The Flawed Heart Series

by Wade, Ellie

  “Nothing about dating you is easy for me, London. It’s all out of my comfort zone, but I’d face more than a few internal demons to be with you.” His hand rises, tucking a lock of my hair behind my ear, before the tips of his fingers slide down the skin of my cheek, causing a torrent of goose bumps to pebble my arms.

  My lips find his again as an innate desire to be joined with him takes over. Warmth invades my body as his tongue moves in time with mine, creating an intimate dance made solely for the two of us. Without breaking our connection, I leave my chair and push Loïc back into his, pressing the palms of my hands against his firm chest. I place one of my legs on either side of his thighs and straddle him.

  His fingers grasp at my back, kneading my skin, as he takes the kiss deeper. An involuntary groan leaves my mouth, followed by one from Loïc. His desire surges for me, hard beneath his pants, as I grind against him. He threads his fingers through my hair, pulling me even closer to the point where I don’t know where I end and he begins. We’re a heated mess of tongues, lips, and skin, frantically kissing to the melody of our moans of desire. It’s the sweetest song I know. Nothing is more enrapturing than the heady hum of Loïc and me on the verge of a frenzy.

  A throat clears, and I pull my mouth from Loïc’s as his body stiffens beneath mine.

  Georgia stands behind Loïc, wearing the most amused smile. “Hey,” she half-whispers, “sorry to break up this hotness”—she moves her hand in a circular motion toward Loïc and me—“but Mom’s ready to leave, and I’m guessing, you really don’t want her to see this.”

  “I’m coming,” I say breathlessly.

  “I’m not surprised,” Georgia replies with a smirk.

  “Oh my God.” I bury my head against Loïc’s shoulder. “Just go.”

  “All right, but hurry up.”

  “That’s lovely,” I say against Loïc’s chest.

  “Better your sister than your dad.”

  “Uh, definitely.” I chuckle dryly. “God, I wish we were alone right now.”

  “Me, too. Don’t worry. I’ll make it all better tonight.” Loïc’s voice is tight and gravelly and oh-so sexy.

  “Yeah, right. There’s going to be zero privacy this weekend.”

  “Oh, we’ll find some,” he says reassuringly.

  “I’m holding you to that.”

  Loïc

  “I need London—mind, body, and soul. Forever.”

  —Loïc Berkeley

  I step out of the limo onto a velvety red carpet that extends from the curb and up to the walkway, ending at the large front doors of the art museum. The shiny black Gucci shoes adorning my feet feel so foreign. Hell, this entire night is straight out of the what-the-fuck-am-I-doing playbook. These shoes probably cost more than I make in a week. And this tux? I can’t even think about it—or the fact that Mr. Wright insisted I keep the entire ensemble. What the hell am I supposed to do with a tux after tonight?

  I don’t like it, any of it—the limo, the attire, the freaking red carpet. I mean, come on, how does all of this extravagance help people with ALS?

  Turning, I extend my arm toward the vehicle behind me. London places her soft, small hand in my grasp. I meet her brilliant brown eyes before my gaze drops to her foot that just stepped out and the strappy black heel wrapped around it. My stare admires every inch of her as it roams up her killer leg that so perfectly stretches out between the revealing slit in her long red dress. I pull gently, helping her exit gracefully, and I pause a moment to take her in.

  The lengthy dress clings to her body, accentuating all of her beautiful curves. Her hair is in loose curls that fall over the exposed skin of her back and shoulders. She’s simply breathtaking, the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen in my life.

  I take a mental picture of London for when I’m overseas, one that I can pull up anytime I need to remember her. I want to cement this vision into my mind. But, more than that, I want to be able to recall the way being here with her makes me feel—fucking fantastic, whole, and just happy.

  All right, so maybe this evening isn’t a total bust. I would do just about anything to be with this gorgeous woman beside me.

  London loops her arm through mine. “Ready, handsome?”

  It takes me a second to answer. “Yeah.” I nod.

  We start walking toward the entrance. London waves and smiles toward the flashing cameras.

  Seriously? Who needs pictures of this? Maybe it’s Stanford’s college newspaper crew. For the life of me, I can’t think of who else would need pictures of the people entering the benefit.

  “Have I told you that you look amazing tonight?” I ask London once we get inside.

  “Yes, you have—multiple times.” She grins. “Have I told you that you are the hottest guy in the world and that I want to rip that tux right off of you?”

  I chuckle. “No, that’s a first, but I’ll take it. Have I told you that I want to push you up right there next to that plaster newspaper”—I point to a sculpture on a stand beside us—“pull this sexy little number”—my finger runs lightly up her dress—“up to your waist, and fuck you against the wall, so everyone knows you’re mine?”

  “Ooh, no, you didn’t, but I like your thinking,” she answers playfully. “And I think that’s a bird.”

  “What?” I tilt my head in question.

  “The sculpture—it’s a bird, not a newspaper.”

  I turn to the awkwardly shaped piece of plaster, squinting my eyes to study it. “That’s not a bird.”

  “Yeah, it is.” London giggles.

  “Maybe a phone book or a grocery bag blowing in the wind. But a bird? I don’t think so.”

  “Who would do a sculpture of a phone book? No one even uses phone books anymore.” She laughs. “It’s a bird, I swear.”

  “Well then, it’s a freaking ugly bird.”

  “I’m sure the artist who made it doesn’t think so,” she protests. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Loïc. Art is subjective.”

  “That might be true, but I doubt anyone here thinks this sculpture of a newspaper is pleasing to the eye.”

  “It’s a bird!” London giggles.

  “So you say.” I wink. “Let’s go see what other inspiring pieces we can find around here.”

  “Okay, but let’s go to the bar first. I want a glass of wine.”

  “There’s a bar at an art museum?”

  “Of course. They put a makeshift one in here somewhere. Do you think all these people got dressed up just to look at art?”

  She weaves her arm through mine once more, but this time, I follow her lead.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking.”

  “Yeah?” she asks.

  She stops in front of a painting that I’m quite sure is an abstract tree, but for all I know, it could be the solar system.

  “I don’t get this whole benefit thing. I mean, if all these people were really invested in raising money for a cause, instead of spending elaborate amounts of money on fancy clothes, limos, alcohol, you name it, wouldn’t it have been a better idea to just donate that money to the cause in the first place?”

  “Maybe, but that’s not how it works.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because rich people want a party. They need a reason to donate. They need their friends to see them here and know that they donated. If you just write a check from your living room, no one will know you gave money. But everyone here knows we’ve donated.”

  “That’s fucked up, London.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, if you care about a cause, you should donate because you want to help, not because you want other people to think you’re generous. I just don’t get that mentality.”

  “I understand that. But you and I grew up with different groups of people. Right or wrong, the people I grew up with, the people my dad does work with, do care about appearances.”

  I narrow my eyes toward London, letting out a sigh.

  “Listen, you’re a bett
er person than most people here. I know that. Don’t think about the hoopla of it all. Just think of this as a party, a fun occasion where we get to dress up and have a great night out. You and I have never done anything like this together. And, not to mention, I’ll donate money to any cause that puts on a party where I can see you looking all dapper and hot as hell. ’Kay?”

  A smile breaks across my face. “So, you’re really digging the tux, huh?”

  “Heck yeah. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted you more.” She smiles widely, her full lips shining with the lip gloss that I want to kiss off.

  “I love you,” I reply. “Even if your love for snooty parties is a bit of a flaw.”

  “I’ll take it. Now, let’s go get me a drink!”

  We find Georgia and Mrs. Wright at the bar, each with a glass of wine in hand.

  “Hey! What do you think so far?” Georgia asks me.

  “It’s different,” I answer honestly.

  “He thinks we’re all snobs,” London chimes in.

  “I didn’t say that exactly.” I shoot her a warning look.

  Georgia huffs, “Well, we are. I mean, this tiny glass of moscato cost twenty-one dollars. What is it made out of? Golden grapes?”

  “You had to pay for it?” London sounds appalled.

  “Why wouldn’t she have?” I ask, confused.

  “Normally, the alcohol is free at these events. I mean, our tickets to get in cost a lot. We shouldn’t have to pay for alcohol, too.”

  “Right, because any extra money should go toward booze instead of the charity,” I say dryly.

  London playfully smacks my arm.

  “There is a free wine list, but you know those are the five-dollar-a-bottle wines from the local supermarket. Plus, Daddy opened a tab and told us to purchase our drinks with it,” Georgia says.

  “Oh, good. Do you want anything, Loïc?” London asks.

  “I’m good with water, thanks.”

  London gives our drink order to the bartender.

  “Oh, look. It’s the Petersons!” Mrs. Wright says excitedly.

  She’d been so quiet that I almost forgot she was standing here.

  “No, Mom,” Georgia says firmly.

  “Come on, honey. Patrick has his MD now. He’s a surgeon.”

  “I don’t care. He’s, like, ten years older than me, and he is so annoying.”

  “Oh, that’s not fair,” Mrs. Wright argues, looking so much like London. “It’s been years since you’ve seen him, and I think he’s only, like, seven years older.”

  “Exactly, Mom. I haven’t seen him since we lived in Sacramento. I doubt they even remember us.”

  “Oh, no, they do. I’m Facebook friends with Carol, and we see each other from time to time at these kinds of events. Just come say hi,” Mrs. Wright pleads, taking Georgia’s hand.

  “I bet you wish Fabio were here now, don’t ya?” London giggles.

  “Ew, no. But, if I had known Mom was going to go all matchmaker on me, I would have invited Ben.”

  “Who’s Ben?” London asks.

  “Just a guy I’ve been hooking up with,” Georgia answers casually.

  “But you just broke up with Fabio?” London questions, her voice rising an octave.

  Georgia scoffs, “Yeah, like, almost a week ago.”

  “Oh my goodness! Where did I go wrong with you two?” Mrs. Wright shakes her head.

  “Hey! Don’t lump me in with Georgia. I’m in a relationship,” London protests.

  Mrs. Wright lets out a sigh. “Let’s go, Georgia. You could stand a conversation with some people with class.”

  “Hey, I’m offended. How do you know my booty call, Ben, doesn’t have class, Mom? And he’s religious, too. He’s always calling out to God when he’s in my bed. It’s very sweet,” Georgia says seriously.

  London bends over in laughter.

  I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my face. This entire exchange is comical. I don’t know how I expected London’s family dynamic to be, but it wasn’t like this.

  “Come on, Georgia,” Mrs. Wright says wearily.

  “Just go,” London urges with a giggle. “You’re causing Mom to age, like, ten years right in front of us.”

  “Fine, but I’m talking to Patrick Peterson,” she says his name in a nasally voice, “for only five minutes, and if his fingers go anywhere near his nose, I’m throwing this glass of wine at him.”

  “I’m sure he wasn’t picking his nose, honey. He was probably itching it. And he was fifteen. Cut him some slack,” Mrs. Wright says.

  “Exactly. He was fifteen. I was eight, and I knew that picking your nose in front of someone was disgusting! And then he just continued eating his hamburger without washing his hands first!”

  Georgia and Mrs. Wright continue to argue about the apparent nose-picking incident as they walk away.

  “Wow,” I say to London.

  “I know.”

  “Your family is awesome, especially Georgia.”

  “Yeah, she’s a feisty one. Everyone adores her. She has next to zero filter and can be so crude, but everyone loves her. There’s just something endearing about her.”

  “Maybe because she’s so different than everyone here. She’s like a breath of fresh air.”

  “Hey, just because people have money doesn’t mean that they all walk around with sticks up their butts. There are some cool people here.”

  “Really? Besides your family, who?”

  “Uh, Patrick Peterson. He’s a surgeon. Duh,” she says in a valley girl voice.

  I let out a chuckle. “Yeah, well, he picks his nose, which cancels out the cool doctor thing he has going on.”

  She shrugs. “True. So, let’s go look at more art, shall we?” She hands me a water before taking a sip of her wine. “Mmm, this is good. It must be made out of golden grapes.”

  London entwines her free hand through mine as we weave through the crowd of elaborately dressed people to look at the different art pieces.

  One thing’s for sure; London and I do not have the same taste in art or even the same perspective. Sure, we both recognize the painting of a chair to be just that—a painting of a chair—yet London thinks it represents loneliness, whereas I think it represents dinnertime.

  “Okay, what about this one?” London asks.

  We stand in front of an abstract painting with lots of splattered colors, some wavy lines, and tons of paint dribbles.

  When I don’t answer, she continues, “I think the artist is trying to represent a state of joy in a life filled with chaos. There’s something happy and sorrowful about it at the same time, you know?”

  I tilt my head to the side and really look at the painting. “I think the artist is a four-year-old from the local preschool.”

  London laughs. “Stop! Really, try to see something.”

  “I can’t. They’re just colors thrown onto a canvas, London. There’s no rhyme or reason to it.”

  “Right, so maybe it represents life in that way?”

  “Maybe,” I answer hesitantly.

  “You know, there’s no wrong answer, babe.”

  “Really? That’s not what you said about the newspaper sculpture.” I peer down to her.

  She rolls her eyes. “Because that was clearly a bird!”

  “Nope, newspaper,” I say shortly.

  She shakes her head. “I hate you,” she says with a smile.

  “And I love you, babe.” I lean in and kiss her forehead. “Okay, let me try again.” I stand up straight and face the painting.

  “Oh, good.” London says and faces the painting, too.

  “I spy with my little eye…a woman in a tight red dress.”

  “No, you don’t.” London giggles.

  “Oh, yeah…yeah, I do. Right here.” I point toward the glob of red paint in the middle of the canvas. “And, oh…do you see this black squiggly line? That is me as I approach the woman, who’s drop-dead gorgeous, by the way. Her eyes are big and a beautiful brown wit
h flecks of gold. And her lips…” I allow my head fall back as I let out a sigh.

  “Tell me about her lips,” London urges.

  I look at the painting again. “Well, they’re perfect…plump and full…and so kissable.” I circle my hand above the top right portion of the canvas, which holds a bunch of paint swirls. “This, right here, is the man taking the woman. She’s so gorgeous that he had to have her immediately…so they strolled off to the corner of the room. He’s holding her against a wall and pounding into her as she screams his name.”

  “Oh, wow. That escalated quickly.”

  I nod. “Yep…sure did.”

  “What about all of this right here?” London points to the squiggles surrounding the swirly paint in the corner.

  “Well, those are all of the other people watching, of course. How could they not? When this couple gets together, it’s pretty astounding.”

  London turns to me and grabs my arm. “We should go find a corner.”

  “What?” I question.

  “I want it. I want your version of the painting…just minus the watching crowd.” She grins.

  “London…” I turn and face her, and I place my finger beneath her chin. Tilting her face up toward mine, I press my lips against hers, taking her in a soft kiss. I pull away. “We can’t.”

  “Uh, yeah, we can. What’s up? We’ve done it in public places before. Remember the Mexican restaurant restroom?”

  “Yeah, but your dad wasn’t in the Mexican restaurant with us. He would be mortified and embarrassed if we got caught. Not to mention, he’d hate me forever.”

  “Then, we won’t get caught. Come on,” she says with a mischievous smile.

  Damn it if I’m not instantly hard.

  “All right, but we have to find someplace good.”

  “Look at you, being all responsible.” She laughs as she takes my hand.

  I chuckle. “This hardly counts as being responsible, London.”