Fragile Illusion: Stag Brothers Book 3

by Lainey Davis

  He makes me laugh, impersonating my sister's hair toss while we wait for the water to boil for the noodles Alice hand rolled this morning. I fill him in on my family, avoiding eye contact. "My dad is a state senator," I tell him. "Our politics are polar opposites, Thatcher. I disagree with almost every measure he supports."

  Thatcher tests a noodle and moans. "These are done," he says, shutting off the burner and draining the pasta. "Look, Emma. You can't help who your parents are and neither can I. Don't feel bad about that shit."

  "Yeah, but it's not so easy figuring out how to navigate seeing your parents whose choices you hate, is it?" I know I've got him there. He's clearly thinking about seeing his father in the hospital as we go on to eat in silence. As soon as Thatcher finishes, he rinses his dishes and stands beside me.

  "Don't make any plans after work tomorrow," he tells me. "I have a surprise for you." I raise an eyebrow, but he won't elaborate. "Call me when you get home from work, ok? We need to talk." He sidles out of the apartment, and I try not to stare at his ass as he leaves. Or the way his shoulder muscles move inside his t-shirt. Shit, I think. He just saw me naked. Thatcher Stag has probably seen a thousand women naked, and he basically admitted he was only taking a clinical interest in my bush. Of course the supermodels he fucks don't have pubic hair. There's no reason to think that he might still be thinking of this as anything but a mutually beneficial, non-sexual arrangement. I remind myself that he also saw me seizing on the ground at his brother's house, throwing up…but he didn't run away screaming.

  Rather than think about why it would bother me so much if he had, I decide to read my emails and check my voicemails. After I call Nicole.

  "Talk to me, Emma. You've been radio silent since the Reindeer party." I hit the major points of the disaster that was the past 24 hours while she runs on the treadmill in her office. "Do you need me to come over with tequila?" she asks.

  "I know you're joking," I tell her. "But I appreciate the sentiment."

  Nineteen

  THATCHER

  I can't get the image of Emma out of my head. She stood naked and gleaming in the sunlight in her kitchen. And even though her face was contorted in shock at me seeing her naked, I still have this memory of her bathed in light, glowing. She looked ephemeral. Supernatural. And so fucking perfect. Her body is everything, all curves and soft lines. Creamy skin. And Christ. That hair. Her red hair. Knowing I can't haul her into her bedroom and ravage her body, I settle for the next best thing to unleash all this energy. I drive as fast as I can and rush into my studio to work some glass.

  I dip into the furnace and gather a ball of molten glass and sit to shape it at my work bench. Pulling long fragments, twisting, sprinkling on color, I work in a frenzy. I know hours pass. I sense the light shifting in the studio as the sun sets, but I don't want to stop even to turn on the overhead lights. I work by the light of the furnace as I sculpt the tendrils of glass just so, angle the reds and golden threads until I'm satisfied. This work is my lust, my anger, my fear. This is Emma, contorted with illness and rising in triumph. This piece is everything, passion and depth. So much color.

  I haven't felt that inspired in months. I exhale and sit back, staring at what I've made. This is light and fury and fire. I shape a base so it will rest, stable, and then slide it into the kiln to slowly come down to room temperature, so the fragile material won't shatter.

  Only then do I pause and breathe. I just sit in stillness. I feel so fucking calm after I've worked out all these ideas into the glass. It's a meditation for me, the way I find clarity. When I'm done, I can see what I need to do. I need to face my father, and find out just what the fuck he means when he says he is dying. I lock up the studio and drive back to the hospital.

  I think the staff is starting to recognize me. I get a smile from the receptionist when I ask for Ted Stag's room. As she prints out my visitor badge, I realize that a week ago, I'd be slipping her my number, making plans to go fuck her in a utility closet before getting on with my day. Huh, I think. I don't even feel like doing that.

  It's surprising--this lack of an urge to block out the world with some meaningless sex.

  I take the elevator up to the floor where my father is staying. Apparently they usually release him when he sobers up, but this time they say they've found some things and need to keep an eye on him in-patient. He's asleep, his yellow-tinged skin practically glowing in the hospital lights. I wander over to the nurse's station to ask for the Cliff Notes version of what's wrong with him, and someone tells me they'll page the doctor.

  While I'm waiting, my brother Ty texts me a few times, but I don't even feel like I can answer his questions about our cabin trip. I'm worried I'll give something away, somehow reveal that I'm standing a foot away from the man who abandoned us.

  "Mr. Stag? Dr. Stone." An older man approaches me with his hand extended. "I must say, it's a pleasure to finally see a loved one here with Ted."

  I try not to snort. "He said he's dying," I say, shaking the doctor's hand.

  Stone exhales. "These conversations are never easy. Can I get you something? Coffee?"

  I shake my head. "Just lay it on me. What's wrong with him? Specifically?"

  I spend the next half hour learning about advanced liver failure, and how the only cure is liver transplant. They can't put my father on an organ list because he's still actively abusing alcohol. Dr. Stone is stern when he meets my eye and says, "if your father can remain sober for six months, we could not only assess whether his liver restores function on its own in the absence of alcohol, but it can prove to us that he is serious about staying sober if he were to receive a transplant operation."

  There's really nothing I can think to say in response to that, so I just sit and stare at the bed until eventually Dr. Stone pats my shoulder and excuses himself. He leaves me with his card and some info about a rehab program they recommend. He also hands me a pamphlet about living organ donation.

  Twenty

  EMMA

  Tuesday, I wake up feeling energetic and sore as hell. I limp my way into work, hoping the walk will do me some good, but it's hard to concentrate. I'm thankful Phil doesn't have anything too complicated for me to work on. When I finally get home from work, I see a brown paper grocery bag on my stoop. My name is written on the bag in marker, with a note: Hope this is the right size.

  I look inside and gasp to see a hand-blown coffee carafe. The bowl is clear with swirls of green and gold, and the thick, sturdy handle fits perfectly in my hand. I hurriedly unlock my apartment and, as fast as my aching, post-seizure body can move, hustle to the coffee machine, where I see that it is indeed the right size. I'm in the middle of fishing my phone from my bag to thank Thatcher for his surprise, when there's a knock at the door.

  I peek through the window and see a sturdy-looking woman on my stoop, holding a folding table. "Can I help you?" I say, opening the door partially.

  "Emma Cheswick? I'm Lucy, the massage therapist. Thatcher Stag sent me?"

  Oh my god! This man not only makes me an artisanal coffee pot to replace the one I broke in nude shock, but he also sends me a massage therapist? The one thing in the world I really needed today but hadn't had an opportunity to arrange? Is he for real? I feel bad that my immediate thought is to wonder what he wants in exchange for all of this. I can't help but remember how he behaved when we first met, the sleazy, self-assured confidence that I was going to sleep with him in the greenhouse before his opening.

  Lucy smiles at me expectantly, so I open the door for her. "I…don't know what to do. I haven't ever had…I didn't know Thatcher had hired you…"

  "Don't worry about a thing!" she says, looking around. "I think I have plenty of room to set up in the living room. Give me five minutes and we can get started."

  This gives me just enough time to fire off a text to the mysterious, ever-surprising Mr. Stag. Are you for real with these gifts?

  You should make Lucy some coffee with your new, fragile pot.

 
; Seriously, thank you, Thatcher. I don't know what to say here.

  How about you let me come massage you instead?

  Of course. Of course he wants to make this into some sex fantasy. There it is. Pass.

  ;) I'm kidding! But call me after.

  I bite my lip as a thought forms. Before I can talk myself out of it, I type back Just come over in an hour. We can eat the next meal from Alice.

  Lucy finishes setting up the table and soon, I am a blissed out puddle as her strong hands work out all the ache from my bones. We talk about my epilepsy, since it seems relevant, and it's so refreshing that she knows about seizures. Some of her clients suffer from them, too, and she knows just what to do to help me feel better. She pays special attention to my feet, which I hadn't even realized were bothering me until she starts to knead my arches. I could get used to this, for sure. When she's done, I pretty much roll onto the couch, guzzling water as per Lucy's instructions. I melt into the cushions, feeling my inhibitions slide away alongside my soreness. Thatcher knocks on the door and I holler at him to come in.

  He laughs, seeing me sprawled out. "You look like you just smoked a bowl, Chezz."

  "Mmm," I nod. "I actually have a meeting with my neurologist about that next week. There's a clinical trial at the medical school. For epilepsy."

  "No shit?" His eyebrows fly up. He lifts my feet and sits down on the couch. My legs drape across his lap, and I feel the firm warmth of his thighs under my calves. He moves so casually that I hope he doesn't notice me squirm as heat floods my core. "I'd be down to help you with your research, Chezz. If you need someone to sample the goods and make sure they're safe, and all."

  "Very funny," I tell him. I need to sit up and get my feet off his lap before I start stroking his crotch with my toes. I don't understand what's going on with my attraction to him right now. It's like my animal mind is attracted to his hot body and thoughtful favors, superseding my rational brain who remembers that he's a screw-'em-and-leave-'em kind of guy. Maybe this is just him working hard to get in my pants.

  Before I can decide if that would be a bad thing, I stand up to reheat the next layer of Alice delights. "Asian stir-fry today," I tell him, reading from the label. "With coconut Jasmine rice. God, she's amazing."

  "She definitely is," he says. Thatcher walks over to the island and winds his long, muscular legs around one of my stools. As I wait for the microwave I stare at his jeans. His thigh must be two feet long. My cheeks flush as I think about how easy it would be to reach over and just give it a rub. When he starts to talk again, I yelp a little bit, drawn out of my fantasy. "So I was hoping Lucy would grease you up so you'd be more amenable for my next big ask for Operation Fake Fiancé," he says.

  "Hm?" I slide him a dish of stir-fry.

  "I forgot there's a bachelor/bachelorette thing this weekend. My brothers, their ladies, and us, holed up in a cabin in Deep Creek."

  "This weekend?" I set down my fork and pull up my calendar app on my phone. "Oh. Shit. Fuck. That's why Veronica was so pissed." Everything comes back to me with my sister dropping hints about our family dinner this weekend. "Logan and Veronica are getting engaged." I reach for my fork, take a big bite, and look again at the calendar. "What are the details of this Deep Creek thing? My mom's going to want us to come pretend we're excited for Veronica and her country club friends."

  "That sounds fun," Thatcher says, grinning. "I can put a hoop in my nose. Your mother will love it."

  I almost spit out my food laughing. "You're terrible," I tell him, sort of hoping he's not joking. We map out the logistics. He's going to pick me up from work Friday with bags packed. We will duck out of the Stag party early on Sunday, leaving enough time to get to the country club for Veronica's perfect announcement. I'm actually looking forward to bringing him with me. There's never anyone I feel comfortable around when I'm out with my family, least of all my perfect sister and her perfect degree in political science and her perfect relationship with my father's chief of staff.

  I feel sparks run down my spine when Thatcher's hand tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. "What's on your mind, Chezz?"

  "Oh." I flush. His touch is really starting to affect me in ways I hadn't bargained for. "I was just thinking I am glad I will have an ally at this thing Sunday."

  He smiles at me and his grey eyes are molten with…something. Can he be feeling this heat, too? I clear my throat and shift the conversation back to work, telling him about how excited everyone has been about his feature story and how much they're looking forward to reading about Juniper. "This weekend will really give me a chance to grill her," I tease.

  Later, when he leaves and I sink back into the couch, I can smell traces of him. Spicy deodorant, the smoky smell of his workshop, and the lingering, wonderful scent of Thatcher Stag himself. I think I'm in trouble, I text Nicole. I might be into this guy.

  Twenty-One

  THATCHER

  I have no idea what the fuck I am doing lately. As I drive home from Emma's place, all I can think about is the feel of her ankles. I picked up her legs and put them in my lap without thinking, like I'd been doing it for years, but when my skin made contact with hers, I thought my dick was going to spring out of my pants.

  Her legs felt like warm velvet, her peachy skin soft and silky from her massage. I could barely understand what she was saying as we talked, because all I was thinking about was how badly I wanted her to rub her foot just a few inches higher up my thigh as she squirmed around.

  When I go to bed, I dream about Emma, her red hair sprawled over my sheets, her eyes closed in pleasure as I lick every inch of her skin. I wake up with my dick in my hand, so close to release. Panting, I close my eyes again, imagining holding my weight above her body, plunging into her depths. A few strokes of my fist are all it takes to send me over the edge. I can almost feel her body grip around my shaft as I pump once, twice. I groan as a fountain of white-hot cum hits me in the chest. I lie in bed breathing heavily, trying to figure out what to do about this. I don't even know how to go after a woman when it matters to me if she turns me down.

  I remember when my brother Tim first met Alice, how he told me she distracted him, how thinking of her made him do things he'd never consider, otherwise. I realize I can't call him to ask for advice about it, though, because he thinks Emma is already engaged to marry me. How stupid would I sound telling him I need to figure out how to get her to like me when we're supposed to be in love?

  I have a meeting today with my agent about my next gallery show. I want to show her the new piece, but I feel suddenly private about it. Like I don't even want to display it. It's too personal, somehow. I'm still standing there staring at it on the shelf when I hear the studio door open. Cody walks in with Maria, my agent. He's looking scruffy as ever, dressed like me in jeans with an old t-shirt. Maria looks elegant in a blazer and slacks.

  "Cody told me you have something new for the Warhol show," she says, practically jumping up and down.

  "Cody should keep his fat mouth shut," I tell her with a sigh. I show her all the work I've finished since the opening at the conservatory, trying to avoid my private piece, but Maria sees it over my shoulder.

  "My God, Thatcher. It's breathtaking." She reaches out a hand to touch it and I feel compelled to bat her arm away. I remember who I'm dealing with and catch myself in time, but Maria sees the movement. "Hm," she says, "Feeling protective of this one?"

  She steps back a few feet and looks at my work. "Something happened here," she says, pointing to the things I finished since Sunday. "What happened?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "There's a shift," she says. She waves her hand around at the shelf. "The energy is different here. Something changed about your work. And then we have this." She points at my piece.

  I blush, and I'm shocked to be blushing, which makes me blush harder, until Cody laughs. "Thatcher's been hanging out with a woman," he tells Maria, and I kick him.

  Maria's jaw drops. "The same woman? More than on
ce?"

  I shake my head. "It's not like that," I tell her. "She's…we're friends."

  This draws a laugh from my long-time agent. She's been chasing down my work since I displayed it at an art show in high school. "You don't have female friends, Thatcher Stag. I've seen you. Women, for you, are for sex and, in my case, for brokering art deals." When I don't say anything, she plunks her bag on the table and sits on a stool. "So. Tell me what you know about Alex Clemont."

  "The architect?" Alex Clemont is hot stuff right now in Pittsburgh. His name turns up in the buzz alongside every new restaurant opening, every new boutique…his eye for design is putting Pittsburgh on the map.

  Maria nods and slides me a proposal. "He's in the middle of styling his new bar, opening in Lawrenceville. It's going to be a gin joint in some refurbished firehouse. He saw your work at the conservatory and wants two things." Maria flips the pages to a snapshot of some of my work nestled among the plants at the conservatory. "He'd like you to do something similar to this, looking organic and I believe he said the word 'flamey.'" I nod. I can meet with this guy and pull something together in a few days, and it'll finance my creative side ideas for the rest of the year. Maria continues, though, and I frown. "And he wants you to do a series of glassware for the bar. Stag Glass exclusives for gimlets and gin mojitos. Sturdy, but with that Thatcher flare."

  I recoil at this idea. "I'm not a fucking Ikea, Maria. I don't do tableware."

  She pats my hand. "Sweetheart, Alex Clemont comes around with this kind of offer about as often as you find a woman you talk to more than once." She slides the folder toward me and rises, walking toward the door. "Read it over and call me by Friday."