Fragile Illusion: Stag Brothers Book 3

by Lainey Davis

  I slide into my cocktail dress. It's a black shift, so it's more form-fitting than I prefer, but I like how the boat neck shows off my collar bones. Nicole insists the dress makes my boobs look hot, and I turn sideways, observing that they do look pretty high and front with this bra she made me buy. I fasten a string of pearls around my neck, but refuse to put on nylons in the middle of July.

  As I pull my hair from the hot rollers, I think about how my end of the bargain worked out. Work has been amazing. Phil praised me during the staff meeting today, and my in-depth piece about the organ donors is going to be phenomenal. None of that feels as good as Thatcher making me a new coffee pot when I broke mine, or letting me have the ham sandwich even though it's both of our favorite.

  I can't even look around my bedroom without remembering the feel of him taking me from behind. Every other man I've ever been with has treated me so cautiously, I felt like they didn't even respect that I'm a whole person. Thatcher managed to be wild, all the while focusing on what made me feel good. "He made you a neuron before he knew that mattered," I say to myself in the mirror. I try not to cry because I've put a touch of brown mascara on my auburn lashes and I don't want it to smudge.

  I decide this is as good as I'm going to look, and I slip into a pair of heels, grab my bag, and begin my walk to the museum a few blocks away.

  When I get there, I see Veronica first, sipping white wine and clinging to Logan's shoulder in such a way that her diamond ring is visible to everyone. "You're going to cut me with that," I tell her as she pulls me in for a fake hug and a fake cheek kiss. "Since when are we French?"

  Veronica pouts at me and says, "Jesus, Emma, can you just behave one time for Dad?" Logan smirks and I roll my eyes, looking around for our mother.

  I hear her before I see her. She's bellowing, "Oh there's our other daughter, Emma! Emma, you simply must meet Tristan Cummings!" I turn around just in time to be thrust toward a smarmy-looking guy who is escorting my mother across the room. Shit, she's trying to set me up, I think, realizing this is how she is responding to her horror at learning I am engaged to Thatcher Stag. Was engaged? Anyway, there's no way I'm hanging out with this guy. She makes a face at me and I stick out a hand for Tristan to shake. "Tristan just made partner at his law firm," she says, fanning herself. "He's not even 30!"

  "Congratulations," I say, smiling my fakest smile.

  "What do you say we grab a drink to celebrate?" He asks and he honest-to-God winks at me.

  "Hm, you know, I haven't said hello to my father yet," I tell him. "Won't you please excuse me?"

  I never thought I'd be using my father as an excuse for, well, anything, but to escape Winky Lawyer, I slip toward the center of the gallery space. "Daddy," I say, coolly. "This is a lovely event."

  "Emma!" He kisses my cheek. "You remember Mayor Gil."

  I nod. I've actually interviewed him more than a few times, and printed critical articles about his proposed referendums. His smile is strained and he looks for something to say, so he gestures to the art I haven't had a chance to take in yet. "Interesting stuff, this."

  As soon as I look up I know it's Thatcher's work. There's a glass woman in the middle of the room, the focal point of the entire gallery. She's made from orange and red glass, twisting up, lit from within. She's reaching toward the heavens, rays of red and orange and yellow shooting from her hands. The display is stunning. She's set on a pedestal, surrounded by low sculptures blown in vibrant greens and blues. She looks like the sun, rising from the sea. Triumphant. I nearly cry, the piece is so moving. I can't believe how the light and the space all work together to transform the work from what I saw on the shelves in his studio. I hear my father saying, "Yes, it's quite dramatic. Evidently the artist will be here tonight."

  I gasp. Thatcher will be here. I start to look around, and I feel my mother come up and put her arm around me. "Emma, do you see what I meant about quality artwork? This piece here--this is the work of someone refined and elegant. Passionate and bold!"

  I stare at her, not believing that she hasn't bothered to read the plaque bearing Thatcher's name. I don't really get time to ponder this for long, because Tristan glides back over holding two flutes of champagne. "Emma, darling," he says, his voice slick as an oil spill. "How about we take that drink now?"

  I sense Thatcher arriving behind me and my body yearns for him. Then I hear his deep voice, smooth and certain, with an edge of danger. "The lady doesn't drink alcohol." I smell him, the familiar, wonderful scent of him above the evergreen soap. I feel his big, strong hand wrap around my waist and he pulls me close. I exhale, feeling like I haven't drawn a breath since our fight Sunday. When I look up at him, I'm stunned. Thatcher has trimmed his beard short and neat. He's cut his long hair underneath, buzzed it into a tight undercut and kept the top long. In his dark, fitted button-down shirt and black slacks, he looks so fucking sexy I nearly swoon. I let myself lean back against him, savoring the close warmth of his touch.

  Tristan's expression darkens and he asks, "And just who might you be?"

  I can feel Thatcher smile behind me. "Thatcher Stag," he says, sticking out one hand for a shake and keeping the other possessively on my stomach. "Emma's fiancé."

  My mother giggles, a high-pitched, nervous sound, as my father's eyes start to bulge from his head. "How silly of me to forget to make introductions. This is just all so new that we aren't yet used to Emma's…betrothal."

  My father clears his throat. "Yes, we're all quite excited. But if you'll excuse us, we are due to meet with the artist before things kick off this evening, so…" He drifts off and looks back and forth between Thatcher and the Mayor. I blush and bite my lower lip.

  Thatcher clears his throat and keeps his hand out. "So glad you're enjoying my art, Mr. Cheswick. Pleased to meet you in person, Mr. Mayor. When I did a piece for the lobby of the city council building last spring, I only met with your staff."

  The mayor pumps Thatcher's hand. "Stag! Yes! Of course! I see the similarity in style with this work here. You did that black and gold bridge for us. We get so many compliments." He gestures toward my father with his drink. "Cheswick, you didn't tell me your daughter was marrying a Stag."

  My mother's skin has gone grey and she starts fanning herself with her program. Veronica floats over with Logan and tries to ease the tension. "Can you tell us what inspired this piece here?" She leans in to read the plaque. "Emma? Oh! It's called Emma! That's you!"

  Thatcher grins. He leans forward and beckons for my family and the mayor to lean in. He whispers as my father takes a sip of his gin. "I made this one the first time I saw your daughter naked."

  Forty

  THATCHER

  Emma's dad spits gin all over the mayor and her mother screams. Chaos erupts, with staff members rushing over to dab up the mayor and wait staff offering everyone ice water. I just stand there, holding Emma against my body, enjoying the feel of her shaking gently, trying not to laugh. I found out who this event was for, and knew she would be here. Hell, I wanted to just skip the whole thing rather than deal with any drama. Maria, of course, practically dragged me here. I had intended to avoid Emma all night, but when I saw her walk in wearing that dress I just about came in my pants.

  Then I saw her talking to that douchebag and I realized something huge. I don't want anyone else to be with Emma, because I want to be with Emma. I don't just want to sleep with her. I want to make her smile, and watch her get excited about researching weird, morbid articles. I don't want her going to fundraisers with uptight men who use too much gel. I want her with me, even if that means figuring out how to talk about my feelings and being in a fucking relationship. And realizing that makes my dick even harder than it was before.

  I thrust my hips against Emma's back, letting her know just what's going on with me, and she inhales sharply. "Yes, Chezz," I whisper into her ear. "I want you right fucking now."

  She looks over her shoulder, and then back to her family. Her mother and sister are dabbing the mayor
with napkins and apologizing while her father puts on a fake smile and tries talking to the guests who have pulled in closer to see what's going on. Nobody is going to notice our absence for a long time, and I grab Emma's hand, pulling her down the hall to the bathroom.

  Outside the door, she grabs the wall. "Wait," she says, shaking her head. "No."

  "Chezz," I say, nuzzling her neck, "I need you."

  She flicks my chest and backs away from me. "You were such a dick the last time we talked, Thatcher, and now I haven't heard a word from you all week."

  I sigh. "I know, Emma. I know. Please understand that this whole week? This whole month, really, has been so hard for me." I try to close the distance between us, needing to be close to her. "I don't know how to do all this," I say, waving my hand between us as she scowls at me. "But I'd love it if you could give me a chance to try."

  Her face softens. "What do you mean? Try what, Thatcher?"

  I pull her pale wrist to my lips and kiss her softly, stalling while I try to think of what I need to say. It all sounds so lame when I think about telling her everything on my mind. I look into her green eyes and see trust there, behind her frustration. I shrug. "Just try to be better at talking to you. I don't want to push you away anymore. I want to be right by your side, even if you're puking in my brother's yard. I want to fight with you and bring you sandwiches. Be with you."

  She crosses her arms and frowns. "You want to be with me? Like for 3 more days?"

  I shake my head. "No. I mean yes, but I don't want to stop on Saturday. Emma." I touch her cheek. "I want all of you." I gesture over to her family. "All of that."

  Emma licks her lips and runs her fingers along my collar. I breathe a sigh of relief, because I think I have won her back over. "All of this?" she asks, stretching up on tiptoes and biting my lower lip. I grin at her and kick open the bathroom door, tugging her in alongside me.

  Once we're inside, I twist the lock and pull her in, sinking my lips against hers. I moan because it feels so god-damned good to taste her again. I delve into the corners of her mouth with my tongue, needing to claim her, to show her all the things I can't find words to say. She emits a tiny moan and I'm done for. I spin her around, looking over her shoulder at our reflection in the mirror as I pull her in to my chest. My hands splay over her tits, feeling her nipples spring to life under that tight-ass dress, and I slide one hand up to fist her hair. She has it all curly and draped over one shoulder and it looks hot as fuck.

  I tug on her hair, tilting her face up toward mine. "Emma," I whisper, my lips against her mouth. "Look how good we look together." She moans as I move my hand to her skirt, inching up the hem until I can slide a hand around to her wet heat. "You're so wet, Chezz," I say, nipping at her ear, watching her reflection in the mirror.

  Emma leans forward, supporting her weight on the counter as I yank down her panties. She bites her lower lip and turns to look at me directly. "I can't believe we're doing this, Thatcher! In the bathroom at the Warhol…"

  "Believe it, Emma." I drop a kiss on her mouth and pull one of her hands to my crotch. I help her ease down my fly and when she hoists my dick out of my pants I grunt like a wild animal. That's how she makes me feel--feral. I suck on Emma's neck and nudge her thighs apart with my knee as I palm my shaft. She's panting for me, and when I slide a finger along her pussy, I feel that she's swollen and wet. "You ready, Em?"

  I line my tip up to her opening, teasing her folds and sliding along her wet seam. "Mmm, Thatcher, please. Now," she says, jutting her hips back against me, drawing me inside. I grin into the mirror and thrust inside, sliding home. Something snaps inside me, and I think about how this is the only place I want to be. The only woman I want by my side, around my cock…everything. "Thatcher," she says, her voice snapping me back to the present.

  Emma is slamming her hips back against me, bracing her arms against the sink and moaning. I match her rhythm and the sound of our skin slapping together echoes off the bathroom walls. I'm not going to last. It's been too long since I was with her, and I got too worked up seeing her talk to that asshole. "Chezz," I pant.

  She nods. "I'm close, Thatcher. Oh! God, yes. Just like that." Her head drops back against my chest and I pull her tight, wrapping both arms around her body and rocking into her.

  "Emma!" Her name is a plea, a prayer, a release, and I feel her contracting around me, coming right with me as I pour into her until I'm spent and replenished, empty and somehow bursting all at once.

  Forty-One

  EMMA

  I grasp the edge of the sink with both hands, trying to catch my breath as Thatcher pulls out. He sinks to his knees and, looking at me in the mirror, slowly eases my panties back up my legs, then adjusts my skirt.

  He stands and washes his hands while I'm still trying to breathe slowly. Once I feel ready to adjust my hair and my bra, I notice that he's all tucked in and looking perfect. "When did you cut your hair," is all I can think to say. Every single time with that man leaves me dizzy, literally seeing stars and weak in the knees.

  Thatcher runs a hand up the dark stubble of his under-cut. "You like it? I only went this short for Ty's wedding, because he asked nicely." He grins. And then I'm so overcome, I just start to cry. "Hey," he says, "Chezz, don't cry." He pulls me in and holds me. And he just feels so warm and safe that I actually do stop crying, believing for a moment that things can be ok.

  "Can I tell you something?" he breathes into my hair and I nod against his chest. We always seem to communicate better when we're either naked or not looking at one another. He takes a deep breath and tells me, "My dad agreed to go to rehab."

  I draw back so I can see his face, feeling like I have to look into his eyes for something like this. "He did? Truly?"

  Thatcher nods, and tells me that the three of them had gone to see Ted in the hospital, spewed decades of angry words, and then made to leave until a nurse flagged them down. "He's going to give it a shot. His doctor said they can prescribe an antidepressant for him…"

  He drifts off, and a tear leaks from my eye, because I know what it means for him to be telling me this, for him to finally be finding some closure in this area of his life. "Thatcher," I whisper. "I'm so glad for your family." And then I bury my face in his chest again, not wanting to let him go.

  He holds me, murmuring into my hair about how he and his brothers are going to sign up for a group at the hospital. They have programs there for grieving lost parents, and the Stag brothers never really worked on their feelings about losing their mom.

  "Hey," I tell him, reaching up to cup his face. I smile and look into his eyes, wanting so badly for his return smile to be mine for always. "I'm really proud of you."

  He shakes his head. "No, Emma. It's because of you. You led me to find him, and you pressed me to be honest with my brothers. This never would have happened without you. So thank you, Chezz." He kisses my palm. "Thank you." And then his lips are on mine and nothing else matters.

  Until I hear someone pounding on the bathroom door.

  "Emma Cheswick, you open that door this instant." It's my mother. "I know you're in there."

  I sigh and look up at Thatcher, who adjusts his collar and runs a hand through what's left of his long hair. "You ready for this?" I ask him, and he nods.

  When I open the door, my mother digs her nails into my arm and pulls me into the hall. "How. Could. You. Humiliate. Us. Like. This?" She jabs an index finger into my chest with each word.

  Ordinarily I would be super stressed out to see her freaking out like this, but I'm still high on a Stag orgasm, and I'm strangely calm. So I tell her, "Excuse me, mother, but I think I am the one who should be embarrassed." She recoils. "You've been nothing but rude to Thatcher since you met him in the hospital. You treat him like garbage and make assumptions on him based on his appearance, which I love by the way, and then you don't even do your diligence to look at the fucking name of the artist in the space where Dad's having a fundraiser."

  Thatcher squeezes
my shoulder supportively while my mother flares her nostrils. I keep going. "And further, I should be embarrassed that you're so hung up on appearances that you kept me with a useless doctor for years of uncontrolled seizures. Thatcher has been super supportive, helping me with my new medications from Dr. Khalsa. You haven't even asked about my visit from last week."

  I want to walk away. I'm feeling absolutely done with her. But I'm not expecting her to start crying.

  Tears roll down her face, smearing her foundation. "Emma," she whispers as Veronica approaches. "I was so scared." She sinks into a folding chair that's been stashed in the hallway. "Do you know what it's like when your baby has something wrong? I don't mean what other people think, although I worried about that, too." She dabs at her face with a tissue. "I mean the feeling of utter helplessness. I couldn't help you. I took you to the doctor everyone talked about. I didn't know there were other ideas, newer treatments. I just thought that was going to be it for you, and I needed to keep you isolated and safe."

  She looks up between me and Thatcher and Veronica, now. Everyone is silent as she pleads with us. "I thought I was doing my best by you, and then when I realized how out-dated it all was, how much better you were doing with a doctor you'd found on your own…" She drifts off and swallows. I can see her struggling to breathe in between sobs and I just stand there, my hand on Thatcher's on my shoulder. I need the warm touch of his skin to keep me grounded.

  "I was dreadfully ashamed, Emma. Of the years I cost you. I'm so terribly sorry, and I don't know how to begin to make amends for that."

  The hallway is silent for a long time until Veronica sniffles. I bite my lip. "I accept your apology," I whisper, and then, for the first time in a very long time, I lean forward and willingly embrace my mother.

  Forty-Two