Crown Jewels

by Ella James

  But tonight, we’re going to have fun. I check myself over in the vanity mirror as the we roll to the back of the line of cars outside the gates of the Carnegies’ summer home, Bright House. Beyond a black iron gate, the white, columned, Greek-revival-style house is all lit up. The windows wink like diamonds. The lawn is a sea of twinkle lights and shadows. Looking closely, I can see guests perched on balconies, drifting through the rooftop gardens.

  One look at the Bentley and security waves us in. Maggie’s father is a famous defense lawyer, and she herself has gained some notoriety for working at Vogue magazine and occasionally cat-walking at fashion shows. Her ride is recognizable.

  “Now who’s the cash cow?” I tease.

  Mags sticks her tongue out and shakes her head, hair extensions bouncing off her bony shoulders.

  A few minutes later, valet has the car and we are standing on the vast lawn, lit by scattered fire pits and lanterns that dangle from the trees lining the driveway. To the rear left of the house, a hedge maze winks a hundred eyes. Small, glass bubbles rest atop the sharply manicured leaves, spilling amber light.

  I flex my hands and resist the urge to wipe them on my coral pink silk chiffon gown. It’s flowy and layered, the fabric rippling in a gentle breeze. It’s also Gucci, and worth about $10,000.

  My palms continue sweating as my eyes dance over the round, white tables scattering the lawn.

  He isn’t here, I tell myself. The Parsons’ house was dark.

  Still, I feel like a rock is lodged in my throat.

  I feel something tickle my ear and jump.

  “Whoa now,” Amelia says with a soft smile. “You had a flyaway.”

  Another urge: to run my hands over my thick, chestnut-colored hair, which Charley pulled into a half updo. But I see people moving toward us. I can feel their eyes. I hold my head high and my shoulders straight and act. It’s not that hard when you’ve been doing it as long as I have.

  Maggie’s hand encircles my arm. “Let’s go inside. I need to say ‘hello’ to Homer.”

  Homer is Declan Carnegie’s nickname. He plays for the Red Sox, and somewhere along the way, people started calling him Homer for all the home-runs he hits.

  Maggie knows him from college. They both went to Cornell.

  Amelia, Charley, and I follow her up the porch and through the giant front doors, nestled between the home’s thick columns. Servers bustle just inside the foyer, offering drinks and hours d’vours (I hear “caviar parfait” and something else with the word “salmon” from the servers).

  We pass Cal Hawthorne and his new girl, Rose something. Cal eye-fucks Amelia, which is seriously not classy.

  I look around, taking in a watercolor ocean mural on a nearby wall. It’s been a few years since I was here, and I don’t think I remember seeing it last time.

  We pass through parlors and libraries, a very formal living area done in variants of cream and tan. I can smell lobster and a whiff of something buttery coming from the direction of the kitchen. I can feel the eyes of people all around us—eyes on me.

  Hold your shoulders loose, I tell myself. Let your arms hang casually. Project relaxation. You belong here.

  It’s true: I do. But I don’t feel that way. Not anymore.

  It was a bad idea to come here.

  I’m struggling to get a deep breath when Amelia and Charley strike off toward the ladies’ room. Thank God, Mags doesn’t notice me freaking out. She’s not self-centered, just distractible and naturally oblivious. She bumps my shoulder as we go in search of Dec.

  “I’m glad you’re here, girly.” She smiles.

  I manage to return it. “Me too.”

  Liar.

  TWO

  Lucy

  And what a good liar I am.

  For the next half hour—thousand years?—we meander through the home’s ginormous living rooms and parlors, passing a taxidermied moose, two real-as-fuck Picassos, and a car-sized sundial in the center of a glass-ceilinged room, as we mingle with just about everybody and their brother.

  Marcia McCormac, a gossipy, baby-doll looking blonde who does nothing but run marathons and lay out in the lawn of her family’s estate in upstate New York, asks me where I’ve been. I tell her I’ve been training horses out in Colorado.

  “That sounds exciting.”

  I ignore the sarcasm in her voice and nod, my head held high. “It’s really fun.”

  Felix Bridger, a descendant of Jim Bridger—a la Fort Bridger, one of the big trading outposts of the Wild West—makes his way to me and wants to talk politics, assuming I’m a good contact, I guess because I’m living in the “west” now and I’m originally from Georgia, where there are lots of people with views similar to his own.

  He’s a handsome guy: tall, with short black hair, horn-rimmed hipster glasses, and a nice upper body. I can only handle a few minutes of political talk before I inform him, regretfully, that I’m apolitical.

  His mouth lolls open like a fish’s, and Mags swoops in at just the right time, having finished up a conversation with one of the Hilton cousins.

  “Felix. Hi!” She gives him an air-kiss, then yanks me down a slender hallway, done in dusk orange-yellow, with framed grass blades, pine-combs, and bird feathers.

  “God, the Carnegies are weird,” she murmurs as we tromp past tall, mahogany doors.

  “Not Dec, though.”

  She glances over her shoulder, smiling slyly. “I forgot about this.”

  I roll my eyes. “Isn’t that what y’all were telling me about Prince Liam? ‘Everyone’ thinks he’s hot?” I ask with air-quotes. I give her another eye roll. “Everyone thinks Declan Carnegie is hot. Even my great-grandmother.”

  This is actually true. My grandma Zelda is baseball-obsessed and thinks “Homer” is the second coming of Christ in tight pants.

  “Oop, I hear him now.”

  And so do I. I can hear Dec’s rich, booming voice as we sail through the doors of…an aquarium?

  I blink out at the scene before me: dozens of people mingling, servers weaving between gesturing hands and swaying bodies, all against the backdrop of a wall-sized fish-tank.

  “Is that an amberjack?” Mags murmurs.

  “Is that a baby dolphin?”

  The dolphin-looking thing dips from the surface, near the ceiling, down toward what looks like coral, drawing my attention to a tall head, slightly shadowed by the glow of the aquarium. I assume it’s Dec until another tall guy rises up beside that one, and I realize that guy is definitely Declan Carnegie. He’d been leaning down for some reason. As two girls step closer to him, my eyes return to the other tall guy.

  He’s as tall as Dec, maybe a little wider in the shoulders.

  Is that a man-bun?

  He turns slightly, talking to a group, and my stomach tightens. Oh. My God. That profile.

  It’s absolutely…regal.

  Even in the shadow of the aquarium’s glow, I can tell he’s got a strong brow, high cheekbones, and the most amazing kiss-me lips. I watch him unabashedly. Heat builds between my legs, flushing through my body in what has got to be the most visceral reaction a woman can have to any man.

  The longer I stare, the more my eyes adjust to the bright light behind him, and the more details I process. How tan his skin is—dark, as if he’s been living on an island. How thick and luscious his hair is. And the color of it: warm, rich brown, with lighter sun-streaks.

  There’s something panty-melting about the way his lips curve slowly as a girl leans in, touching his forearm.

  My body melts another few degrees and Mags grabs my hand.

  “Jesus, Luce. I thought you said you didn’t like him.”

  My brain barely processes her words before Dec is moving through the crowd toward us, holding an amber glass in one hand while reaching politely for Maggie with his other. I watch his open palm touch down on her shoulder, watch the warmth in his eyes as he greets her. I miss having guy friends, I think as they exchange words. Dec’s posse fans around us
as he moves from Mags to me.

  “Lucy Rhodes.” He gives me his radiant smile and, instead of making a crack about the show or saying I’m his favorite Rhodes sister, he just asks, “How’ve ya been?”

  Dec has dimples. I’m distracted by them for a second, by the dimples and his dark, curly hair. Finally, the question permeates my brain fog.

  “Not bad.” I give him a smile. “Yourself?”

  He nods politely. “Glad to have a break.”

  “I bet. I’ve seen you playing. My grandmother—she’s the biggest fan.”

  Dec listens with apparent interest as I tell him about my grandma Zelda watching him play from her electric recliner, with her TV tray on her lap, gawking at his ass.

  “It’s a good thing she’s not here,” I tease. “You might raise her blood pressure.”

  “You want a signed ball for her?”

  “Oh my God, would you? That would be amazing.”

  A girl with curly brown hair is hanging on Dec’s arm as he straightens a little and looks around the room. He turns to her. “Sarah, excuse me, will you?”

  And just like that, the beau of the ball is leading Mags and me out the room’s double doors and back down the hall, shooting the shit about the framed nature stuff—a byproduct of his grandfather’s midlife Walden obsession—then leading us around a corner, to a closed door.

  He glances around before pulling it open, then gestures Mags and me into a stairwell.

  “I don’t keep them downstairs.”

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” I ask.

  He makes a dismissive murmur. “Glad to get away.”

  “Yeah, these things are tiring,” Maggie says, toying with her Valentino pump.

  Declan downs his drink and sets it on a stair. “Remind me to get that on our way down.”

  My eyes linger on his backside, which really is amazing. Grandma Zelda always says you could balance a penny on it, and I think she’s right.

  I’m thinking about what I’ll tell her when I bump into Maggie’s back.

  Oh. So we’ve stopped.

  I guess I was lost in thought, because all I catch of what she’s saying is, “a little re-fueling…”

  “Hell yeah,” Dec says, nodding.

  Maggie’s eyes meet mine over her shoulder. She smiles guiltily.

  “Gotcha.” I nod. Maggie and the freaking coke. I know she does it to stay skinny, which I guess is why it kind of bothers me. She’s thin already—naturally Barbie-shaped. Nineteen eighties Barbie. Now-a-days, realistic-body-image Barbie would look fat compared to Mags.

  She produces a baggie, then scurries up to the landing, where the bannister is flat. I watch her spread the powder with her Visa card, and Declan hands her a rolled bill.

  “Thanks, friend.”

  And then I watch as Maggie and Dec Carnegie blow a few lines. God. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. He is a 20s-aged male with a fuck ton of disposable—make that snortable—income, but it’s weird because he’s a pro baseball player.

  He catches my eye, giving me a rueful smile. “Don’t tell grandma.”

  “Never.”

  “Luce is cool. She’s just crunchy,” Maggie tells him. “Cocaine isn’t clean enough for her.”

  Dec inhales, his thick chest expanding. He blinks slowly. “Fuck. This stuff is clean as it comes, Mags. Who do you buy from?”

  I follow them up the stairs, feeling like a tagalong child as they discuss this area’s hookup for quality powder.

  We’re greeted on the second floor by a long, hardwood hallway striped by an oriental runner. I can tell it’s authentic by the short, rough fibers. Fake ones are always just a little too fluffy.

  Dec hangs a right, leading us past several beautifully appointed bedrooms, all with king-sized beds, several scattered with women’s clothing. The two doors at the end of the hallway are both cracked open just a little.

  Dec pushes against one before whirling around, shaking his head as if he’s just realized he’s at the wrong door. He turns toward the door directly across the hall, but not before I get a peek at the most elaborate bedroom of all, complete with two topless women lounging in the bed.

  I have to work to un-widen my eyes as he steers us into what turns out to be a library.

  Maggie walks in first, and Dec leans over near her neck. “You smell good, Mags.”

  She preens. “It’s custom. Roja. You know, Roja Dove, the designer who uses odour profiling.”

  Dec flashes me a grin, as if he’s both confused and charmed, and Maggie hits him on the arm. “Don’t make fun of me. You said you liked it.”

  Declan holds his hands up. “Oh, I do.”

  A few minutes later, he’s got a basket of dirt-streaked baseballs on the desk and is scrawling, “To Zelda.” I notice that he signs it, “Homer Carnegie.”

  “You like your nickname?”

  He winks. “No one asked.”

  “You got it from a sports reporter, right?”

  He nods. “Good memory. You Southern girls and sports.”

  “We like to gamble,” Maggie tells him with a grin.

  Dec hands me the ball, then digs into his pocket. He holds out a plastic bag to Maggie. “Swapsies?”

  I watch his shoulder muscles ripple through the fabric of his dress shirt as he leans over and blows a line off his desk. He offers some to Maggie, but she shakes her head. “I’m a lightweight.”

  He grins. “Wish I was.”

  I’m still feeling slightly disappointed—and stupidly naïve—as we step back into the downstairs hallway. What did I think? That baseball players were all stuck in the 1920s with Babe Ruth?

  Declan can probably do whatever he wants. Who would drug test him? He’s too important to the Sox.

  Mags and Dec are lost in conversation, pointing at a painting on the wall, when a bleached-blonde girl with pigtails and a super-short red dress walks down the hall toward me.

  “Oh my God! Lucy Rhodes!” She throws her skinny arms around me, filling my nose with the sent of Chanel as her ribcage presses into my boobs. When she pulls away, still gazing up into my eyes, I smell vodka. “You are my fucking favorite. The youngest one! The spunky one!”

  I nod politely. “That’s me.”

  “Oh my God, that time you…” She snaps her fingers, looking drunk. “The thing with the car.”

  I nod again, still fake smiling. “I hit my sister Celia’s boyfriend, Chad.”

  “Oh yeah.” She snaps again. “He fucked that other girl!”

  “He did.” He got another girl pregnant. My hitting him was totally for camera, but this drunk girl didn’t get the message.

  “That was fucking awesome,” she slurs. She sticks her hand out. “I’m Jules. From Playboy.”

  Right. That’s where I know her from. “Were you Playmate of the Year a little while ago?”

  She laughs, a throaty sound. “Yes! Two years ago, in ’14. That reminds me! Can we take a picture? For my Gram?”

  It takes a minute for that to compute: she wants to take a picture with me for her Instagram account.

  If she’s C-list, I guess I’m B-list, I think cynically.

  My mouth is hung in smile purgatory when a waiter comes by, handing both of us flutes of chardonnay.

  I take a long sip, then another and another while she gabs about how much she loves the show. My toes are crossed in my Louboutins that she’s forgotten the picture.

  No such luck. Her lashes flutter like she might pass out, but then she rouses, bumping into me. “Oh my God, the picture! Righttt.”

  She holds her iPhone up, and I pray for some distraction. Anything. I grit my teeth.

  And into the hallway steps Bryce Parsons.

  I blink at his familiar face as glass shatters, something liquid spilling on my toes.

  THREE

  Lucy

  Adrenaline surges through my body, and I do the dumbest thing I can: I open the stairwell door and fly upstairs—where all the bedrooms are. To the one place in t
he house where there’s no exit.

  All the pain and terror from that night—the things I didn’t feel—rush through my body, two years late. I can barely make it up the steep, slick, hardwood stairs, my shoes slipping, my hand clawing the bannister. As I near the second-story doorway, I hear footsteps echo off the stairs behind me, and the rush through my head and chest is so strong I almost freeze, like in a nightmare.

  A slap of cool air hits my cheeks as I burst into the upstairs hall. Right, then left. I don’t know where to go! I dart to the right—Dec’s bed had girls in it!—and time stretches into soup while my heart pounds and my hands fumble with the doorknob.

  I’m so lost in my horror, I don’t notice someone is behind me until I hear a voice. I whirl.

  “Whoa…” It’s the girl from downstairs. The drunken Playmate. Her arms are out, as if she wants to grab my shoulders. She holds her hands up as her eyes stretch wide. “Are you okay?”

  I can’t think, just want to get away from her. Get inside the room to safety. I nod automatically, then rush inside Dec’s room. Where I blink at a tangle of bare bodies on the bed.

  That guy’s not Dec…

  The Playmate touches me, saying something. I back away, my feet moving me toward the wall as I stare at the scene in front of me.

  The man-bun guy. That’s him, there in the middle. One blonde girl is licking at his chest. The other has her hand in his unzipped pants. So it doesn’t make a lot of sense to me that the guy’s eyes are widened in alarm. His hands are pushing at the girls.

  The Playmate touches my arm, then tries to wrap her arm around me. I can’t help it: I start sobbing.

  Distantly, I’m aware of people moving. I sense more than see Man Bun moving toward me, and for some reason, that makes me cry harder. I hear his low voice vibrate through the air and hear the Playmate say something. But I’m not processing.

  “I’m so tired,” I murmur, tugging on his hand. “Let’s lay down for just a minute.”

  “There’s a party going on downstairs.”

  “I know…but you’re the host. Surely you can take a minute off. Don’t you want to snuggle with your girlfriend?”