by Hannah Ford
“She was killed because of something she knew about my father. Your sister was attacked because of my father.”
“Yes, and my sister is back at Conner’s apartment right now, with Conner, because Conner has decided that my sister doesn’t need to be protected like some wilting flower.” Landon was still holding onto my wrist, but I pulled out of his grasp, as if to illustrate the point.
“And how’s that working out for them? Jesus, Aven, Violet had a gun pulled on her last night.”
“That’s not the point. The point is that you came here last night, after Violet had been attacked, and you told me you loved me. You told me we would be together, you told me that the three days you were apart from me were the worst kind of torture.”
His jaw tightened and then relaxed, and God, he was so beautiful, standing there in front of me. His tuxedo shirt was untucked, his jacket and tie long gone, his collar loosened, showing just a tiny bit of tan, muscled chest.
His blue eyes were dark and stormy, and he looked like he’d just stepped off the cover of a romance novel about a man who’d been through something dangerous and lived to tell the tale.
“I do love you,” he said, and his voice swelled with emotion. He took a step toward me, but I moved back.
“No,” I said. “If you loved me, Landon, you’d let me make this decision for myself. I get it – a woman died tonight. But I’m standing here. I’m telling you I’m willing to be with you, that I don’t care. We’ll get security, we’ll figure out what’s happening with your father, we’ll –”
“God damn it, Aven, it’s not that easy!” He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. His gaze roamed my body, his eyes storming with something that wasn’t quite rage. I could tell he wanted to punish me, that he wanted to take me over his knee, to belt me for talking back, for pushing him.. “You have no idea what kind of people we’re dealing with, the things they’ll do.” He shook his head. “I won’t put you at risk like that.”
My heart pounded against my chest.
My mind told me that he was right, that I should just let him go. I’d made a mistake letting him into my apartment last night.
He’d shown me who he was when he’d disappeared after we’d come back from Vermont.
But the part of me that always won out when he was around was winning out now. It was the part of me that wasn’t controlled by reason, the part that knew nothing except how much I craved his lips on mine, his hands on my flesh, his belt against my skin.
The thought of him walking away was almost too much to bear.
So I did the only thing I could.
The only thing that had a chance of making him stay.
I got on my knees.
I got on my knees right there in front of my apartment, the pavement scraping my skin.
I gazed up at him. “I know I’ve been bad, sir.”
Landon’s eyes alighted with desire and need, and his breathing quickened.
He reached down and ran a finger over my jawbone. It was the lightest, feather touch, and yet I felt it right down to my core.
“I need to be punished.” I licked my lip. “I need to be humiliated. Used.” I reached down and tugged at the bottom of my dress, pulling it up until it was bunched around my waist, giving him a view of the tiny thong he’d given me to wear earlier.
Landon almost gasped, and I loved that I’d shocked him by doing this out here, in public, where anyone walking by could see me down on the ground, my lower body exposed, making it clear that the man standing in front of me could do whatever he wanted to me, no matter how debasing, and I would gladly oblige.
“Jesus,” Landon growled. “Aven, stand up.”
I resisted the urge to glance around and make sure no one was watching.
I knew if I didn’t it would turn him on more.
Instead, I took Landon’s hand and ran it over the curve of my breast. “Should I take my dress down, sir? So everyone here can see how bad I’ve been?”
The sound that escaped from his lips was half growl, half moan, a guttural sound of passion and restraint.
I slid his hand down further, over my abdomen, then stopped when it got between my legs.
His lips tightened when he felt how wet I was, and I used his fingers to push inside of my pussy, until he reached the silver ball that was still inside of me.
“Please,” I begged. “I want you to pull it out and fuck me.”
His fingers found the ball, and I gasped as he pulled it out, leaving me wanting. His breathing quickened, and he dropped the ball onto the pavement next to me.
“Please.” I tried to push his fingers inside of me, desperate for him, but he pulled away.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, Aven, but I can’t.”
And then he walked away, leaving me there on the sidewalk, broken.
It wasn’t like last time.
It wasn’t like when he’d disappeared after Vermont, when I’d become a cliché of crying and laying in bed, eating ice cream.
No, this time I was angry.
Angry at him for being such a jackass, for being too scared to see what was going on between us, too scared of something real. Because as much as I knew he did want to protect me, I knew him well enough to know that it wasn’t just that – he was scared.
Scared of something real, scared of losing control of the tight grip he always had on his emotions and everything else in his life.
But mostly, I was mad at myself.
Mad at myself for believing him when he came back, mad at myself for falling to my knees like that in a desperate gesture of submission. Jesus, I’d taken my dress up in public, for God’s sake.
I could have been arrested.
So I channeled my anger and became a different kind of cliché.
One that got up at 5 am and went to spin classes, the kind of spin classes where the instructors yelled out platitudes about how exercising was a metaphor for life, and how starting your day spinning set you up for success.
The kind of cliché that redid her resume and applied to every job she could find, even the ones that weren’t going to lead anywhere.
The kind of cliché that called those jobs to follow up, even when the receptionists acted like I was wasting their time.
The kind of cliché that scoured the internet for the email addresses of people in power and sent them unsolicited emails introducing myself and asking to be considered for any openings they might have.
And finally, nine days after Landon had left me in front of my apartment, I became the kind of cliché that landed an interview at Stratton Brothers, an investment banking firm, one that was too big to fail.
It was for an assistant position, which meant filing and making appointment – nothing that actually had to do with money or investing -- but it was a foot in the door at a company I would kill to work at.
“Okay, tell me again how amazing I look,” I said to Emma as we sat at the counter sipping coffee before my interview. We were back to our regular weak brew, as I couldn’t bring myself to keep the fancy espresso machine that Landon had given us. I’d posted it on the internet and sold it to a wannabe hipster from Brooklyn for probably a third of what Landon had paid for it.
I’d used the money to buy a power suit, the kind of suit that was sleek and black and came with a crisp white shirt and a pencil skirt and a pair of heels that pinched my feet. The outfit made me look like I belonged. I’d even sprung for the tailoring that the woman who worked there had suggested.
“You look amazing,” Emma said, squeezing my shoulder. “Seriously, you look like you should be running the company, not working as someone’s assistant.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” My phone buzzed on the counter, and I picked it up. I was getting better at not hoping it was going to be Landon every time it rang, but there was still a tiny little part of me that still couldn’t let go of the possibility. But of course it wasn’t Landon.
It was a text from Violet.
>
I opened it, and a picture of her in front of the Eiffel Tower filled the screen. She was smiling big, her hair blowing back in the wind. “Sending you good luck on your interview from L’Tour Eiffel! Or whatever it’s called haha. Miss you xxo”
I smiled and typed back, “Miss you too… facetime me later!”
Emma looked over my shoulder. “Pics from her Paris adventure?”
“Yup,” I said quickly, sliding my phone into my purse. After what had happened to Abigail Benedict, Conner had decided that Violet needed a trip away. He’d whisked her off to Paris to “regroup and unwind.” She didn’t look like someone who’d been traumatized – she looked happy and relaxed. I wasn’t sure if that was because of the trip, or because she’d been so self-absorbed lately that the fact that someone had been shot dead right in front of me wasn’t really registering with her.
“Must be nice,” Emma grumbled. She looked at the clock. “I’m going to be late for work.”
“You don’t have to be there until nine,” I protested, not wanting her to leave yet.
“I know, but I like to be early, otherwise I have to worry about the train. Also, there’s this super hot guy who works in accounting, and he always gets in early. If I time it right, we end up in the elevator at the exact same time.” She winked at me and I shook my head, about to tell her that it wasn’t a good idea to get involved with someone she worked with, but then I realized I definitely didn’t have a leg to stand on when it came to giving someone romantic advice.
So instead I said, “Dinner tonight?”
“Yes, definitely dinner! Sushi? My treat?”
“Sounds good.” She hugged me and wished me luck one more time, and I watched her go, smiling as she slung her purse over her shoulder and headed out.
I was proud of her.
She liked her new job.
I took in a breath and walked to the bathroom, taking in my reflection one more time.
I didn’t look like myself.
I looked professional, and I wondered what I would do if I actually got the job – my entire salary would probably end up going to a new wardrobe.
“Worry about that later,” I said out loud, smoothing down the bottom of the skirt and sliding my feet into a pair of knock-off Prada pumps. “First, go get the job.”
It was hot outside, and the subway car was crowded, but I didn’t care.
Everyone was on their way to work, dressed in their sleek suits, clutching paper cups of coffee and newspapers, earbuds in their ears, rude looks on their faces. But I didn’t care.
This was the hustle and bustle of the New York City commute, and one of the reasons I’d wanted to come to here in the first place.
Screw you, Landon Sheer, I thought as I stepped out of the station. I loved the way the warm air felt against my skin, the sound my heels made as I walked down Avenue of the Americas toward Stratton Brothers.
I was an hour early, so I sat outside for a while, watching the commuters. I thought about getting a pastry or some coffee at the café across the street, but I was afraid I would spill it on my new outfit, and besides, I was way too nervous to eat.
Fifteen minutes before my interview was scheduled to start, I walked into the building.
A security guard issued me a visitor badge, and I took the elevator to the eighteenth floor, where a woman from HR named Rebecca made me fill out a bunch of forms.
When I was finished, I was pulled into the interview immediately, no waiting. The interview was intense – I would be working for a man named Miles Marx, a hedge fund manager with a client list so elite it was allegedly confidential to everyone but Miles Marx himself. I didn’t get to meet him, but I interviewed with the assistant I’d be replacing, a really nice woman named Jenna.
She warned me that Miles Marx could be intense, that the hours were long, that he was a demanding boss.
By the time I left, I felt hot and a little disheveled.
The questions hadn’t been easy, and even though Jenna had been nice, it was hard to tell if I’d done well.
I returned my badge to the security desk, and took a minute to answer a text from Emma, asking me how the interview had gone.
“Good but intense! Hoping to find out by the end of the week ”
Her reply came immediately.
“Great! Good job, now go celebrate with carbs haha… also have news re: hottie in accounting”
I smiled. Knowing Emma, that could mean anything from he smiled at her to she had sex with him in her boss’s bathroom.
“Can’t wait to hear xo”
I slipped my phone back into my bag.
Suddenly, I was starving. It was like the adrenaline of the interview had kept me from needing to eat, but now it was almost noon and I hadn’t had a thing all day except coffee. There was a restaurant in the lobby of the Stratton Brothers building, the kind of place that was enclosed in glass and used cloth napkins and served a fancy brunch until two o’clock.
I decided I’d earned a nice brunch, so I got a table for one.
I’d just ordered – fresh-squeezed orange juice and a bacon and Tillamook cheddar cheese omelet with crispy home fries – when a shadow fell over the table.
“Aven?” a voice asked.
I looked up to see a woman standing in front of me.
She had long brown hair, a friendly face, and she looked super familiar.
“Paisley Daniels?” she said, reminding me. “From the other night at the hospital?”
“Oh, yes!” I said. “Of course.” She looked thinner than I remembered, her face drawn, and there were dark circles under her eyes as if she hadn’t been sleeping. She was wearing fitted black dress pants and a gold cashmere sweater that hung on her slight frame. “How are you? I’m so sorry about Abigail.”
“Thank you,” she said. “And thank you for being so kind to me the other night. I’ve been meaning to look you up on facebook so I could return your sweatshirt. I actually have it with me.” She reached into the huge bag she had slung over her shoulder and pulled out the sweatshirt I’d given her that night at the hospital.
“Thanks.” It was Landon’s sweatshirt, and I shoved it into my bag hastily. “Would you like to join me for brunch?”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” she said. “I have a meeting.”
“Do you work at Stratton Brothers?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Do you?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I actually just had an interview.”
“Oh, that’s great! What was the position?”
“Assistant to Mr. Marx.”
Paisley looked surprised, and I assumed it was because she thought maybe I was overqualified for the job. But of course she knew nothing about me, so how could she know my qualifications? Instead, she said, “Does Landon know you interviewed for a job with Mr. Marx?”
“No.” I thought about telling her we broke up, but I didn’t want to get into it, didn’t want to see the look of pity that would cross her face, didn’t want to hear the platitudes about how it just wasn’t meant to be. And besides, this girl had just lost her best friend. Someone very close to her had died. I wasn’t about to start talking about my break up.
“Well, you might want to tell him,” she said. “Like, ASAP.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, as if the talking about Miles Marx and Landon Sheer in the same sentence made her nervous.
Before I could ask why, the waiter returned with my food, and set it down in front of me.
“Well, I’ll let you enjoy your brunch,” she said. “I just… is there anything you can tell me about what happened when Abigail was killed? I feel horrible asking, because I know you probably told the police everything. It’s just that they have no leads, and I just… did she say anything to you before she died?”
I swallowed. “You should really ask Landon about that. Or the police could probably –”
“The police won’t tell me anything. Please.” She reached out and took my arm, then sat down in the sea
t across from me, her body angled toward mine. “Anything you can tell me, please. I’m just really trying to make sense of this.”
I bit my lip, and then finally, I told her. “Okay, I’m not totally sure, but I think Abigail’s death might have had something to do with Victor Sheer.”
“Landon’s father?”
“Yes. Before we went into the alley that night, Abigail told Landon she needed to tell him something about his father. Did she mention anything to you?”
“Is that all she said? She didn’t say what it was about Victor Sheer?”
“No.” I shook my head.
Paisley’s face had gone pale, and her hand was still on my forearm. Her fingers were pressing into my flesh, and her grip tightened. Finally, she released me and stood up.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have followed you here.”
“What?” I shook my head. “I thought you worked here.”
“I do, but I… I have to go.”
She rushed out of the restaurant, leaving me shaken.
I did my best to push the encounter out of my mind.
Landon and I were over.
Which meant that whatever had happened to Abigail was not my concern. Paisley wasn’t my concern. I shouldn’t have been asking her questions, and I sure as hell shouldn’t have told her what I knew about Abigail wanting to tell Landon something about his father.
The only thing I needed to be concerned with was getting a job, and starting my life in New York.
Hopefully I would meet a nice boy, one who didn’t have a penchant for handcuffs and belts, one who I’d have perfectly nice sex with and –
Gah.
I pushed the thought of perfectly nice sex out of my mind, because it sounded completely lame.
I decided to walk home.
My body was thrumming with extra energy, and it was a beautiful day out. The morning humidity had burned off, leaving the sun shining down on Midtown. It was hot, but there was a slight breeze, and I decided to take the long way back home, slipping into my favorite stores to browse along the way.
There was a jewelry store on the upper East Side where everything was only two dollars, just the kind of store in which I could treat myself.
