Last Light

by M. Pierce

  “Help yourself.”

  “Are you guys allowed to smoke in here? I mean—”

  Seth touched my bare knee.

  “No big deal,” he repeated calmly. “The hotel staff won’t bother us.”

  I met his dark, devastatingly careless stare, and I nodded.

  “Hi,” I mumbled.

  “Hi.”

  The rest of the room diminished. Seth and I sat in our corner of the universe, unhappy, silent, studying one another.

  After a while, he took a key card from his pocket and began thinning the ridges of coke. He bent over the table and sniffed away a line, then slid the plate toward me.

  “I’ve been drinking a little,” I said, as if that would excuse me, and I pressed one nostril shut and inhaled a thread-thin line.

  Maybe I didn’t need an excuse.

  Or maybe Seth and I had the same excuse.

  Matt.

  “First time doing that?” Seth said.

  “Yeah.” I sniffed and looked around. No one was watching. Almost immediately, excess energy fizzled up my spine, effervescing in my brain. I smiled. “Weird…”

  “But good, yeah?”

  “Uh-huh. I think so.” A muscle jumped in my leg. I bounced my foot to the music.

  “Great, then no worries.” Seth stood, rubbed his face, sat. He ran his fingers up and down his thighs. Whenever we looked at one another, our eyes locked a little longer than necessary.

  We spoke simultaneously, our voices colliding.

  “Congrats on your record deal,” I said, and Seth said, “Come to my room.”

  We laughed.

  I studied my feet.

  “Come to my room, Hannah.”

  “Sure,” I said. “We can’t talk in here anyway.”

  Seth took my hand and led me through the suite. We passed the girls playing cards and I smiled at them. Now, somehow, I belonged in this smoke-filled room.

  We turned into a bedroom off the suite and Seth shut and locked the door. The clack of the bolt resounded in my brain.

  “Better,” he said.

  The room smelled like clean linen. I saw fake flowers on a glass table, a neatly made king-size bed, and the city beyond a vast window.

  I said, “You’re really living the rock star dream, huh?”

  “What do you mean?” Seth held on to my hand. A frisson of fear passed through me—I was alone again with this unpredictable man—and I watched him guardedly. From the next room, Lana Del Rey’s new song started to play. Boy blue, she sang in her sultry voice.

  “I mean nice hotels, drugs, girls.”

  Seth flashed a smile, feral in the dark.

  “Whatever,” he said. “Everyone gives in eventually.”

  He stepped closer and I instinctively stepped back, bumping into the wall.

  “Have you been okay, Hannah?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay.” Another lie. “Just figuring myself out. I left Matt.” I said it offhandedly, but the words hung between us. I left Matt, and here I am.

  “You all right for money?” Seth said.

  I blinked, then glared at his half-lit face. The city lights played along his features, his jaw rough with stubble, his liquid dark eyes.

  “I am fine for money,” I said. “I am not some victim here, Seth. You should know that. Or is that how you still see me—as a pawn in Matt’s game?”

  My heart punched against my ribs.

  Seth raised a brow and stepped closer still, his hips touching mine. I could lift my leg, drive my knee into his groin, and he’d be walking crooked for days. But I didn’t.

  “What do you think you are, Hannah, a player in his game? The queen to his king?” He lowered his head so that his mouth hovered beside my ear. He smelled like winter, smoky and masculine. “No, I’ll tell you what you are.” His breath whispered along my neck. He pressed against my thigh and I felt the hard length of his dick. “You’re a class A drug.”

  I shuddered and shook off Seth’s hand, but instead of fleeing, I grasped his hips.

  “Hannah,” he growled lowly.

  Lana sang move baby. The music vibrated through the wall, strumming my blood.

  Everyone gives in eventually.

  I bent my clean-shaven leg, silky soft, until my knee slid under Seth’s shirt and rubbed over his flank. I pressed my calf against the small of his back and tugged him closer.

  “God,” he said, grinding his erection against my thigh. “You’re strong…”

  Strong? I felt ephemeral, suspended outside of the scene.

  P.S. I slept with Seth.

  I wrote it to force Matt to get over me.

  Now I was doing it to force myself to get over him.

  Seth didn’t kiss me, but he took what he wanted. He squeezed my breasts through my shirt, hiked up my skirt, and kneaded my ass. Everything was different … from being with Matt. Seth was rangier. Sharper angles. Cocaine fueled.

  I simply held on to him and breathed.

  When he undid his jeans and freed his cock, the thick weight of it resting against my stomach, I looked down.

  My lips twitched, but I managed to keep my expression neutral.

  A Prince Albert piercing crowned Seth’s tip, the silver barbell shining in the dark.

  My eyes lifted—and I met Seth’s sly smile.

  “What?” he said.

  I shook my head. “Nothing…”

  Seth pulled my hand to his dick. My fingertips brushed the overheated skin and he sighed. Tentatively, I touched the piercing—cool and weighted—and watched the ripple effect of pleasure on Seth’s face. Eyelids drifting down. Lips parting.

  This is power, I thought, touching a man like this.

  And then I knew what I wanted to do.

  I wrapped my fingers around his shaft. He hardened fully in my hold. I began to stroke him, my gaze moving between his arousal and his face, and he watched some unspecified point on the wall. God only knows what cocktail of substances Seth took that night. He looked delirious. As I jerked him up and down, faster, reaching into his jeans to rub his balls, he braced his forearms against the wall and began to thrust into my grip.

  We stood so close. The serpentine movement of his body hypnotized me. If I stopped … we would fuck. I would undress him and see those curling tattoos on his sides. We would kiss and say things we didn’t mean. Counterfeit intimacy.

  “Sweet girl,” Seth whispered.

  His cock thickened in my grip. I wrapped my fingers tight around his girth and head, and I let him buck into my hand until he came. He was curiously silent. Warm fluid surged across my palm. An expression like pain flickered on his face, primal and stunned, and then it was over.

  The drumming of my heart filled my body.

  Seth tucked himself away, zipped his jeans, and turned toward the window. I moved automatically to the bathroom and washed my hands in the dark.

  When I stepped out, my skirt straightened, I found Seth seated on the edge of the bed. A few more pieces of hair had come loose from his ponytail. He looked beautiful, and fallen, like Lucifer. He lit a cigarette and smoked vapidly, his eyes on the floor.

  “I’m pretty fucking high,” he said after a while.

  “I’m kind of wired, too.”

  “I knew it would be this way, if I hooked up with you.” He sucked in a lungful of smoke. “So I just let myself go.”

  “Hey, don’t even worry about it.”

  Seth chuckled. “I’m not worried about it.” He lifted his head, looked at me, and I felt nothing. Not aroused. Not embarrassed or coy. Nothing.

  I knew if I thought about Matt, though, and how much this would have hurt him, I would fall to my knees.

  The heart always knows what the mind refuses to accept.

  My heart knew that I would be holding a torch for Matt forever.

  “Stick around and I’ll make you come,” Seth said, but his voice was defeated, as if he already knew my answer.

  I went to him and tucked a piece of hair behind his ear. I to
uched his cheek and frowned.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered, and left him smoking on the bed.

  I let myself out of the room and found Chrissy. I told her that I wanted to walk back to my hotel, and then I did, feeling less and less alive with each step.

  Chapter 38

  MATT

  One foot in front of the other. The rhythmic slap of my sneakers on pavement. The streetlights passing in long yellow ellipses.

  And my breath coming faster and faster.

  Calves burning, arms aching, my heart outpacing my stride.

  As if I could outrun the pain.

  But maybe I could. When I ran like this—dead runs late at night—I left behind the nauseating unease of Hannah’s absence. I stopped picturing Hannah and Seth together, and I stopped trying to work out the logistics of their romance.

  I reached the point of exhaustion, and then I pushed myself harder. And when my limbs felt numb and my chest seemed ready to explode, I smiled.

  Here we go, I thought, I’m going to collapse.

  Except I never collapsed, and the effort left me feeling juvenile and stupid.

  A streak of sweat ran into my eye, salt stinging.

  I slowed to a jog and pushed back my hair. Everything’s going to be okay, I told myself. Then I imagined Hannah touching my face and saying, “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  She left three weeks ago.

  This wasn’t getting any more okay.

  I passed the Hard Rock Cafe and a little Italian place and realized dimly that I was about to cross Fourteenth. I stopped. In the city lights and nighttime traffic ahead, I saw someone like Hannah walking. A trick of the mind, no doubt. I refused to give in to irrationality.

  I turned and sprinted back to the condo.

  I had one new voice mail from Nate. I checked the time—ten for me, midnight for him—and returned his call.

  “Why aren’t you asleep?” I said as soon as he answered.

  “It’s not that late. How are you doing?”

  “Fine. I was running.” I sat at the kitchen island and fiddled with the AlumaFoam splint on the counter. I’d removed it to run. I barely wore it, in fact, preferring the pain in my hand.

  “Running at night?” Nate said.

  “Yeah. Running at night, not drinking, not drugging, not calling Hannah, not stalking her sister, not driving by her parents’ house. Anything else you need to know?” I felt instantly cruel for snapping at Nate, who loved me beyond reason.

  Nate, of course, laughed good-naturedly.

  “That about covers it,” he said. “You get some sleep, Matt. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Yeah. You, too.”

  I ended the call and took a quick shower. I ran the water cold.

  Afterward, as I dried myself and dressed, I considered calling my old therapist, Mike. He would prescribe something to get me out of my head, and he would help me understand this dual anger and longing for Hannah.

  Anger. She fucking cheated on me. With my fucking brother.

  Longing. I miss her so fucking much.

  Fuck.

  I dismissed the idea quickly. I didn’t need Mike to hold my fucking hand.

  I went out on the balcony for a smoke.

  Denver was alive and alight. As I ashed my cigarette onto the street below, I glimpsed a flash from a parked car. I smirked and waved.

  The car window slid down and a camera protruded. I smoked listlessly while the photographer got a few more shots. Then the car door opened and a familiar figure stepped under the streetlight: Aaron Snow. I would have recognized him anywhere.

  I gave another little wave. He beckoned. I held up a finger—give me a moment—and put out my cigarette. I left the condo quietly and lit another smoke as I stepped outside.

  “Matt Sky.” Snow advanced. “Aaron Snow with No Stone Unturned.” His eyes were bright. He looked no older than I was, maybe even a little younger. He offered a hand.

  “Hello there, Snow.” I shook his hand. “Would you like a smoke?”

  “Ah—” He lowered his camera. “Could I?”

  “Of course.” I passed the pack and lighter to him. As Snow lit his cigarette, I noticed his hands were shaking. “It’s all right,” I said. “You know, I wasn’t myself last year.”

  Snow puffed on his cigarette and coughed.

  How strange, to be having civil words with Aaron Snow. In his articles and his pursuit of me, he gave an impression of cunning. Now he looked like a lost boy.

  “I know,” he said. “I’m sorry; you’ve caught me off guard by coming down.”

  “Caught myself off guard. Let’s sit.” I walked to the back of the condo and took a seat on one of the steps. Snow perched beside me. Waves of nervous energy came off him. “Calm down, would you? You’re making me anxious.”

  Snow couldn’t meet my eyes. Improbably, I felt sorry for him, and now that I didn’t hate and fear him, I thought I understood him. He was a young journalist trying to make his way. M. Pierce presented a puzzle and Snow solved it. Then Matthew Sky disappeared: a new puzzle for Snow’s able mind. “You’re quite a journalist,” I said.

  “Why did you come back now?”

  “Off the record?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “A girl.” I glanced up at my bedroom window, which was dark. The whole condo was dark. I should have moved out, but I stayed in that place full of things I bought to make Hannah happy. Now it was like an abandoned circus—all color and ornament, no laughter, no life.

  And here I was, speaking calmly with the reporter Aaron Snow—not because I was lonely, but because I had no fight left in me. Snow seemed to sense it. We watched one another through the dark, and he appeared defeated rather than elated.

  “A girl,” he said. “I guess there’s always a girl.”

  “I suppose so.” I turned on the stair to face Snow. “Don’t you have more questions?”

  “Many,” he said. “On the record now?”

  I nodded. “On the record.”

  Snow got his bearings and began to ask about my disappearance. Where did I stay? Was my “death” a publicity stunt, a warped promotion for The Surrogate? Did I have a breakdown?

  And he asked about Night Owl. Did I write it? When did I write it? Did I publish it? Other papers had asked and printed the answers to these questions, but Snow seemed to want personal satisfaction. He wanted the whole truth, which I would never tell.

  I fed him the story about Melanie—how I found her online and compelled her to publish Night Owl on my behalf. It wasn’t news. Pam had already arranged phone interviews with the Denver Post, the Los Angeles Times, and the New York Times. Everyone knew what I’d done, and why, and everyone believed I orchestrated it alone.

  I was no longer hiding and running.

  I was simply lying on the tracks, waiting for the next stray train to take me out.

  After three cigarettes and a parade of questions, I said, “Look, I’ve got to go.”

  “Can I get a picture?”

  “Sure.”

  I remained seated on the stairs—it seemed fitting—and Snow crouched on the pavement to get a good angle. “Do I look like a writer?” I said.

  He laughed. “You do. Can I have a formal interview sometime?”

  “Mm. But don’t run this story tomorrow, Snow. Let me chat with Pam first.”

  “Your agent.”

  “That’s right.” We walked back around the condo together.

  “I’m surprised she kept you on.”

  “Are you?” I smiled and we shook hands. Snow seemed very young then, and guileless.

  As I was heading for the door, he said, “Hannah Catalano is the girl, right?”

  I turned sharply.

  “Back off,” I growled, and Snow recoiled.

  My anger faded as fast as it flared, but it stunned me. That fire. That fight I thought I’d lost.

  Chapter 39

  HANNAH

  On Monday morning, I fortified m
y nerves with a smart outfit—a taupe square-neck pencil dress, nylons, and black heels—and marched into the Granite Wing Agency.

  Yes, I took a week of vacation. And a week of sick leave. And another unexplained personal week. But I deserved it, which Pam would understand.

  I shuffled up the winding stone stairs to the third floor. At the landing, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, and then I opened my eyes and stepped toward … Matt.

  I teetered on my heels.

  He walked briskly toward the staircase, his hand gliding along the balcony railing. He appeared unaware of me—for now.

  Relief flooded my system at the sight of him. He was doing okay. He was sober and sane … and ridiculously gorgeous in dark jeans and a fitted black T-shirt.

  Ugh, I wanted to slap myself. Anger. You are angry with him. Green-eyed liar.

  Matt’s gaze focused on me, finally. His face paled and he twisted away like he might turn to stone if he looked too long. And I stared at his back, which I had touched a hundred times.

  Yes—I smoothed my hand up his spine months ago in a storage room in Flight of Ideas.

  Before all this craziness.

  When he was mine, and I was his.

  Matt visibly regained control. He tousled his hair, cleared his throat, and turned to face me. “Hannah,” he said. “It’s great to see you.”

  Great to see me? Matt stared at the wall beyond me—easy for him, because he towered over me. I fought the urge to grip his jaw and force him to look me in the eye.

  He was clean shaven, another good sign. I studied the fine golden hair on his forearms, the veins atop his hands, and the soft, comfortable-looking flip-flops he wore.

  “You look good,” he said, still staring at a point above my head.

  “So do you,” I whispered.

  His eyes lit up briefly and sought mine, then swerved away. God … my heart hurt. This poor beautiful fucked-up boy—I’d made him feel undesirable, made him doubt his incredible magnetism, with my stupid lie about Seth.

  He draws people in without even trying. Puts them under a spell …

  Seth was right about that.

  “I need to go,” Matt said. “Things to do.”

  He moved past me and I wanted to scream. Things … like what? Microwave dinners to make? Tears swarmed my eyes. Fuck. I was not becoming one of those weepy women.