else.

  This night was so mortifyingly...bad...

  Now cooled off (I was even shivering) I put my hand on the bathroom doorknob, almost turned it, until I saw that I was butt-naked from waist on down.

  That's another thing about sex: When you're in the middle of it, and especially just before it, no one's fat or ugly or wrinkly or hairy or whatever. It's just two bodies, perfect for each other, nothing but human juices and dampness and smells that fire up the pheromones and hormones even more.

  But after, when you're cold, things look different.

  My legs looked flabby to me now. And I felt much more naked than I was. Completely naked, on a beach, the sand beating me silly, with people looking at me.

  "Um, Dorian?"

  His response was urgent. "Yes, Leora, what is it?" Was he leaning against the door?

  Damn, I had really freaked this guy out...

  "Um, could you" — Christ, just say it — "get me my...pants?"

  Mortifying.

  Dorian slid my pants through the crack of the door to me. I put them on, took a deep breath, readied myself for what I'd promised him — by my actions — and walked out.

  I owed him that much at least.

  I didn't let him ask me what was wrong. I didn't blame him. This was not his fault. And he'd been more than kind about the whole thing. I realized, also, tonight, that gentlemanliness had shit to do with nobility or any of that bullshit.

  It had to do with how a man respected a woman.

  Dorian hadn't pushed me in any way.

  I put my finger to my lips and told him to hush, pushed him at his chest with my other hand, onto his bed. He fell over backwards onto it.

  I could see he wanted to protest, his mouth open, his eyes in shock, thousands of questions tumbling around in his mind. I didn't want to answer them.

  Keep that neighborly wall up, Leora.

  I moved fast, so he wouldn't have time to talk.

  He did get one phrase out as I tugged his pants off (he'd put them back on since). "Leora, only if you're sure."

  I answered him by yanking his cock up, and pumping it, while I buried my mouth onto his smoky tongue to keep from talking anymore. I knew I had to do it fast, because I knew it was going to make me horny, horny as a mofo. And I knew that I'd pleasure myself, in the comfort of my own bedroom, when we were done. Alone. Safely. No emotional attachments or complications.

  I rubbed him, fast and hard, up and down. He groaned, I felt him writhe, my bicep ached from the speed with which I jerked him off.

  He came. Quick and abrupt. The come — so much of it! — fired up to his chest, once, twice, a third time (the third had shot up to just below it.) On the fourth, it came out like white molasses, easing out, and I squeezed the rest of it out, until there was only a single drop.

  Then something surprised me: He stayed hard — not as hard as before — but hardish. I had no comparison at the time for this stuff, so I figured it was just the way it went. Not like in the movies. But Dorian clarified. "Um, Leora," he said, sighing in deep relief. "Sometimes...when you make a man wait too long. Well, sometimes, he needs..." He looked down, I followed his gaze. His cock was still softly bulging, as if already wanting round two. My bicep complained of too much lactic acid. In a way, I was a little daunted at the task that I was starting to understand... He needed to be pumped again. A double orgasm? For a man?

  That I realized I had so much to learn after trying to be Miss Experienced around him, didn't help.

  "Don't worry," he smiled, "I'll take care of the rest."

  He eased my hand off of him, wrapped his own hand around himself, and pumped. It took another five minutes (my eyes riveted to him, and my skin heating up once more...) and then he came, for a second time. Not a lot of it, hardly any, but come, oh yeah.

  I really didn't fucking know men could do that! But he had. His cock finally settled, got softer, and eventually smaller, back to its normal size.

  I had to get out of there. I was so turned on. And I wasn't turned on from love or from Conall or from anything else other than:

  I'm a girl, and he's a boy, and our bodies have hormones. And I knew that's what it was. And that, if I stayed and let him put his fingers in me as he'd done so pleasurably the night before, then I would really fucking complicate things much more than I already had!

  Dorian took his shirt off (the one with come all over it now) which made things worse. He wasn't ripped. But, damn, he was friggin built... And then there was a snake tattoo...

  Breathe, Leora, damn it!

  There was only one thing I could do. "Dorian," I said, "I have to go." I looked away as I said it, squeezed my thighs...

  His calloused hand rubbed mine. "You're one fucked up chick, I hope you don't mind me saying."

  I laughed. I wasn't sure how to take that statement.

  "I don't mean that in a bad way," he said. "And, um, thank you for...you know. It was...wow."

  Someone was telling me I was "wow"?

  My oh my, how things had changed. Naïve my ass...

  "I'm sorry for all the drama," I said. "I'm sure the girls you usually bring to this apartment don't even come close to the shit I've given you."

  His answer was quick. Unthinking. And he didn't even realize its connotations. He said, "No, they don't," then got up and went to a drawer to pick out a shirt.

  No, they don't. And how long had he been in town?

  He hadn't denied the bringing of girls here, hadn't even tried to make me feel special, like I was the only one or something...

  And? What had I been expecting?

  Wow, I was playing with fire here.

  I looked Dorian up and down one more time, his skyscraper body, his swollen chest, his titanic shoulders.

  He was a player, pure and simple. Kind. Respectful. Sweet. Yes. But a player nonetheless.

  I really had a thing for these kinds of guys, didn't I?

  And, yes, I was thinking about That Other Guy, that other player, the one who was always on my mind even when I'd been with Dorian.

  And I'd come to live with the fact that he always would be. So I stopped fighting it.

  When I got home, I couldn't bear it. I masturbated. Plain and simple. I thought of no one in particular as I did it. It was purely hormonal, like animals in the wild. No emotions to it. And that's how I wanted it.

  And then I did think of Conall, and that I would see him tomorrow after six months of wondering what the hell had been going on between us, why he'd left. After three months of living in a foreign country, just trying to anchor myself, to find North, by heading East from the US, here, to the UK...

  When I thought of him, I didn't masturbate. The hormones his memories brought up now were different. They were cold. And those hormones made me cry. The first time I'd really cried since I'd left the states. Whatever anchorage I'd found, whatever mooring, would be lost tomorrow. It was already slipping. Because I knew, that when I saw Conall, it would
all come tumbling back to me.

  He was the first man I loved, the first who touched me in ways no other has done. I loved him. And, on that night, I admitted it to myself. Finally.

  Closure? Yeah, right. I didn't know exactly what I wanted from him. But closure wasn't it.

  I was a rowboat out at sea. No sails. No oars. And there was a storm coming...

  CHAPTER FIVE

  -1-

  Dani gave me a ride to Brighton (thirty minutes) from where I caught a train to Green Park Station in London which, according to Dani, "is like right there. You just walk out the station's main entrance, turn right, and you're at the Ritz."

  Kayla, of course, was most unpleased about me going alone. I never told her about Conall's message. I was sure he had his reasons. She was tough to convince. Real tough! So we made a deal. She'd go with me to London, but get off at Victoria Station which was a few stops earlier, and where I'd get on the subway (or the "tube" as they call it here.) That way she'd be nearby. I really couldn't expect any more from her. I would've done the same.

  I got out at Green Park Station and, heart thumping and mind spinning, I walked out onto the main road. A double-decker red bus advertising the a new Freddie Stroma movie (Damn, when had he grown such amazing abs?) rolled on past me. I turned right, just as Dani had told me. It was cold, and raining. It always fucking rained in England. Always. Seaford was one of the few places where it didn't rain all the time, only most of the time.

  There it was: The Ritz, covered by an archway across its entire front, over the sidewalk. It reminded me of The Marriot, Conall's Executive Suite, my endless adoration and admiration for the sturdiness of a Marriott dining table...

  Six months, ready to disappear in a snap.

  I got to the entrance, just outside the lobby, and I waited.

  -2-

  A man in dreads hung about to my right, looking like he'd been smoking pot all morning (outside The Ritz?) Small black taxis jockeyed for position in the wide road ahead of me. Waves of people pushed past me, half of them carrying umbrellas, many not.

  I looked at my watch: one-fifty P.M. Ten minutes to go. I tapped my foot, hugged myself, looked down, sank into my head, my thoughts, memories of Conall. And fear.

  A fear so strong hit me that it all suddenly made sense again, only more so, more emotionally so, why I hadn't seen him. And why I hadn't wanted to let go. I was thinking all this, buried in a tumultuous whirlpool, not really looking at my black booties but at the same time staring straight at them, when I felt the hands...

  Warm, firm hands that made my heart stop, embraced me by the shoulders, a figure shadowing me as I stood there in a swirling wind of people, and then they rubbed down my arms.

  "Leora," said Conall from behind me, steadying me as I felt my body twirl, "you can't imagine how much I've missed you. Being apart from you has all but torn my life apart."

  Now, damn it. Why did he have to go and say a thing like that?

  I was supposed to stay angry!

  -3-

  I turned to face him, my body shivering both internally and externally. He donned a long black trench coat, the kind that looked like it had just been featured on the cover of Esquire, modeled by Ryan Gosling or something...

  Conall always had style.

  A light-blue dress shirt. It was the first time I saw him in a tie, dark blue, silk. All the blue hues contrasted with the ocean of his eyes.

  Damn it...

  I blinked a few times, swallowed. It was different now, seeing him. I felt my mouth agape, as it had been when I'd first met him at Cringe Nightclub in New York. But back then I was innocent. Now, looking at him, my mouth only fractionally open, I was stunned for a different reason. Yes, his beauty was one of those reasons. But only one. Because the other reason was that...I just couldn't hate him. No matter how hard I tried.

  And I hated myself for it.

  "Conall." That's all I said. All I could manage.

  His eyes flickered above my head, to his left. A storm raged behind those eyes, aqua and clear-blue but, inside them, dark and thundering, rumbling and black.

  What was going on with him?

  His skin had darkened — tanned — since I'd last seen him.

  "We need to get away from here," he said, putting his arm to my shoulder. I didn't question him... Not at all. And I followed him, Conall being my anchor, the mooring to which my oar-less rowboat at sea was now tied.

  I missed seeing anything of The Ritz lobby as we walked through it, didn't see much of the elevator as I got into it, Conall always by my side, guiding me by the small of my back with a steady hand. I did notice the people that crowded into that elevator after a second or two, pushing the two of us into the back. They spoke in pompous British accents, greeted each other, said "Good Morning" and "How do you do?"

  Conall held my hand.

  I squeezed it back.

  Dorian had never held my hand. He'd put his fingers inside me, yes. He'd been kind and sweet...but he hadn't held my hand.

  He would never hold it like Conall was holding it now either.

  I was in that ocean, that boat. I felt the undulating waves below me, swaying, back and forth, up and down, dizzying, confusing.

  And Conall, still, squeezed my hand.

  Without willing it, my head dropped to his triceps and I grabbed his upper arm with my other hand. Before the final ding of the elevator, a tear broke from my eye. And when we were alone, everyone else now having left, I mumbled into his sleeve: "Conall, I hate you. I hate you so much."

  "You should, Leora. But, hopefully, after this, you will at least understand."

  That final ding came. And then we were at his suite. Only it wasn't empty when he opened the door.

  I didn't recognize the girl who was sitting on the couch, in one of his shirts, without any pants on. But there was a girl there.

  An attractive girl.

  And now I hated her, too.

  -4-

  She stood up, didn't smile. Her eyes surveyed me, up, then down, evaluating me. She was dirty-blonde, tall, muscular. Her legs were well defined, tanned.

  Had they been tanning together?

  It was hard to place her age, because her body looked fit, but the skin on her face looked leathery, beaten. As I eyed her more closely, something didn't seem right. I saw the gashing scar on the left side of her cheek. It wasn't particularly unsightly, but it was noticeable. But that wasn't what wasn't right. It was something else...

  And then I saw it: Her eyes were a little squint, unnaturally so, as if she'd been beaten there and they'd never returned to shape. Her lip, on the same side of the gash, was a little looser. She was not ugly at all. In fact, the slight deformities added a kind of appeal to her, as if her beauty had been so much at one stage, so ravishing, that even these scars of life — a clearly horrible life — could not take that beauty away.

  Yet, still, she didn't smile. Not at me at least.

  She looked at Conall (now all but ignoring me), then finally back at me (more like scowled.) Finally, I guess in some type of greeting, she said, "So you must be...Leora."

  There'd been a pause before "Leora" as if she'd wanted to say "the notorious" or "the gold-digging" or some other unpleasant adjective before my name.

  But the biggest insult came after, not as an insult, not even as a slur. But as a name, and what she said straight after telling me that name...

  Because the name she told me, meant something, something to Conall. Once, at Teardrop Park, in New York — when he'd shown me the poetry inscribed across his back, from his shoulders all the way down, the poetry stating "She is dead," "She was my North" — on that day, he'd told me this same name. And how he'd felt about its owner:

  So, to call her a 'friend' is a gross misnomer, an injustice. A crime against humanity.

  She was my closest friend, my sister, my lover, my soul.

  The woman in front of me extended her hand.

  "I'm Alexandra," she said. "I know you've hear
d of me."

  CHAPTER SIX

  -1-

  Crashing glass doesn't explain it. An avalanche doesn't explain it. The chalk cliffs of Seaford, down which people jump to commit suicide, does not come even near to explaining it. A tsunami does not explain it...

  "Uhm, s — sorry... W — what?"

  The floor disappeared. The Ritz had suddenly been demolished. A bomb exploded in front of me.

  And I waited for an answer.

  You're supposed to be...dead, was what I was thinking. But this fact was surely obvious as the first thing to answer. I mean, I at least expected that much from Conall and his Lazarus friend here...

  "I will explain it all, Leora," said Conall, but not here, at my home. If, of course, you'll accompany me there."

  What would you have done? Asked if the bitch had screwed him?

  "Um, actually, Conall..." I swallowed. "I'd kind of like an explanation now. Something, at least."

  Alexandra — this tall, hurt, and unbelievably attractive woman in front of me — huffed quietly and turned, walked over to a decanter with brown liquid in it, poured herself a glass. She downed it. "Go ahead," she said to Conall. And it was there — right at that moment — when she'd pointed the glass at him as she'd said "Go ahead," half-swaying back, that I saw the darkness that surrounded her. And that I understood, at least partly, what might have happened to her...

  "Alexandra," said Conall, then he paused. "Um, Alexandra was — "

  "I was kidnapped," she snapped. "Drugged, and kidnapped, and then..." She poured herself another glass, downed it, sat on the couch, her arms dropping to the side. She put a hand to her brow and looked upward at the ceiling. I could see her thoughts, not as such, but as heavy clouds, raging, roiling above her.

  I began to understand more...

  "We, well... Here, sit down, Leora," Conall said.

  I did.

  "The P.I.'s I had, you know, the ones gathering up dirt on different drug cartels. The ones who pulled up all the dirt we had on that Raphael guy..."