by Geneva Lee
“Where on earth are you going?” my mother calls from the top of the stairs.
“Home,” I tell her.
“I did not give you permission.”
I ignore her and open the door. “I’m not staying in this house a minute longer.”
“You seem to be under the mistaken impression that you make the rules around here—” my mother begins.
“You’re under the mistaken impression that it’s safe for me here.” I’m not even sure she can hear me past the sobs that choke my words. I can’t hold any of it back. Not anymore.
Even in the dark house, I see her face pale. She takes a few stairs down but stops again. “What does that mean?”
“Ask your husband.”
Chapter Seven
I don’t have to tell Jameson to drive fast. He’s off the Von Essen property in record time. I don’t ask questions when he heads away from the city. Jameson could take me anywhere as long as it was far away from that twisted dollhouse.
Moonlight casts stark shadows over Palm Springs. Tonight it looks black and white and every shade of gray in between. It’s a city of ghosts. No place for me.
Jameson pulls into the private airfield just beyond the public airport.
“What about the car?” I ask as he collects our bags from the back seat.
“What about it?”
A one-time use Porsche? Jameson West is so out of my league.
“You have a pilot available to pick you up at midnight?” I stare at the crew refueling the small private jet. “That surprises you?”
“No.” I shrug trying to look nonchalant and failing miserably. “I mean, the rest of us are stuck search Travelocity and taking red-eyes.”
“I think this qualifies as a red-eye Duchess.”
A man in a pressed uniform approaches us and Jameson hands off our bags. “Are you jealous of my private jet?”
“My mom has one.” Which isn’t exactly true. Hans’s studio does, and there isn’t a shot in hell that I’ll be going aboard Hans’s flight deck anytime soon.
“Then we’re two peas in a private jet pod.”
“Been waiting your whole life for another girl with a private jet?”
He knits his figures through mine. “Private jets, questionable childhoods, we were made for each other.”
I rest my head on his shoulder thankful that he’s not pressing me for more information about why we’re waiting at a private airstrip in the middle of the night. I might have used up my allotment of normal for the day, but I’m grateful that he’s here cracking jokes. It’s strange that the circumstances surrounding our relationship are so dramatic, given how easy it is to be with him.
“They’re ready for us,” he announces. I follow him on board and immediately remember that there’s West money and what’s left for everyone else on the planet. Apparently private jets can be divided by class—and Jameson’s is clearly platinum. The seats are upholstered in buttery leather and champagne-gold subtly accents each surface.
“Do you want to get some rest?” he asks hitching a finger toward open door. I peek inside and find a small but adequate bedroom that might have come in handy if I felt like facing the inevitable onslaught of nightmares about tonight’s events. Instead, I shake my head. I figure there’s two ways to deal with my trauma: self-inflicted insomnia, or dreams Freddy Krueger wouldn’t dare enter.
“I don’t feel like sleeping.” I don’t have to say anything else. Jameson takes the hint and we settle into two leather seats facing one another. A stewardess, who must have trained to be a ninja in another life, appears instantly beside us.
“May I bring you something to drink Mr. West?”
“A whiskey and soda. Laura, allow me to introduce Ms. Emma Southerly.”
She turns her warms bubble gum pink smile on me. “What can I bring you Ms. Southerly?”
I refrain from ordering all the booze in the world because that certainly isn’t going to help me stay awake. “Can I have some coffee?”
Caffeine is not only a safe bet, but a necessity at this hour.
“Absolutely, I just put a fresh pot on,” she chirps. She scurries out of the private compartment and I wonder how many pots of coffee she’s had. No one should be this alert at this time of night.
Looking back to Jameson, I find him studying me, but he doesn’t speak. The silence stretches through the delivery of our drinks and take-off. When Laura excuses herself after we’ve been in the air for a while, he unbuckles and comes to my side. Kneeling next to me, he takes my hand. “I need you to tell me what happened.”
“Nothing,” I lie because I don’t want to tell him. Repeating what happened between Hans and I means facing the information he gave me, not just what he tried to do. I know how to protect myself against pervs, what self-respecting Vegas girl doesn’t, but nothing can change what he told me.
“Emma,” Jameson prompts when I’m quiet for a few more minutes. “Did Hans hurt you?”
“Yes,” I stammer. “No! Not like you’re thinking.”
But then again, hadn’t he?
“What did he do to you?” His voice is dangerously low, quiet with a rage that anything I tell him will only fan into uncontrollable fury.
“Nothing happened,” I say in a rush, choosing to cling to obliviousness.
“Jesus Christ, Emma.” His grip on my hand tightens. “You’re scaring the shit out of me.”
“He tried.” I leave it at that.
“Did he…touch you?” Jameson asks in a strangled voice.
“He tried,” I repeat, “but I kneed him in the balls.” “That piece of shit. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I knew you’d react this way, and the last thing I need is another member of my family charging you with assault.”
“That man isn’t your family.”
He doesn’t have to tell me that twice.
“Do you want to talk about what happened?”
I shake my head quickly. Maybe when I’ve had a chance to process the things Hans claimed happened between him and Becca, I’ll need to talk about it. For now, I’m more than happy to pretend that it’s all lies. I need to pretend, because missing my sister is hard enough without worrying about whether or not I knew her at all. My thoughts flash to Hans unbuckling his belt and I swallow against a bit of bile that rises in my throat.
I got away, but I almost hadn’t. The idea that he might have forced me to do that to him when I never have before only makes it worse.
Without thinking, I jump to my feet. Jameson drops back to his heels and stares at me.
“Stand up,” I order him.
“Duchess?” But he complies, and I kiss him hard on the lips resting my palms against the ridges of his abdomen. The contact gives me the courage I need to slide one of my hands lower, past the loose waistline of his jeans to the warm, rock-hard bulge that seems as eager for this as I am. But as soon as my fingers sweep over it he pulls back, circling my wrist with his hand.
“Duchess, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
My eyes narrow in annoyance. “I’ve already have one guy try to tell me what to do with my body tonight. How about you let me make my own decisions?”
It’s logic he can’t argue with, but before he tries, I drop down on one knee and then the other, sliding both my hands to the button of his jeans. I unfasten it, then I slide the zipper down until I can draw them off his narrow hips. I might be the one on my knees, but I feel powerful. My newfound courage surges through me, and I tug his boxer briefs down to his ankles.
It’s not the first time I’ve touched a dick, but it’s the most face time I’ve ever had with one. Until this moment, the whole process seemed pretty simple: take off pants, put in mouth, suck. Now that I’m getting a chance to study Jameson West’s most impressive asset—and that’s saying something—I wonder if I’m in over my head.
It’s different than I remember. Strained, veins bluish with trapped blood, and long—so long that I am wonderin
g how it will fit in my mouth.
And, for that matter, anywhere else.
“Duchess,” he whispers in a hoarse voice. “You don’t have to.” He rakes his hand through my hair gently, reminding me exactly why I want to do this. I wet my lips with my tongue then I lean forward and lick. In the back of my head something Josie told me once comes to mind and I giggle.
Treat it like an ice cream cone.
“You’re going to give me a complex,” he warns. “Is it funny?”
I bite my lower lip and peer up at him. “No,” I breathe. “It’s delicious.”
“Then feel free to have another taste,” he says with a smirk. I take him up on the offer, running my tongue up and down and swirling it over the broad tip until I’m brave enough to lower my mouth over him.
The hand on top of my hair fists as a low growl of pleasure rumbles from his chest. “That’s it, Duchess,” he encourages me. “Oh fuck, just like that.”
I bob my mouth up and down, my confidence boosted by the dirty words spilling from his mouth. “Your hand,” he grunts. “Use your hand.”
I grip it firmly, and he reaches down guiding my fingers along his length in unison with the rhythm of my mouth.
“Fuck, I’m going to come,” he warns me in a strained voice, but when he nudges my head to push me away I hollow my cheeks and suck harder until a strange heat floods the back of my throat. It takes a little effort to gulp it down, but I manage with a couple gags. Apparently, I won’t be going pro at blow jobs anytime soon.
He hauls me up by the elbow, his eyes half masked with pleasure and kisses me deeply. When we break apart he takes a deep breath. “Oh my God, that was ...”
“Not God,” I stop him, “Just Emma Southerly.”
Chapter Eight
It’s just past two in the morning when we land in Vegas. We’re far enough away from the neon signs of the Strip, that the only light is from the blanket of stars overhead. I spot Josie leaning against her beat-up junker. Judging from the shorts, tank top, and vacant expression, she’s still half asleep. Jameson raises an eyebrow when he spots her. “I could give you a ride home.”
I force a tight smile. “I’m not going home.”
Realization flashes in Jameson’s eyes. With everything else that has been going on, it’s easy to forget that home is not my happy place currently. “You could stay with me, and we wouldn’t get into trouble at all.”
I shake my head, and this time the grin on my face is real. The thought at staying at Jameson’s house turns me into a puddle of melted jelly, and that’s exactly why it’s a bad idea. The thought of waking up next to Jameson is tempting. But I doubt we’d ever go to bed, or at least to sleep.
“My parents are already really pissed at me,” I remind him, and given the events of tonight, I doubt that’s about to change.
“Screw your parents. You’ll be eighteen soon.”
“Yes, I will,” I confirm with a peck on his lips. “Call me crazy, but that’s a little young to be living with my boyfriend.”
“Okay, you’re crazy,” he teases, hooking his fingers in the loops of my jeans. “I think we’re old souls.”
“That might be true, but according to our driver’s licenses, I’m a minor and you’re already in enough trouble.”
“I’ve never seen either of those facts on my license.” He tilts his head in acknowledgement of that fact, but I can tell he’s still not buying what I’m selling. That’s okay, he doesn’t have to. I’m the only one who has to live with my decision. “You sure I can’t convince you otherwise?”
“I’ll visit,” I promise him. “You’re going to be sick of me, Jameson West.”
“I could never be sick of you.”
“Wanna bet?” Part of me hopes that’s true, but even with my questionable background in relationships, I don’t think that’s how it works.
“We won’t know until we try.”
“Spoken like a guy trying to get into my pants.” He leans forward, each of his breaths tickling my ear as he whispers, “I’ve already been there, Duchess. I just miss my happy place.”
“Are you saying my vagina is your happy place?” “Baby, it’s my personal Disney World.”
Josie coughs loudly behind us, and we startle apart. “Now that you two have ruined my childhood”—she pauses to yawn—“can we get going? Some of us need our beauty sleep.”
I throw my arms around her and squeeze. Some people go home. But for me, some people are home. But before I can join her in the car, Jameson catches me around the waist. “Are you sure I can’t convince you otherwise?”
“Well, no,” I say a bit too forcefully. He drops his hold on me. “I mean, no. It’s not a good idea.”
He glances from me to Josie, then he kisses my cheek. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Duchess.”
“When?” I asked, as he starts to back away. It’s a little sad that I want to plan my entire day around him. Sometimes a girl has to give in to her cravings. He shrugs, looking like a definition of the word cocky, as he stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets. “Depends on when I get up and around. I have a hard time getting up out of bed.”
“Do you?” I ask.
“Sure you don’t want to come over and see what I mean?” he offers.
I roll my eyes. Then I turn and loop my arm with my best friend’s. “Why are you passing up that invitation?” she hisses under her breath.
“Trust me, the invitation is open.”
I may have woken Josie up, but her mom is just getting off her shift at the MGM Grand. She throws open the door to the tiny matchbox the Deckards call home as soon as we reach the front stoop. Her face is freshly washed, her dark skin glistening with moisturizer, and her hair is pulled into a tight knot at the top of her head. She’s also doing her best impression of a pissed-off lioness.
“What the hell do you …” she stops as soon as she sees me. “Oh my God, darling.”
Marion throws her arms around my shoulders and gives me into the perfect hug. When you see moms and daughters in movies and on TV, this is what it looks like. At least that’s the closest approximation to maternal affection I’ve ever known. Vivian Von Essen isn’t known for warm hugs.
“I didn’t know you were back.”
“I just got in,” I told her. “Josie gave me a ride.”
“Emma’s just going to crash with us, if that’s okay.”
“Your daddy knows?” Marion asks. But even as she begins her interrogation, she hauls me inside. A few minutes later, and she’s got omelettes cooking on the stovetop. “Okay, now that I don’t have a knife in hand, spill. Why are you staying at our house?”
“If it’s not okay,” I begin, but she holds up a hand, showcasing long, teal nails that undoubtedly match her costume for the latest show she’s dancing in.
“You’re always welcome in this house. But I saw how you hesitated when I asked about your daddy.”
“We had a fight before the accident,” I admit to her, “and things got ugly. Then Mom wanted me in Palm Springs… ”
As much as I love Marion Deckard, I don’t want to go in to more details about the shit sandwich life’s been feeding me of late.
“He’s probably worried about you.”
“Yeah, well…” I press my fingertips into the tines of the fork she sat out on the bar. “Trust me, he doesn’t expect me to come home.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.
I shake my head. I’m just about all talked out. The talking never seems to cease. First everyone wanted me to talk about my parents’ divorce. How was I feeling? Who did I want to live with? Then mom got remarried and I had to talk about her new husband. Was I excited? Did I like him? Where did I want to live again? At the time, I didn’t have anything to say about him. That’s certainly changed. But nothing was worse than when they started pleading with me to talk about Becca. Share what happened that night. Share your favorite memories of her. Share how you’re feeling. No one wants to know when all yo
u feel is numb.
At least when the police came around and started asking me to talk about Nathaniel West’s murder they wanted facts, not emotions. They didn’t need to know if I was sad or happy or scared. They just wanted a play by play. After tonight and the accident last month, there are going to be a lot more things for people to ask me about. I need to gather strength for the oncoming inquisition.
Marion shoves the carton of eggs into the overly crowded refrigerator and closes the door. Leaning against it, she stares me down. “Do you feel safe there?” One bad choice couldn’t change a lifetime of feeling at home, right? But when I open my mouth, all that comes out is a small “no.”
“You stay here as long as you need.” She doesn’t press me for further information. There’s no threatening to call the police. No after-school special drill about talking with adults you trust. She’s known too many men in this town not to read between the lines.
Josie reappears from the bathroom and takes the barstool next to mine. “That smells good.” She peeks past her mother to the omelette pan.
“You better make one yourself if you want one.”
“Oh, I see, Emma gets spoiled,” she teases as she heads to the fridge. Pretty soon she’s standing next to her mom, tending her own pan. Marion begins to hum, and Josie jumps in, singing the lyrics of what sounds suspiciously like a Taylor Swift song.
Marion whirls around and drops the omelette on my plate with the skilled ease of someone who lives primarily on eggs. I’ve never said no to her signature dish. Then again, I’ve never been offered anything else.
Turning around, she bumps her hip against her daughter’s, and the two continue their duet while I take small bites. Between the buttery smell permeating the kitchen and the easy atmosphere, my appetite returns.
I try to help with dishes, but she shoos me away. Josie excuses herself to bed, but I linger in the small living room, staring at an old photo of me with Josie and Becca. Marion had taken it at some little carnival that had popped up in a grocery store parking lot. We had just come off the spinning cups, and we were still giggling and falling all over each other out of dizziness. One simple snap of the lens and she’d managed to capture pure happiness.
