by A. N. Latro
He reaches mechanically for the suit jacket he discarded in the seat earlier in the evening. It is charcoal to match his pants and his mood, slim cut and streamlined. He sighs as he slides into it, feels his pompous air possess him. He pushes his shoulders back as he flips the blood-colored collar of his shirt out to rest on the narrow suit lapels. As always, the top two buttons of his shirt are undone.
He makes an indignant scoff directed toward everyone and no one. The key to being the brat prince is to banish his concern for the feelings of others. He consults the car's mini-bar. Brown liquor sloshes around like little oceans of ghosts in small glass flasks. He denies the whiskey. He doesn't need courage; his nerves feel like hot metal running through and beneath his skin. He doesn't need to get mean, it's not a whiskey night. He needs the blessings of the gods of swagger, so he chooses instead the rum. Its aroma assures his decision as he plucks the top free of the bottle. He only tolerates imported rum anymore, old, experienced stuff that brings to him bits of the resolve, the same with which he faced his exile in Cuba. He needs the airs of royalty, the sultry breeze, the pompous right to walk into any building and demand that the street speak to him.
He closes his eyes, turns up the small bottle, and lets the spirits take him. They bring him racy memories of a distant love affair with stretching sands and crashing waves. The spice kills the taste of cigarette and coffee that he hasn't been able to shake. The liquor burns his throat, flirts with his taste buds, and he relishes it. He cannot survive acting like a son without a father. He will not be a prince to a man found unfit for his responsibilities, and he will not be a fearful king. He winces upon his last swallow. He cracks open his vision as he lowers the near-empty flask. In all of the past three years of his life, this moment is the first time he has realized that the world he fights to right truly is his. Mikie was never meant to rule for long; Seth can see that now. Instead of training him, his uncle sent him away.
His cheeks are burning by the time the car pulls to a soundless stop outside the front door of the night club. The line outside stills, all eyes gaping at the luxurious vehicle, all minds wondering what delicious treat it has brought them. Seth's eyes run over the heavily Asian crowd, all slinky and sexy, made up and ready to party. He wonders how long they've been waiting. “Stay in the car,” he says, “and wait here.”
And he steps into the dirty night. He hears whispers run immediately through the lookers-on in languages he doesn't understand. He shamelessly ignores the people, leveling his eyes on the bouncer at the door. He watches the man's face transform from a mixture of annoyed and bored, to unabashed shock, to something like panic. Already, he is chattering into his head set, no doubt to security inside. The herald.
Neither speak to each other as Seth approaches. He slips his hands into his pants pockets in a falsely casual way, waiting expectantly with an eyebrow raised. The bouncer seems to be receiving some orders, because he aggressively grabs the little speaker button and says something that sounds angry and questioning. At length, the man nods stiffly and ushers Seth past the rope. Not one person in line protests, and Seth doesn't leave a tip.
Inside, the music is so loud he can feel the bass in his gut. The air is heavy with sweat and pheromones, and the floor is crowded with bodies grinding together. He scans the place as he would if conducting a high-end deal. Everyone is suspect. He spots the stairs quickly, can tell by their discreet location in the corner that they lead to who he wants.
He crosses the floor like a hunting shark, deftly avoiding the shifting crowd. Just as quickly as those around him begin to realize who he is, he's gone. He mounts the stairs, brushing past the guard posted to monitor the faces with privilege enough to climb to the VIP bar. Rum and anticipation muffle the explicit lyrics of the song. The beat creates earth quakes beneath each step.
***
Rama has led Emma to the VIP bar, and he speaks softly to the tiny barmaid. She nods, and Rama pulls Emma close as he leans back negligently, hooking his elbows on the edge of the bar. She is gorgeous, and a little drunk, he knows. She wears a white Armani dress that ends at the middle of her thigh and leaves one shoulder and arm deliciously bare.
He drops a kiss on the smooth skin, and she turns to him as he becomes aware of the ripple of noise from the dance floor. Security is at his elbow, speaking quietly in Thai. He smiles as Emma leans into him, draping herself on him, her voice soft and sultry in his ear.
The upstairs is not crowded, which makes the details all the more glaring: the paper lanterns; the sleek and simplistic furniture; the large man off to the right who watches like a hawk as Seth mounts the stairs; the long, dimly lit bar. His eyes stop halfway down the bar on a fine-featured, young, smirking face. He knows without a doubt that this is the creature from the photo. The Thai is leaning back, arms propped on the bar in errant comfort as a girl leans suggestively against him. His head is inclined toward another man, his security surely, for he looks rather like he wants to kill something. They are exchanging words, but the ink-black eyes of the foreigner rest steadily on his sudden guest. Time suspends. The details blur under the satin attention of the dark cat, who wears a pale green that makes his brown skin seem exotic even in this surreal setting. Seth understands immediately how Caleb might melt to such open sexuality. The Thai's smile deepens as the girl's hand slides into the collar of his shirt, and that smile is utterly captivating.
As Seth looks at him, Rama struggles to keep his face straight save from the teasing smile. The city’s son is as beautiful as his brother and Emma—a dark, deadly beauty and feline grace wrapped in an expensive gray suit and splash of blood red. The unbuttoned collar is enticing, and Rama suppresses a tiny shiver. Rama summons a small quirk of the lips, a challenge and threat. Small fingers brush his collar, slip under the silk to tease skin, return his attention to her. He smiles. “I remember, mali. No need remind me what dancing does to you. Not now.”
The action jolts Seth out of his trance, as does the way the stark whiteness of the girl contrasts to the smooth chest. He focuses on her—slender, clad in a designer, one-shouldered dress, with long, strawberry hair cascading down her back in loose curls. Now that he is looking, he recognizes her at once. His expression never changes, but inside is pure hell and chaos as the opposing man whispers something in Emma's ear, which solicits a giggle.
She laughs softly at the implied promise, and Rama smiles. Two fingers under Emma’s chin tilt her head up, and he kisses her. Emma responds instantly; the bartender, Kai, even security at Rama’s side are forgotten as she curls closer, her arms twisting around his neck, pressing against him as she whimpers under his kiss. She stares at him, heavy lidded, as he breaks the kiss. It is odd that his eyes aren’t on her, but focused above and beyond.
She turns, expecting a scantily clad debutante, a whore—anything but Seth, standing with his hands in his pockets, his eyes a roiling mess of emotion. She goes utterly still, and her thoughts go white. His eyes sweep her caustically, and she sees the tiny change, the minute widening of his eyes—pain filling them that is different from the betrayal. She bites her lips, hard, and a tang of blood fills her mouth.
She feels boneless, suddenly, rooted to where she stands, too close to Rama, when she would run to Seth, throw herself at him and beg for understanding. She can see him, almost forcibly taking hold of himself, and she recognizes the pompous air he wraps himself in—the one he uses as a shield. She watches him take her in, the sweat covering her exposed limbs, the way she sways. Just as she acknowledges his reaction, he recognizes that look on her, that heightened, almost desperate energy. It is the sheen of the relentless party. It feels like a punch to the gut. Yeah, it hurts, but only because he knows that he has worn the same sheen, and because she makes it look just as good as he does.
He must force himself away from that train of thought. His thoughts coyly escape to the arm-wrestling photograph, Caleb's damp, light hair, the fire in his eyes. Emma is a devastating ghost haunting this floor and its prince, whi
ch he decides is not such a good focal point. Her reaction to seeing him is an adequate anchor. His subsequent reaction is so cold. She looks like she wants to run and cry and scream all at once. She doesn't move, doesn't dare. His expression never changes, but she can recognize the ache in his gaze. She has betrayed him.
Seth cuts across the floor with frightening agility. The Thai's expression has faded. His attention is keen; Seth can feel it as another piece of his tattered heart breaks into the pit of deception. Nothing will stop him tonight, and now is not the time to feel this tragedy. He stops just out of arm's reach of Emma. He cannot speak, cannot air any grief in this setting. His eyes slide viciously past her as he slips his hands into his pockets.
She knows she has been dismissed. He can feel her distress. The Thai has fallen from his elated arrogance to an uncertain tension. Seth wonders if the other believes for just a moment that he will die. Tears well in Emma's eyes.
“She looks like him, doesn't she?” says Seth, voice quiet and ruthless. Despite the bass and the voices from below, he can hear the gasp that escapes Emma. He can feel her shocked attention seeping toward him, and her brilliant-yet-inebriated inference skills kick into action. He continues, “Same color hair, same-shaded eyes, the same pale perfection. They even have the same last name.”
Emma's horror is apparent to him, though she holds her composure very well. He knows she is smart enough to have divined his insinuation. He leans closer so that his chin is almost above her shoulder, so that his face is only inches from both her ear and the Thai’s face. “But her lips don't feel the same, do they? And they don't taste the same either, do they?” And he glances at the cigarette pack on the bar.
Emma can’t breathe. There is only one person he can mean, and the tension in Rama at her back is doing nothing to assuage her worries. Her eyes dart up to find Seth, and her heart jerks as he leans forward, so close his hair—too long—brushes her skin. She suppresses a shiver. Her eyes follow his to the pack of Marlboro Reds, and she sucks in a harsh breath. When she whirls to face Rama, his eyes are dark and watching Seth, something like awe and contempt filling his gaze. When his liquid black eyes find hers, the emotions are replaced with lust and guilt.
She’s shaking, desperate for an explanation, anything that will erase those words, the accusation. “Rama?” she whispers, pleading.
He stares at her, sadness filling him, making him forget Seth for a moment as she accepts it, and her expression shifts, anger and shocked disgust filling her eyes. “Mali,” he starts, reaching for her, and she freezes at the same moment that Seth steps forward.
He doesn’t speak, but the way Emma’s eyes widen and dart to Kai, the menace in Seth’s posture—it screams danger, and Rama lets his hand fall without touching his princess. Seth’s princess.
“My car is out front, Emma,” Seth says without looking at her. “Go.”
Her wide eyes flash from Seth to Rama. An argument plagues her tongue, but she won't dare speak it. Anyone else in the world at the moment could not give her an order, but Seth holds a status that is completely unique. His words are like her breath. She turns on her heel, infuriated and frightened and drunk. A quiet, foreign-tinted command from Rama to his hovering security provides her with an escort down the stairs. And then the boys are alone, aside from the huge bodyguard and the service staff.
Rama feels Seth’s eyes on him as he leans toward Kai, speaks fluidly. The man nods.
Emma’s heart is hammering, the high of dancing fading as she stalks across the balcony, aware of Kai following her. He wouldn’t leave the VIP section, wouldn’t leave Rama while Seth faced him.
She pushes her worry and fear and humiliation aside, channels it into anger as she moves through the writhing bodies, a royal among peasants. She can hear them speaking, can feel the security walking at her side, sheltering her, can feel the contemptuous glares from the whores. More than anything, she can feel the weight of Seth’s eyes as he tracks her progress through the club, and it’s suffocating, choking. She wants to scream, rage, fall to pieces.
She let him down. Despite her intentions, she knows that he sees this as a betrayal, and it will devastate him. One thing she can still do is behave as a Morgan. Her shoulders twitch slightly and she steps from the club into the dirty night, fielding the stares, the dark gazes, and the exotic voices with all the imperious skill of the brat prince himself.
She glances back, once, at the bouncer, the dark façade—and then slides into the dark decadence of Seth’s waiting Bentley.
Upstairs, the tension has reached a plateau.
“Would you like a drink, Mr. Morgan?” asks Rama, tone silk-smooth. He has seemingly recovered some of his ego.
“I'd like a word,” is Seth's reply.
The corner of Rama's lips curl the slightest bit and he says, “You are free to speak.”
Seth allows a laugh, small and pretentious. “Obviously.”
Rama takes a hit without either of them having moved. He is only beginning to understand the unavoidable fascination with this Morgan brother. Seth looks away, scans the floor below. Somehow, he looks natural here, like he can be so anywhere. “Are you afraid to face me alone?” he asks, eyes slinking to watch Rama sidelong.
Rama pushes from the bar with inherent self-centeredness, relishing in the attention of the eyes that can see him. He glides to the railing to look down at his empire, feeling their gazes crawling over him as well. “There are some who would kill for such an opportunity to get the elusive Seth Morgan alone,” he answers.
Seth lifts his eyebrows a tiny bit, damns the spectators to the fiery depths of the deepest hell, and walks to Rama's side. He doesn't look down, rather he looks directly at the darkly-lashed, heavily lidded eyes, demands audience, which Rama cannot deny. Seth says, “And there are many who would tuck their tails and run.”
Without missing a beat, the Thai turns his head so that their faces are quite close and says, “We'll want to take the back way out.”
Seth nods and turns back to VIP area to extract his phone from his pocket. He hits the speed dial for his driver. “Take her home.”
They make their way toward a well-disguised door past the bar. Their silent observer moves toward them. “Stay here,” Rama says clearly.
The other seems hesitant, but nods. He would not dare argue with his boss in such a highly formal situation. He watches them until they disappear from the VIP area.
Rama’s Office, New York City. June 16th.
The office is small, painted in eggshell. It has a leather love seat, adjacent to a leather armchair in dark brown, a small coffee table between them. Seth takes the love seat without waiting for an invitation, unbuttoning his jacket as he does. Rama crosses his legs into the armchair and shakes a cigarette from his pack. Seth openly watches the gesture, considering how different the act is when performed by this prince. Caleb made it look cool, rugged and masculine. These brown hands make it feel sensual and enticing, dangerous in an entirely new way. Rama knows he is being watched, keeps Seth's eyes captive with a haughty smirk. He enjoys attention, always. A whore, thinks Seth, naturally.
“I suppose it was only a matter of time before you figured things out for yourself,” says Rama with a lazy shrug. His accent is faint, as if he has worked hard to cover it. His smile darkens and he says, “I've counted on it.”
Seth tenses, eyes sliding into shrewd assessment. Rama cocks his head to the side, letting the smile die as he lights the cigarette. The lighting here is almost as dim as the club's floor, and his eyes look so black. Almost imperceptibly, his exotic expression transforms into a much gentler assessment of his own as the amusement wanes. The corners of his lips turn down, and his brow furrows, slightly.
The honest pain in those dark eyes takes Seth completely off guard, eases his apprehension more than he cares to admit to himself; he can't even begin to imagine why seeing such vulnerability appeals to him so strongly. His fingers relax onto the arm of the love seat. His vision breaks, sweeps the
neatly kept desk behind Rama, then the Buddha on the far wall with an assortment of incense and offerings spread around him.
“He came to me,” says Rama. Seth finds the Thai quite ready to field the hot attention that comes crashing back to him. Seth's mask of calm never breaks, but his insides are in shreds. Rama takes a long drag, then asks, “That is what you came here for, isn't it? Answers?”
Seth slowly smooths his suit coat, channeling his attention there for a moment's worth of collection. Being so readily called on his conviction does violent things to the anxiety that hides just beneath his surface. Inky eyes finally relinquish somber brown ones to watch the grace in the simple movement of a hand. Rama lifts the cigarette slowly, inhaling. The cherry flares in the dim room.
A knock at the door breaks the connection. Seth glances pensively toward the sound, but Rama extinguishes his hardly-smoked cigarette and rises from his seat like liquid, ignoring the tension that tries to gather. A tiny waitress enters with a tray. She deposits warm sake on the table with two small ceramic cups. “Thank you,” Rama says, not looking at her as she is dismissed. She closes the door quietly behind her.
“Yes,” Seth says finally as the other returns to his seat. “Some very major plays were made in my absence, and the explanations behind them have proven more difficult to get than they should be.”
Rama's gaze is thoughtful, all smooth and downturned lines, as he focuses on pouring a shot of sake for each of them. Seth cannot help but notice how his movements are feline, seduction in motion. He would never have guessed that Caleb would be somehow attracted to a man, but the longer he observes this strange creature, he understands that it has nothing to do with gender.
