by Aubrey Irons
“Wait, no, that’s not it, he said to say ‘Answer your damn phone, Archer.’”
I almost smirk; Hudson.
*****
“A hundred dollars, huh? Just to get me outside?”
Hudson is leaning against the side of a bright red Porsche convertible, his white oxford shirt unbuttoned at the neck and his sleeves rolled up, uncharacteristically showing off his tattoos. He grins and shrugs; “Eh, its the only cash I had in my wallet. Answer your damn phone next time.”
“What do you want, Hudson.” Ok so part of me is thrilled that he’s shown up here like this at four in the morning like something out of a John Hughes movie; especially looking like that with his hair pushed back and that cocky grin and those tattoos peeking out down his forearms. The other part of me though - the sensible part of me - is wary of this for those exact reasons.
“I want to show you something, get in.”
I raise my eyebrows skeptically; “Have you been drinking or something?”
“What? No, I don-“ He frowns and shakes his head; “No, Reagan, I haven’t.”
I cock my head towards the red convertible; “What happened to the white one?”
“I got bored. Look, just get in ok?”
“Hudson, it’s four o’clock in the morning,” I’ve been at college for all of a month, and the work is already seriously piling up. I roll my eyes at him; “I need to sleep.”
“No, what you need to do is get in the car.”
He’s so insistent and so earnest about it that something wants me to say yes when I know I shouldn’t, and suddenly, I’m caving.
“Let me just go change my-“
“Nah, PJ’s are fine.” He winks at me; “Comon Archer, quit being a diva and get in the car.”
*****
Hudson, predictably, drives like an insane person, and we’re roaring over the George Washington bridge in less time than I thought was physically possible. He whips us around a van and veers off onto the Palisades Parkway, and then we’re tearing away from the city and up the west bank of the Hudson River. We aren’t talking, but the stereo is playing an old Grateful Dead record, and I almost grin at how not expected this choice of music is for the Armani-suited wild man Hudson.
He smirks as if reading my mind; “I’m a man of odd taste, Ms. Archer.”
“What, like drunk bimbos and sports cars?” I smirk, unable to help but get that cheap shot in; “Yeah, so outside the lines for rich young finance guys in New York.”
“I was going to say like night drives and girls in pajamas, actually.”
I feel myself blushing as I turn and look out the window at the inky black of the river we’re following. I don’t know what this is that we’re doing out here, but I’m suddenly very curious to see where it goes.
Hudson swerves off the main parkway, and then we’re speeding up; up a twisting, winding, and wooded road. The elevation climbs, and Hudson drives faster and higher, taking bend after bend with screeching tires until I’m holding onto the edges of my seat with white knuckles and gasping as the trees rush past us.
And then suddenly, the darkness of the trees gives way, the sky opens up, and and we’re squealing to a stop. I can still feel my heart hammering from the drive, but I gasp as I look around the parking lot lookout where we’ve stopped. I can see the lights of the whole city from here, down along the black ribbon of the Hudson River, and its incredible.
“I just thought you’d want to see the whole Hudson.” He says quietly from the seat next to me.
I turn and see that he’s staring out at the view himself, and I grin; “Please tell me that’s a pickup line you’ve used before.”
He laughs, his whole face breaking into a wide smile; “Not on a first date, Ray.”
“Oh, is this a first date?” I smirk.
“Is it?” He shrugs; “First date and I already get to see what you sleep in; not bad I’d sa-“
I smack him on the arm with a laugh and he turns to grin at me; “No, Ray, its not a line; just something I wanted to show you.”
We both turn back to the view for another minute of silence. I open my mouth to ask it but then stop myself, before changing my mind again; “You show this to a lot of girls?”
A song ends on the album, and in the absolute silence of the car, he turns to me, his sharp eyes glinting in the light from the dash; “None, actually.”
The music starts up again as we both sit back in our seats and just stare off into the predawn as civil twilight crests over the city; and its wonderful.
P R E S E N T
OK, so being around Hudson is hard. Ugh, I need to get my mind out of the gutter; it’s difficult I should say, being around him. Mostly because the only thing I can think about at all is that cock of his I saw when I stumbled into the bathroom. I mean, it’s not enough that he’s rich, cocky, muscled and criminally attractive; the guy has to have an big dick too?
I mean honestly, it’s distracting.
He of course seems to have have totally moved on from seeing, well, whatever it is he thinks he saw. Although at this point, I’m fairly sure he knows exactly what he saw; and heard. I cringe a little, thinking about gasping his name out as my orgasm ripped through me, and then seeing him just standing there, staring at me. Whats worse is that I can’t I get my damned mind off of that image of him standing there totally naked and completely hard. And why can’t I help but wonder what or who he was thinking about that got him that way?
His back is to me, as he reads through business emails of some kind on his phone in my living room, and I find myself chewing at my lip nervously, my mind a whirlwind. I mean, would it really be so bad?
YES! The voice in my head screams, shaking me from my idle day-dreaming and making me realize with a blush that I’ve been staring at Hudson’s back for the past five full minutes. YES, it would be bad like ruination of public image bad. I mean sleeping with the guy in charge of donating campaign funds? It’s not illegal or anything, but they’d fucking crucify me for that in the papers. I can almost see the headlines now, something like “Silly Little Rich Girl Predictably Bangs the Guy With Money; Bows Out of Campaign”.
No, fuck that. What I need is to get images and thoughts of me banging Hudson out of my head, now. Of course, the pathetic amount of time it’s been since I’ve been involved in banging of any kind makes me groan, and I know that’s part of the problem. I mean there was Chet - yes, Chet, like something out of a fucking Archie comic - but that was over six months ago, and even then it was barely a thing. It was barely a thing so much that when I heard the whispers about him fucking his intern like a walking cliche, I remember feeling more sorry for whatever college poli-sci major had to lay there and fake it now that I wasn’t doing it than I did for myself. Erika, my “brand manager” (God I hate that title), of course want’s me to get back together with him, and is always talking about how much of a “complimentary companion” he is for a “power-woman” like myself.
Yeah, because “complimentary companion” has “sexy” written all over it. And again my mind instead thinks of the hard-bodied, cocky Hudson. Hudson with the tattoos and the obnoxious bad-boy chip on his shoulder; Hudson with the dangerous glint in his eye and the fucking missile hanging between his legs. I’m pretty sure it would give Erika an aneurism if I announced that he was going to be my new “companion” of any kind.
I’m still mulling all of this over in my head when Chelsea comes over later with takeout sushi.
“So what do you think, Hudson?”
I grumble into my yellowtail maki. I don’t know if I’m pissy because she’s decided to include him in what was going to be a sister get-together, or that she’s somehow getting along with him swimmingly. Or maybe I’m just generally feeling on edge because of the Hudson situation as a whole.
“Your ex sounds like a dick, Chelsea,” He’s saying as he takes a bite of salmon. He sees me staring at him and grins as he makes an extra big show of sensually slurping the piece of fish betw
een his lips while Chelsea is looking down at her own food. I make a face at him, which only gets him grinning more and more my own pulse beating faster.
“Aw, thanks Hudson!” I’m still making my stink face at him when Chelsea looks up sees me, before she turns and nods her head at Hudson; “You know, you can always come hang with me if my sisters being a bitch, Hudson.”
He chuckles right along with her as I stuff seaweed salad into my mouth and look away. It’s not flirty between them - she’s acting like more of a kid sister and him more like a conspiratorial brother than anything like that - but it’s still getting under my skin. It’s as if their closeness brings out some sort of bizarre jealousy in me, which is stupid because I don’t want or need to be close to Hudson.
Keep saying that to yourself and maybe you’ll start to believe it.
I’m interrupted from battling my inner dialogue by Chelsea poking me in the arm with a chopstick; “We should ask his opinion on your ex, Ray.”
I blush as Hudson arches an eyebrow at me, a grin teasing his perfect lips; “Ex-boyfriend, huh?” Yeah, I definitely haven’t mentioned Chet to Hudson.
“Let’s…not?” Im staring daggers at my sister, but she’s either not getting the hint or just ignoring them anyways.
“Oh comon! I bet Hudson has a ton to say about you and Chet.”
I groan inside as Hudson grins wickedly at me; “Chet?” His cocky, smug mouth cracks even even wider as winks at me; “Oh, yeah, I think I’ve got loads to say about ‘Chet’.”
“See?” Chelsea gives me a sassy look as she reaches past me for the ginger.
“I’m sure you do.” I say icily.
*****
“So, Chet, huh?”
We’re cleaning up the kitchen after Chelsea leaves; Hudson rinsing out wine glasses and me drying them. It’s weirdly domestic, and probably the last thing I could ever imagine spending my Wednesday night doing with billionaire playboy Hudson Banks.
“Chet is none of your business, actually,” I say, almost unable to hide my smirk. Is he jealous?
“I’m just curious thats all,” Hudson passes me a clean, dripping wet coffee cup.
“Oh what, for security purposes?” I say sarcastically as I reach for the mug.
“No I’m just curious for me actually.” I freeze with my hand on the lip of the coffee cup he’s holding in his hand, suddenly very curious where he’s going to go with this.
Hudson grins, as if seeing right through the casual face I’m doing my best to maintain and seeing the eagerness within; “I’m honestly just wondering who could put up with you long enough to date, that’s all.”
I roll my eyes, suddenly angry with myself for being such a weirdo about all of this; “Oh shut up.”
Hudson laughs; “Oh I’m just kidding Red, jeez lighten up.” He casually reaches over and wraps his arm around my waist, and I freeze.
“Stop.”
“What?”
I can feel the strength in his arms, and the heat in his fingers as they circle around my waist, drawing me closer to his body and I can feel the shiver run up my spine.
“Just- don’t touch me like that.” I’m saying no because I need him to, not because I want him to. In fact, I desperately want him to keep touching me.
Hudson frowns; “Jesus, Reagan, like what?” He drops his arm and steps back from me, and I’m instantly missing the heat of his body and the heat my body feels when he’s that close to me; “Ok, fine.”
I swallow heavily; “Fine.” I know my cheeks are bright red, and the heated, needy desire pouring through my body and dampening my panties scream that I want anything but him to stop touching me, but I force myself to turn away from him.
I gasp when he reaches out and grabs my arm, and my heart leaps into my throat as I feel him spin me around and press me up against the refrigerator. I’m flush against his body, feeling every ripple of his muscles, every inch of his skin on mine, and I let out the tiniest of moans in spite of myself. I can feel his hardness pressing hotly against me as his hands push my arms back against the cool metal of the fridge, and he leans down until I can feel his breath teasing across my lips.
“Just so you know, I’m betting I could have you right here, right now, Princess. I’d only have to ask.”
“Oh is that a fact, huh?” I give him my most defiant, carefree look, but I know by the way he grins that he can see right through that. And I know by the way my face is flushed and the way I know he can feel the heat between my legs on his thigh that neither of us are fooled by my little act.
“Yeah, that’s a fact.” He growls, leaning closer still until his lips are barely millimeters away from mine.
“Then why don’t you then.” My voice is breathy, and I hear the words muted as if I’m speaking underwater. I’m willing him to kiss me; willing him to lean down press that mouth to mine and take me right here in the kitchen; right up against the refrigerator.
Please, please, please I beg inside my head, biting my lip and staring deep into his deep blue eyes and wanting nothing more than to feel him slide inside of me. I’m so wet and I can feel my heart just racing as we stare at each other. But I need him to make the move first. I’m running for a seat on the State Senate for crying out loud, I can’t be throwing myself at my bodyguard - or my campaign financier, or both, or whatever the hell Hudson is. I just can’t, and for that singular reason, every fiber of my being and every thudding beat of my pulse in my veins wants him to tear my panties off and fuck me right here.
But he doesn’t, and the moment passes, and we both know it. Hudson moves away from me suddenly, his own chest rising quickly with his breath as he stares at me hungrily with a look I can’t quite read; “Like you said, Reagan; it’s nothing.”
P A S T
“Are you drinking?” My older sister’s eyes are narrowed, red-rimmed as they are as she leans down to sniff the cup of soda she’s snatched out of my hands.
“N-no.” I mumble out, fairly confident that there’s no way she’s going to smell the white wine I’ve dosed my diet-cola with. Yeah, I’m drinking white wine with coke; I was a very special breed of eighteen year old rebel.
Quinn swears at me, even though I know damn well she’s had a few herself; “It’s a wake, Reagan, not an open bar,” She hisses; always the one in charge, especially now.
“It’s not a wake, its a memorial vigil,” I say it tensely through gritted teeth.
Quinn looks at me sadly, shaking her head; “Ray, he’s d-“
“He’s missing, Quinn, he’s not dead.” Well, missing for three months, last seen near the Syrian border; presumed dead.
My sister tenses her jaw and exhales through her teeth, either because she’s thinking it too, or more likely because she’s just not about to have this argument again with me, here of all places. “In any case, you’re not supposed to be drinking.”
“So?” I sneer at her; “I’m mourning.” It’s really only half true; maybe even less actually. Of course I’m upset about my Father’s death, but the anger is still so present that it’s clouding my ability to really grasp that he’s gone. I’m angry that it’s felt like he’s been gone for years anyways; always off doing something in some random part in the world that he won’t tell us about and that I don’t want to know about anyways. I remember asking him once when I was much younger if what the kids at school had said were true; “Do you sell guns, Daddy?”
“It’s complicated, honey.”
Right, “complicated”. It’s bullshit like that, mixed with his complete absence from our lives - certainly after Mom died, but almost completely in the last three years - that have me spiking soda with wine like some sort of total amateur. I storm away from my sister, just in time to see the staff ushering Hudson into the room full of mourners along with the two other guys; Bryce and Logan. I barely know them - honestly, I hardly know much about Hudson really - but in that moment of them walking into my Dad’s funeral, I kind of hate them. I hate them because they were closer to my
father than any of us ever were; the military sons he always wanted and never got. And in that moment, there at his funeral, their presence makes me feel like they have more of a right to be there then I do.
Of course, his being there is also just another lingering question as to what we’ve been doing the past few weeks. Since our pre-dawn ride to Bear Mountain, there’ve been other late-night calls and other adrenaline-filled car rides. We talk all night somewhere, or just go for a drive, or he show’s me some wild rooftop in the city I never knew existed. It’s platonic, but only on the surface. We smile and do weird things like shake hands after he drops me off at my dorm. But it wouldn’t take any sort of particular genius to see that below all that stuff lies something much more adult. Something powerful and aching and sensual, and barely contained lies beneath that “friend” surface, and every time he calls or every time I look into his eyes as he says goodnight to me, I feel like it’s going to come rushing out of us like a burst damn.
