by Gina Azzi
Fuck.
Except I can still taste her skin on my lips, can still smell her perfume wrapped around the discarded basketball shorts I pull off the floor. No, I didn't imagine last night. It was real. Every single moment of it burned into my mind forever, like some type of sweet torture.
Sierra has disappeared, and my house is too damn quiet for the thoughts ping-ponging around my brain. What the hell was I thinking? Losing myself in Sierra, God, it was perfect. But taking her on the freaking couch in the family room? That was something I would have done at seventeen, not thirty. It was stupid, reckless, a moment of desperation that blocked out my ability to think clearly. I never take girls to my home, ever. But I’ve never tried so hard to stay away from anyone like I have Sierra. Last night, all of my restraint snapped, my mind clicked off, and I allowed myself to be consumed by her vibrancy, her sweet uncertainty, her passionate surrender to the moment. How can one woman be everything at once?
I sigh, sitting up and hunching forward on the couch. Scraping my hands across my face, I rub my eyes and stand, making my way into the kitchen. Pouring a large glass of water, I down it in three gulps before flipping the switch for the coffee maker. I decide that eggs Benedict will keep me busy—my hands at least—until everyone finds their way to the kitchen for breakfast.
But the entire time I'm whisking the hollandaise sauce, I'm thinking of her. The melting chocolate of her eyes as they flashed in anticipation, the fullness of her mouth as she captured my bottom lip, sucking softly, and the wicked curves of her body as she moved, almost danced, under my touch.
"You're up early," Daisy quips as she pushes into the kitchen, the door swinging behind her as she beelines for the refrigerator.
I jump at my sister's intrusion to my thoughts and look away, suddenly ashamed for my actions last night. Actions that brought me so much pleasure, but are going to undoubtedly cause pain. Embarrassment, an emotion I’m not used to feeling, skitters along my nerves as I realize that just ten minutes earlier, Daisy would have caught me in my birthday suit on the couch and I may as well have broadcasted the fact that Sierra and I hooked up.
Jesus.
"You okay?" Daisy asks me over her glass of orange juice. "Oh, thank God, coffee." She nods toward the full coffee pot and pours three mugs, placing one next to me on the counter as she rummages in the fridge for cream.
"Yeah. You're not too hungover, are you?"
She shakes her head, leaning against the closed refrigerator door and crosses her feet at the ankles, regarding me.
"Nope. But I was definitely drunker than I thought. Those fruity drinks go straight to my head."
"Yeah, can’t taste the alcohol. Glad you’re not wrecked today, and that you can hold your liquor."
"Uh-huh."
I turn back to whisking, adding the melted butter slowly to the bowl.
"So, strange thing happened last night," Daisy pauses, and I can feel her gaze pinning me right between my shoulder blades.
Even though I don't turn around, my shoulders tense at the words, and I hear her sigh behind me.
"What's that?" I ask anyway.
"I woke up in the middle of the night to pee and Sierra was gone."
I don't say anything, but my hand turns the whisk faster, beating the egg yolks harder.
"She's my best friend, Denver. And you're my brother." Daisy voice dips, an edge of anger I'm not used to having directed at me infused in her tone. "We all know who's gonna end up hurt if last night's sexcapade turns into a thing before crashing and burning. If you ruin my friendship, I'll never forgive you."
I nod, letting her know I hear her. The clink of a spoon hitting the inside of the sink dings out behind me.
"I'm going to bring Sierra a coffee," she says before retreating from the kitchen.
I grab the steaming mug of coffee and take a large gulp, glad for the burn along the roof of my mouth. Jesus. It's already starting.
I'm literally pacing along the back porch as I try to sort out everything I want to say to Sierra before she leaves. Because suddenly, and out of nowhere, she's heading out early, and I know it has something to do with the mind-blowing sex we had on the couch last night.
Jax and Evie are moving to San Antonio tomorrow morning, and right now I can't think about anything except clearing the charged air between Sierra and me.
"Whoa, don't give yourself an aneurysm." Her honeyed voice breaks through my thoughts and I turn, my steps faltering at the sight of her.
Tall and graceful, bright, amused eyes, and a cocky grin slashing her mouth, Sierra is all playful confidence this morning. As if everything is cool between us. As if she isn't getting the hell out of dodge to put some space between her and the obvious mistake she made last night when she decided to go slumming with me.
"What?"
"Thinking that hard." She laughs easily, tapping the side of her head. "I just wanted to come say 'bye. And thanks for breakfast. I was hoping for a Denver omelette but the eggs benedict was really good."
I nod, not even registering her joke as I search her expression for signs of...what? "Why're you leaving early?" I ask, my heart thumping in my chest.
She sighs, and there it is, a flash of uncertainty, a falter in the bravado act she’s trying on. I reach out, my fingers circling her wrist as she looks up at me, her confidence from earlier slipping into uneasiness.
"Truth?" She asks, clearing her throat.
I nod.
"My brother and cousin are unexpectedly flying in to meet me in New York."
"Why?"
"Because they're trying to convince me to take a job at James's business."
"James?" I cringe at the hard edge in my tone. Who the hell is James?
"My stepdad."
Stupid. "Oh."
"Yeah, so, I've gotta leave early. But listen, last night," Sierra pauses and I lean closer, as if straining for her words, "it was freaking incredible." She smiles shyly, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
I chuckle, relief flooding through me at her words. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Thanks Den. For…everything. We’re cool, right?”
I nod again, apparently incapable of speaking. What else is new? I drop her wrist, my fingers reaching up to brush against her cheekbone as she blushes a delicate pink.
Reaching up on her toes, Sierra brushes a quick kiss against my cheek before turning, waving to me over her shoulder before disappearing inside.
What the hell is with this girl? Everything about her gets under my skin. She’s fun and playful, flirty and easygoing. She’s sweet and shy, vulnerable and unsure. She's colorful and passionate and so goddamn naive and trusting and understanding that she infuriates me almost more than I want her.
And did she just give me the talk? The easy, brush off after sex? The "we're cool" so things are all good? The two words I yearn to hear from every woman after sex. Every woman except her.
My chest feels hollow as I stare at the closed back door. Clenching my hands into fists, I shake my head at myself.
Where has my manhood gone?
The house seems to relax the moment Sierra leaves, but I know it's just me who feels that way. To be honest, even though I'm relieved she's gone, her presence wreaking havoc on my thoughts and causing all of these unexpected emotions to overwhelm me, a part of me is disappointed. I was hoping we'd hookup again tonight or at least get to spend more time together than her giving me the brush off talk on her way out the door.
That was definitely a first.
And not a first I ever anticipated having with Sierra.
I lose myself in a couple of side jobs I picked up for the weekend while Daisy pouts in her room over her friend's sudden departure, shooting me death glares whenever our paths cross. Carter is wrapped up in Taylor, literally, and Jax and Evie are saying goodbye to a few friends before their departure tomorrow morning.
Things are definitely changing for the Kane kids, with a lot of uncertainty and new beginnings on the horizon—at least for
everyone except me.
I crank the socket wrench another quarter of an inch, sweat beading on my forehead as I peer under the hood of an old Chevrolet. It's hot as balls outside, and still I prefer the quiet solitude of the garage to the emptiness of my house.
It seems like everyone is moving forward except me.
And all I have to hang on to are memories of a beautiful woman who knows better than to really tangle up with me. A woman who haunts my waking hours and lingers in my dreams but will never be part of my reality.
6
Sierra
"Absolutely not," I shoot down Lachlan and Finlay before the words are even out of their mouths.
"Come on, Sierra." Lach blows out an exasperated breath, leaning forward onto the table, his elbows seeming to support his entire body weight. "You're wasting your time. And for what? Parties and painting?"
I glare at him, narrowing my eyes. "Don't belittle my passion just because you don't have one."
He sighs again and looks to my cousin, Finn, for direction.
"What Lach's trying to say is—"
"That I should jump on the family bandwagon and accept a job I have no desire in doing because it's the easy way out, and I'll make a decent salary."
"Well, yes." Finn smiles, an easy grin that stretches across his face and lightens the mood. "And the salary is better than decent."
"You guys." I groan, signaling to the waitress that I need another cucumber martini. "I like my life here. I like my painting." I stick my tongue out at my brother, but Lachlan just rolls his eyes in return.
"You're twenty-three-years-old, Sisi. You have to grow up sometime." Lachlan uses his stern voice, and I flip him the middle finger.
Only two years older than me, Lachlan acts like my dad half the time, which makes sense since he stepped into the role easily enough when Mom and Dad split. Still, it pisses me off because I still have a father. Whether he's in the picture or not is another story.
"James isn't going to bankroll your lifestyle forever." My brother tries again.
I thank the waitress for my martini and take a big gulp before turning back to my brother and cousin. "That's fine. I can support myself."
Lachlan laughs, running a hand down his face. "On what money? What are you going to do? Find a roommate in a walkup in Brooklyn and waitress?"
"If I have to." I shrug, irritated that Lachlan thinks having a roommate and waitressing are so far beneath him. And that I wouldn't be able to do it. Does he forget where we came from? Did he tune out the years that Mom worked two jobs and struggled to make mortgage payments?
"Sisi," Finn says, his Scottish brogue comforting as he reaches out and gently wraps his fingers around my wrist, "we all just want what's best for you. That's all. James is offering you an opportunity to join the family business, gain a lot of experience, build your resume, and earn a shit-ton of money. Marketing and PR is necessary in the art world, too."
I nod, letting him know I hear his message loud and clear. Gain experience, find your footing, learn, and grow. That's what James pitched to my brothers and cousins before they joined the family company, and then they never left. Why? Because the salaries are too good and the lifestyles too glamorous.
I just want to paint. I'm not cut out for corporate bullshit and dress codes or learning about email etiquette and the hierarchy of office dynamics. I'm a free spirit. Like my dad.
"Don't worry too much. I'm sure James will bankroll your life for a bit longer yet," Finn adds to take the sting out of the conversation.
Lachlan heaves a massive sigh, and I take another gulp of my martini.
"Is that why you guys flew here at the last minute?"
Lach and Finn exchange a look before turning back to me. "The position needs to be filled. You've got three more months to decide if you want it before James moves someone up internally."
"Seems fair."
Lach pulls at the collar of his shirt, as if it's suddenly suffocating him and Finn snorts. "It is what it is."
"Enough talk about the family business." I change the subject as our waitress moves closer to our table on the outdoor patio. "Let's order, and then figure out what we want to do tonight."
The club is pulsing: bodies gyrating, lights flashing, music pounding. Shots are being tossed back, cocaine cut, disregard and disobedience easily strumming through the partygoers’ veins.
I watch my cousin and brother make their way to the bar while I sit in a VIP booth, suddenly feeling out of place. I've been doing the City party scene all summer and while it was fun at the time, it feels different tonight. Instead of losing myself to the music, my thoughts are caught on Denver. What was I thinking, giving him the brush off? I didn’t mean it. I mean, I did mean that things are cool between us, because they are, but I didn’t mean it to sound so blasé when I said it.
I was so nervous to face him the following day. What if he gave me the brush off? What if he acted like nothing even happened between us? So many what-if’s and given our strained history, I was desperate to settle things between us on my own terms. Still, I watched the way his eyes narrowed when I tried to act flippant, the small muscle under his left eye twitching subtly.
But then he reached out and touched me and my pretense slipped. I knew the moment he saw through me because his shoulders relaxed and the severe line of his mouth softened. But what does that mean?
Did he want to acknowledge that there is something between us? Did I blow any chance of that something developing by trying to shut it down before it could even begin? Sighing, I rest my head back against the plush padding of the booth and take another sip of my whiskey.
"Hey gorgeous." A guy smirks at me, his green eyes blazing, his light hair perfectly styled in a casual, I-don't-give-a-fuck kind of way.
Three nights ago, I would have found him delicious. Hell, three nights ago I would have gone home with him.
But not now. Not when all I can think of are a pair of eyes dark like midnight, the scrape of scruff against my skin, and my fingers clutching tightly to thick forearms stained with ink. The presence of Denver Kane shadows me, and I can't shake him.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
I give a light smile and flip my chin at the guy in greeting before turning back to my drink and pulling out my cell phone.
Tapping out a quick text to my dad, I ask him if he wants to chat tomorrow about the paintings he’s working on. It's a long shot; he rarely, if ever, responds to my messages. But that doesn't mean I've stopped trying. At least, not yet.
Lach and Finn are gone as quickly as they came. Their trips are always like this, speedy turnarounds and twenty-four hours of fun. Then back to the grind, to work, to clocking hours, and gazing out at the world from corner offices.
I miss them the moment they’re gone. Sitting alone in my bedroom at James’s penthouse, I blow out a deep breath and realize that I’m alone. Three days ago, I was hanging out with my best friend. Two nights ago, I was with Denver Kane.
Was that only two nights ago? I touch my lips at the memory, remembering his kiss. Flopping back against my mattress, I close my eyes and let the moments between Denver and me flood my mind. It was perfect. It was more than I imagined and hoped for, more than I ever thought possible. I wish we had more time together, or that there was some type of chance of a relationship developing between us. But now I’m just being greedy.
Denver Kane doesn’t date women like me. I don’t know who the hell he dates but I do know, via Daisy, that his only serious relationships were with quiet, homegrown girls. Girls who knew how to knit and bake. Girls who were tamer, sweeter.
Still, that was before he went to jail. Maybe things are different now? The truth is, I don’t know much about Denver’s past. But I do know that when he turns his gaze on me, he sees the part of me I try to keep hidden. The unsure, uneasy portion that’s so worried I’m going to sell-out and get sucked into the monotonous routine of life. The part of me that would forsake my art for stability.
The piece of me I like the least. He sees it, or senses it, and still, there’s no judgement in his eyes.
I bang my head against my mattress, trying to clear my thoughts of Denver. He was a one-time thing, a one-night encounter. It’s done. I need to move on. Figure out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. I have three months to sort out my future.
That thought is so depressing, I dismiss it immediately. Today, I will lose myself in my art.
Ignoring that stab in my chest from my dad's unanswered text message, I leave my bedroom and step into the room that James converted into a studio for me years ago. Opening the Sonos app on my phone, the tension in my neck dissipates as soon as Lana del Rey's voice fills the space. I take out my paints and brushes, running my fingertips over them lovingly as I sit in front of a blank canvas. I ignore my racing mind and overwhelming thoughts in favor of my passion—my painting.
Hours later I step back, pausing the music as I study my work. The strokes of the blues and purples are strong and bold, vividly jumping from the canvas. The greys and greens are subtler, fading into the shadows. The woman's face materializes slowly and gains definition the longer I stare. A strong nose, graceful neck, and eyes that see everything, my grandmother stares back at me. A simple beaded necklace with a feather dangles from her neck, her wrists adorned with leather cuffs. Her hands are cupped before her, reaching out, as though gifting an offering, bequeathing me something.
I bite my lower lip, narrowing my gaze as I study her expression, but the shrill beep of my cell phone receiving a text breaks the spell of the moment. I startle, glancing down at the screen of my phone.
Denver.
He messaged me!
Denver: Hey. All work out okay with your family's surprise visit?
I smile, still gnawing on my lip at his thoughtfulness. That he even reached out to me at all. Does this mean he’s thinking about me as much as I’m thinking of him? Probably not.
