by Staci Hart
“Levi,” he said with an easy charm, extending a hand.
Dex took it, giving it a hard pump.
And silence fell over us.
“Well,” I started, “we were actually just wandering off. Can you believe how many people are in line? The thrill of danger or something, am I right?” Oh my God, get out of here now. Smiling, I waved at Elsie. “Nice to meet you, Elsie. You guys have fun.”
With a set of goodbyes, we split up.
“Where to?” Levi asked, still calm and smiling at me.
I watched him for a second. “You know that was my ex, right?”
He shrugged. “Sure. Everybody knows about you and Dex.”
The tightness in my chest eased on an exhale. “Just making sure. God, that was awkward. I’ve been dreading it for weeks.”
“You haven’t seen him? He hasn’t been to the parties? I thought he was one of the regulars.”
“He is. I think it was just a sort of … silent agreement. I got the Bright Young Things in the divorce,” I joked.
Levi pulled us over to where a hoop dancer in red and gold stripes was caught in a tornado of hula hoops. A gentle tug, and I was flush against his chest, staring up at his lips. “For what it’s worth, I always thought he was a douchebag.”
“Wish you’d clued me in.”
His hand rose to thumb my jaw, then clasp my chin, tilting it up. “Why’d you stay with him?”
“It was easy. Convenient. And he can be sweet. We were friends.” I loved him. “I don’t know.”
A chuckle and a smile. “Well, I can’t say I’m sad he’s yesterday’s news.”
“Neither am I.”
He laid a kiss on me, tender and brief, and even that brush of lips struck a match at my feet, the flames licking their way up my body.
When we parted, he was smiling. “Now what?”
“Let’s get our future told by the charlatan in that purple tent.”
Levi laughed, and I found I loved the sound. “You believe in fate and psychics?”
“As much as I believe in anything.”
I pulled his hand as if I had a chance at moving a man of that size by force. But laughing, he let me drag him to the tent, pulling back the heavy curtain to enter.
The space was empty of people and bigger than it looked from the outside, the floor covered in carpets, and in the center of the room was a round table, a deck of tarot cards, and a crystal ball. A jingling of metal accompanied the fortune teller as she came out from the back, pushing the end of a fry into her mouth and dusting the salt off her hands.
“How is this empty but everyone’s waiting in line to have knives thrown at them?” Levi whispered in my ear, and I stifled a laugh.
“Because people love danger more than the truth,” she said, her accent more Jersey than Romany. “Please, sit.”
We did as we’d been told. She eyed us, her lids lined in kohl. I couldn’t peg her age—she wasn’t quite old and she wasn’t quite young, but her smoky, dark eyes knew a thing or two about the world.
“I would ask what you want me to read, but I know what you need. Give me your hands.” She laid her hands on the table, palms up.
“No crystal ball?” I asked, disappointed.
“Feh, that thing’s bullshit. It’s for the suckers, not the skeptics.” She gave Levi a knowing look before wiggling her fingers. “Come.”
Levi and I exchanged glances before laying our hands in hers.
“Mmm,” she hummed noncommittally, using her thumb to spread first my hand open and press the lines, then his. “This is new, hmm? It’s strong but new.”
We didn’t answer. I held my breath.
“Dark and light, skeptic and mystic. One heavy, one light. One sees only good, the other what’s bad. There’s a place in the middle, where the sky kisses the sea. That’s where you’ll find it, but secrets will stop you. Trust is the only way. And if you don’t …” She shrugged. But when she looked back at our hands, she frowned. “There is something else, another—”
The music went silent, replaced by a voice on a bullhorn announcing the NYPD’s presence, telling everyone to stay where they were. By the sound of it, no one was listening.
“Oh fuck,” she said, snagging her crystal ball as she stood, knocking back her chair. “Better run for it, you two.”
We were already running for the tent flap that dumped us into chaos. My heart was a ticking bomb in my chest as I watched everyone panic, running in circles. The only ones who were calm were the carnies, and they seemed to just fade into the shadows and disappear.
“Come on,” I said, grabbing Levi’s hand. “I know a back way out.”
“How do you know—”
“Shut up and come on!”
And thank God he did.
8
Some View
LEVI
I followed Stella around the back of the fortune teller’s tent, casting furtive glances over my shoulder with the expectation of finding a cop with a nightstick. But they were occupied at the mouth of the tent with the cluster of youths scrabbling to get out.
Stella’s hand ran along the wall of the tent, and when it disappeared into a fold, she let out a whoop of excitement. “Come on, this way.”
She started to lift it, and I took the heavy flap from her, opening it enough that we could escape into the nearly pitch-black warehouse. Her heels clicked, her hand damp in mine as she moved with some certainty toward a back corner. Behind us, the tent was lit up, all red and gold and filled with pandemonium.
Stella slowed, feeling along the wall. “There has to be a door around here somewhere,” she muttered.
I glanced around, looking for a sliver of light. “There,” I said, pointing toward the corner.
We picked up our pace, panting as we reached the door.
Stella paused, hand on the handle. “Hope it’s not an emergency exit.”
“And if it is, get ready to run.”
A curt nod, and she pushed, opening it just enough to peer out. I leaned over her to get a look of my own.
“We’re good,” I whispered as if someone could hear us. “Go.”
Out the door we spilled, and she turned for the closest opening to the alley. But I spun in the other direction, pulling her with me.
“I’ve got a ride out of here, this way,” I said.
And with the flash of a smile, she followed, and we ran for it.
There wasn’t a person in sight as we rushed down the alley, the commotion at the front of the building echoing in the streets, the alley, everywhere it seemed. When we hit the other street entrance, we stopped, chests heaving from exertion. I kept her behind me, sticking my head out to scan for the cops.
“All right,” I said, “let’s go.”
Without running, we hurried away from the warehouse, trying to look inconspicuous, which wasn’t easy, given that Stella was in a bustle and top hat.
And we were just about to turn the corner where freedom waited in the form of an Indian Scout—salvation on two wheels and a hundred horses of power—when we heard an authoritative voice from well behind us shout, “NYPD! Stop where you are!”
“Fuck!” I hissed, and we took off in a full sprint around the corner.
I expected Stella to look afraid, to be worried or anxious—or worse, to stop running. But instead, she laughed, her face alight with the thrill.
It was unbearably hot.
We skidded to a stop at my bike, and she hopped on the back, her eyes wide but lips smiling, thighs spread—a detail I tried to ignore so I could effectively unlock my helmet and hand it to her. I didn’t wait to see what she did with it before throwing my leg over the seat and starting the bike with a rumble that drowned out the footfalls and voices coming from behind us.
“Hang on,” I shouted over my shoulder, and when her arms clamped around my middle, I took off with a thunder and a screech. The back wheel kicked sideways, my foot keeping us from toppling over while the rubber sought purchase.
/> The second it did, we were off like a shot.
I glanced back just in time to see a couple of cops round the corner—one of them on his radio, the other with his hands on his knees—the sight interrupted by my bowler hat flying off in a spectacular spin before landing in the street behind us.
Eyes forward, I leaned in, gunning it.
Through the streets I wound, knowing no one could catch us and hoping we were far enough away for the five to have missed my plates.
We were blocks away and finally obeying the speed limit when one of her arms let go so she could flip up the visor of her helmet.
“Franklin and Hudson,” she shouted over the engine.
I nodded and took a left.
Stella fitted herself against my back, her arms tightening around my waist, bringing every curve flush against me. There was no way to speak, giving us time to think. To anticipate. The hum of energy in every little movement—the shift of her fingertips, the flex and release of her thighs as I threaded in and out of traffic. My hand wanted nothing more than to stay on her bare thigh, where it could note the softness of her skin and the long stretch of leg leading to an ass that vibrated on the leather behind me. Every moment that hand had a job to do on the handlebars was a moment mourned as I sped toward her place, eating up the minutes until I could get my lips on her again.
But first, I had to talk to her. See where she was, what she wanted. Tell her I was leaving.
Prepare myself to drop her off and go home alone.
Niggling dread snaked through my belly.
The lie I thought I could tell without upsetting my conscience felt bigger, sharper than it had even a few hours ago. Because I really liked her. I liked her enough that I wondered if I should go upstairs with her if she offered. And I had a good feeling she was going to offer.
But there had been a moment when I tipped up her chin and looked into her eyes that a thought struck me like lightning.
Stella Spencer wasn’t the girl you casually fucked. She was the girl you held on to, basked in her shine as long as you could.
And if I lied to her, that wouldn’t be very long.
I knew what I should do, which was deposit her on her front step and ride away before I got myself in too deep. If I stayed, I’d be making a choice I couldn’t back out of. And if I fucked this up, I’d put my career and Billy’s livelihood on the line.
My heart sank, sucking the joy out of me as it went. I couldn’t do this with her, not now, not until the article was done and she knew the truth. Didn’t matter how badly either of us wanted to. We’d both regret it, even if she didn’t know it yet.
Fucking ethics. Being a literary journalist lent flexibility I wouldn’t have at a newspaper—our pieces were more subjective, their foundation in truth rather than fact, our code of ethics vague and malleable. And though I covered music like most of my colleagues, my heart and soul were in bigger issues. The pieces that meant the most to me served as a voice for those who couldn’t speak for themselves. Teen prostitution. Opium dens. Corner boys dealing drugs, poverty-ridden families, homeless kids. I wanted people to see beauty in the pain, to understand the world and themselves better after reading my work.
Not that covering the Bright Young Things was particularly deep or groundbreaking. But with this piece, I’d be set, my career goal achieved in the form of war coverage and a hefty paycheck to put into caring for the man who had raised me.
Which meant I couldn’t have the story and the girl.
When we approached the intersection she’d directed me to, she pointed to a loft building. I pulled up to the curb, parked between two cars, and cut the engine, the instant quiet almost painful. Stella pulled off the helmet, laughing, her thighs still clinging to mine.
“God, that was good,” she said breathlessly.
“Ever ride one before?”
“A couple of times.”
“Like it?”
“Take a guess,” she said with a wild smile.
With a laugh, I popped the kickstand and got off the bike first.
For a split second, she looked uncertain of how to dismount, but before she could figure it out, I grabbed her around the waist with one arm and picked her up.
God, how I didn’t want to let her go.
Just one more kiss.
With a giggle and a squeal, she threw her arms around my neck. And with a twist of my body and well-placed shift of her weight, she was straddling my waist with her legs locked around me, her ass in my hands and her lips against mine. Soft and sweet, hot and determined, opened wide to grant me access I took. For a moment, at least. I lowered her to the ground when her legs went slack, letting go of her mouth last.
She took my hand and pulled, but I didn’t move. Keeping ahold of her hand, I leaned on my bike, facing her.
Her face quirked. “You’re not coming up?”
I sighed. “I want to—trust me, I do.”
She stepped into the V of my legs, hanging her arms on my shoulders. “What’s stopping you?”
I’m a liar. “I’m leaving for Syria soon. A work thing.”
Her face remained carefully still. “What do you do?”
“I’m a photographer,” I answered smoothly. Lie number one. “I’ve got a gig in foreign correspondence coming up.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Not sure yet. A few months at least.”
A smile played on her lips. “Why is it so hot imagining you in combats and khaki with a bandana around your neck like a bank robber?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ll send pictures.”
“Ooh,” she cooed wickedly. “I accept. Sadly, I’ve been short on low-key porn since Tumblr shut down.”
Another laugh, this one smaller, fading when I said, “But … I can’t get into anything. I can’t start something.”
She smiled, the expression the picture of levity. “You really are a gentleman, aren’t you?”
“I try.”
“We’re good,” she assured me, answering the unspoken question. Her hands slid down my chest and to my shirt buttons. “In fact, I think you’re exactly what I need. Especially if you take me on another motorcycle ride.” The first button came loose.
I caught her hand in mine, stopping her. “You’re not making this easy.”
“Good,” she answered with a smile. “I’m not asking for anything. No strings, no commitment. I’m not looking to fall in love. What I want is to enjoy your company until you leave. I’ve never met anyone quite like you, and I don’t know if I could live with myself if I just let you ride off into the sunset.”
“Stella, I don’t think you understand—”
Her lips shut me up and held me captive, and for a long, hot moment, she did her best to convince me to abandon what I knew was right. I considered telling her who I was right then just so she could either forgive me or tell me to fuck off. But I couldn’t.
You can’t have the story and the girl.
She wound herself around me, and I held her as close as I could, already negotiating a way around my hurdle. She wanted something casual after all, told me this was what she needed. I wondered if I could really let her ride off into the sunset and knew with some certainty that I couldn’t.
When she broke away, it was with a smile. “Did I convince you?”
“You drive a hard bargain, Spencer.”
“We all have ways to get what we want, don’t we?”
I laughed as she backed away and stepped up onto the curb, but a wave of uncertainty rose and fell in me. And I let it go, dog-earing the problem for later.
Because right now was occupied by her.
“You lost your hat,” I noted as I locked up my bike.
“So did you.”
She grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the door, then into the lobby where a security guard sat behind a desk. He nodded at us as we approached.
“Hiya, Frank. Have a good night?”
“It’s been quiet. Best I can
hope for, Ms. Spencer.”
Stella laughed. “You’re the only guy in Manhattan who wants a quiet Saturday night.”
He shrugged. “How else will I finish my crossword?”
“Good point. Here’s to hoping it keeps up,” she said with a smile.
“And here’s to hoping yours is noisy.” Frank caught my eye, and his smile faded into a look of mild suspicion.
I raised a couple fingers at him in passing, which didn’t seem to help my case. Oddly, it made me feel better that Frank was around to look out for her. I had a feeling he had a Taser and wasn’t afraid to use it.
An elevator waited in the lobby, and the second the doors closed, she was in my arms again, my body pinning her to the wall in a flurry of hands and noisy breaths. Twelve stories passed too quickly, and when the ding of the elevator parted us again, she gave me a look that would have made a weaker man tremble, sucking her swollen bottom lip into her mouth as if to taste what was left of me there.
She led me out of the elevator and to her front door, her dress whipping behind her and into my legs. Once she punched a code into the keypad next to the door, she dragged me inside.
My feet slowed, but she kept going, our hands outstretched and trailing apart as I took in her place. Two of my apartments could fit in the stretch of space that constituted her living room and kitchen. Polished concrete floors, exposed brick and ductwork and piping painted a pristine white. The loft was on a corner, and two walls of floor-to-ceiling windows joined at the point. Brand new kitchen, all black and white and shiny. Understated, comfortable-looking furniture I was sure cost more than I made in a year. I wandered toward the windows as Stella took off her ringmaster’s coat, then her shoes, hanging on to the island counter to steady herself.
The view was incredible—crisscrossing streets spread out before me, every block packed with buildings. Downtown rose in the distance like a mountain made of industry, and though I couldn’t see it, I knew the East River lay just beyond. I wondered what it looked like at sunrise.
I hoped I’d find out.
Her arms slipped around my waist, bringing me back to her. I raised one arm and shifted to pull her into my side.
