by Skye Warren
“God.” There’s enough strength left in my body to stand. “You want to act helpless? You want to play games with a billion dollars from my trust fund and then fuck me and then act like you’re the one who’s hurt? Go to hell, Sutton.”
“Already there,” he says, and the way his eyes burn, I believe it.
He turns and leaves me standing beside the poker table, alone in a room that was filled with men when I entered. That’s how I can clear a room, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the Harper St. Claire show. I collapse back into the chair and rest my head on the back. There’s a hollow in my chest, but I can’t even blame it on Sutton for leaving. I can’t blame it on Christopher for staying. It comes from deep inside, to the place that no man can fill. The sex only numbed me for so long. Grief comes rushing back in to fill the void, acid in my throat.
Footsteps approach.
A glass of dark red wine is placed in front of me. Christopher throws back a shot of clear liquid—probably vodka. There isn’t a third glass. “What about Sutton?”
Dark eyes study me. “I’m sure he can get a drink wherever he’s gone.”
“Shouldn’t you go talk to him or something? You were partners.”
“We were partners. Now we’re nothing.” A shrug, all the more hurtful because of how casual he seems. “You didn’t expect him to stick around, did you?”
“I kind of… did. Yes.” What’s the etiquette for a backroom threesome?
Christopher sighs as if I’m terribly naive. “What we did here… it isn’t going to last.”
That makes me laugh, sharp and breathless. Because it’s been a long time since I was naive. “You mean you’re not going to marry me with an ironclad prenup and then divorce me in a year so that we can spend the rest of our lives hating each other? I’m shocked.”
A quirk of his lips. “Not every man is your dad, Harper.”
“And not every woman is your mother. Why do you think I expect anything permanent? Because I’d like someone to say goodbye after… after…”
“Sex,” he says gently.
I hate the look in his eyes, almost like pity. It was better when he stared down at me like he was going to devour me. Better when he snapped and snarled at me from across the poker table. “After sex,” I repeat, only a little broken. “Isn’t that what normal people do?”
“I have no idea what normal people do, but I don’t think Sutton is anything near normal. Oh, he may have fooled you with that Southern boy act, but he’s as fucked-up as any of us. More.”
“You would say that,” I say, though I sense the truth of his words. The weight of them.
“I’ve seen Sutton date a lot of women. Charm them. Make them fall in love. He doesn’t stick around. At least I’m honest about it. I’ve never promised anything to a woman.”
“Never promise anything, never let them down, right?”
“Is that wrong?”
“No, it’s perfectly right.” I’m unable to hide the hurt. “Christopher Bardot, always doing the most correct thing. A-plus on your Honesty in Sexual Relations exam. The model student.”
His eyes flash at my tone. “I’m going to drive you home now.”
As if I would take a ride from him. He was burning for me only thirty minutes ago. Now he’s so cold I’m practically shivering. I would probably freeze to death by the time we got there. “No, thanks.”
“Don’t be difficult.”
“Difficult. Difficult? Oh, you haven’t seen difficult yet.”
“Goddamn it, Harper. Would it kill you to do what I say once in a while?”
“I might listen to you if I thought you actually gave a damn. Sutton told me what you did, keeping all the construction crews away from us.”
“That was for your own good.”
My laugh feels like acid in my throat. “Right.”
“I know you’re upset,” he says in an overly reasonable tone. “You’re under a lot of stress right now. Do you need more help at home? I can speak with the service.”
I want to set him on fire with my eyes. “Now you want to help? When my mother struggled for so long, so many years, that you could have made easier? Because it took her getting cancer before you let me control the fucking trust fund?”
He could be made of stone, this granite statue planted in front of me, eternal and unfeeling. “The money doesn’t help?”
The money… God, the money. I would burn it all to the ground.
Some speck of sanity remains inside me, because I know that wouldn’t help anyone. “No, the money doesn’t help when cancer cells are eating her alive, when they’re starving her from the inside, and she refuses medical treatment.”
He looks at me with his onyx eyes, and I think he might actually say something human. Something like the Christopher Bardot I met years ago on my father’s yacht. It would devastate me, to see kindness from him. It would give me hope.
A lift of his shoulder. “It’s probably for the best.”
“For the best? It’s for the best that she isn’t letting the doctors help her. They have new treatments, advances in medicine.” My voice rises, and I know I sound crazy. I feel crazy. Maybe it was foolish to expect kindness from this man, but this coldness is a new level. “How can her dying be for the best? Tell me that, Christopher.”
“Better that she goes sooner than prolong it.”
He should not be able to shock me. I know every dark angle inside Christopher Bardot. I know better than to expect anything like compassion from him, but God, I’m stunned. My mouth is open. No words come out. There’s only silence for an endless moment.
“I hate you,” I whisper. And it’s not a sexy blowjob kind of hate.
It’s a bone-deep grief.
I don’t want wine, but I take a sip anyway, letting the acid wash away any lingering taste of him. The first sob takes me by surprise. It’s loud, filling a room made for excess and pleasure. The second one I capture with my hands, shaking with the force of it. Sorrow isn’t a quiet thing; it’s an earthquake inside me. It takes over until I’m breaking apart, sitting still, trying to catch my tears and failing.
Someone appears in front of me. A large hand on my shoulder.
Then I’m wrapped in strong arms and lifted.
It could be anyone taking me anywhere. Christopher taking me home—finally, finally. That terrible prince taking me to the depths of hell, for all I know, but I press my face into the broad chest. The linen becomes soaked immediately, cold against my skin from tears that are hot on my cheeks. One long sob that I can feel in the base of my throat, and I suck in air, breathing in the earthy scent of Sutton.
Thick night air. The smell of exhaust. The muted sound of a car door, and then I’m in the back of a limo, still ensconced in Sutton’s arms. He doesn’t try to stop me from crying.
“You left,” I finally manage to say, my voice heavy with tears. Drenched with them.
He holds me a little tighter. “I came back.”
Freida is kind enough to pretend like it’s ordinary to arrive home completely disheveled, my dress stained with something mysterious, my eyes red and puffy from crying. She gives me the information for the evening, what my mother ate, what she didn’t eat, with a completely straight face—which is all the more impressive when I actually look in the mirror.
“I really have to shower first,” I say with a groan. Mascara has made track marks down my cheeks. I look like a girl in a horror movie who’s been running for her life and about to die. “She’ll call the police if she sees me like this. You can go home now.”
Sutton shakes his head. He doesn’t seem himself, not quite as assured, but he looks very certain about this. “I’m staying until you go to bed.”
I give him a sideways look. “You hoping for a round two?”
A faint smile. “Always.”
Maybe Christopher was right about him. Maybe a hundred women have fallen in love with Sutton. I’m just one in a long line. Does that make it any less real? “Well, Freida
makes a mean chicken salad. In the fridge, if you’re hungry.”
One thing about beautiful old houses is that they don’t always have modern amenities. There’s only enough hot water in the tank for a lukewarm shower, but I turn the knob all the way and stand under the spray without moving, letting it use up all the hot water in a matter of seconds. It burns my shoulders, my breasts. My skin turns pink, which is a relief. That’s how I feel on the inside. Tender and hurt. The water turns cold, but I stay like that, opening my mouth and drinking some of the well water, letting it numb me from the outside.
When I get out of the shower, I still look like I’ve been run over by a train, my eyes red and a little shell-shocked. But I don’t look like I’ve just been in a gangbang, which is an improvement. I throw on a Smith College sweatshirt and a loose pair of sweats.
Then I step into the closet to take deep breaths.
Five seems like enough, but it’s not until ten that I think I’m capable of hiding my grief and shock at how skinny Mom looks these days, at how weak she seems.
I half expect Sutton to be gone. Didn’t he disappear when I needed him most? But I can hear his voice as I come down the stairs, low and teasing. And then my mother’s voice, answering back.
It feels surreal to walk into the kitchen and see them sitting at the table. Like maybe I fell asleep in the shower and hit my head. This is all a dream, seeing my mother laugh with Sutton.
“What are you doing?” I ask, which is silly considering what they’re holding.
“Gin,” Sutton says, tipping his cards toward me. “And your mother is kicking my behind.”
“And we’re having ice cream.” My mom tucks the spoon almost delicately into the carton and takes a bite. “If you ask very nice, we’ll let you have some.”
It takes me a moment to remind my feet to move, but I manage to cross the parquet floor to the kitchen table and take an empty seat. A glance at the cards laid out reveals that, yes, my mother is kicking Sutton’s behind. Who uses that word anymore? Behind. It’s an old-world kind of manners for him to watch his language around my mother.
“I hope you didn’t bet anything on the game,” I say, picking up a spare spoon.
Sutton nods toward the counter, where a glass case reveals baked goods. “That chocolate chip cookie.”
I stare at him, expecting him to suddenly fly around or transform into a dragon. That’s how strange it is that he got my mother to eat anything, even ice cream. How strange it is that he got her to want food at all. She’s had her share of wheatgrass and barley in her life, and it hasn’t helped her that much. Now I’m just thrilled to see her eating anything, to see her cheeks pink with excitement.
She puts down three aces with a little laugh. “That cookie is as good as mine.”
I scoot my chair a little closer to Sutton. “You obviously need all the help you can get,” I tell him by way of explanation. He gives me a small smile, looking almost bemused.
He’s warm against my side, solid, comforting. He drops his hand to clasp mine, two of his fingers filling my palm. And I feel closer to him in this moment than I did at the Den, when he was inside me.
When my mother wins, she gets up to do a funny little jig and get the chocolate chip cookie. Which then prompts her to get milk and cookies out for everyone.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, soft so that only he can hear. I don’t only mean in this kitchen. I mean in my life. In my heart. What is he doing to me?
“Not courting you,” he murmurs.
That makes me laugh because he’s telling the truth. This is Sutton being an ordinary person, kind and genuine and so damn charming he has my mother eating cookies. If he courted me again, I don’t think I’d even survive it. He’s dangerous, this man. More dangerous than Christopher’s cruel indifference.
“The library,” I murmur. “It’s going to make it, right?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I talked to the foreman yesterday, and he said that they haven’t even applied for permits yet. Or ordered supplies. Or started—”
“They have to ascertain the condition of the building first. Better to be thorough now than have surprises later. But you shouldn’t be in the library, Harper. Not while the foundation is broken. While the foundation is shaky. It’s not safe for you to be there. Promise me.”
Safe? I’m not worried about safe. Sometimes having the roof crash down on my head actually seems appealing. A lot more appealing than a neat little Death Plan, that’s for sure.
My throat feels tight, and I have to turn away. “Harper?” he says.
I can hear the concern in his voice. He’s going to make this about me in a second, but I won’t let him. “No,” I tell him, as normal as I can. “Keep playing. Please.”
Then my mom sits down for another round, and I can turn away blindly, eyes hot with tears, lips pressed tight. I hold it together long enough to make it to my bedroom. I grab a pillow from the bed on my way to the closet before shutting myself inside. And there, with my face pressed into the cotton, muffled to the world around me, I crack into a thousand pieces.
The library looks like a war zone with temporary plaster columns holding up the ceiling and holes drilled into the precious mosaic floor.
I guess you really do have to break something before you can fix it.
Sutton doesn’t want me here, which is why I come after hours. I can think without the jackhammers and sweaty muscled men distracting me. There’s something about this broken wall that makes me ache inside, as if a living being has been injured, as if I need to sew it back together so that it can heal. But not with the butt of a buffalo or the heel of a boot.
That might be a more authentic restoration, but it’s boring. And I have the sense that it would bury the wall instead of making it come alive. This library isn’t going to be a museum. It will have modern books and computers for the community.
The wall should breathe with the community.
I’m doing my part by smoking a joint while I work, folding the sweet, earthy smell into the clay. I’m not sure it helps me create better, but it definitely makes me more willing to try. Which is how I end up on top of a twenty-foot ladder, holding up a piece of sculpted clay to see how it looks. The ladder wobbles for one second, and I hold my breath.
“Do you have a death wish?”
I know who it is before I look down. The electricity along my skin tells me it’s Christopher before I even see his stupid beautiful suit or his dark eyes. Not to mention it’s the same thing he said to me years ago when I sat on the railing of the yacht—only a few minutes before I fell into the water. “What are you doing here?”
“Keeping you from breaking your neck.”
Why does he care? “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not falling.”
“There’s always a second time,” he says, the grimness of his voice proving he remembers the yacht as clearly as I do. How he’d jumped in to save me. How it remained our secret to this day. It’s a kind of thread, that secret, binding us together no matter how far away he seems.
I climb down the ladder with exaggerated care, making sure I don’t even wobble, because he will use any weakness against me. And also because the world is a little spinny right now. Maybe I shouldn’t mix pot and ladders. “I’m not speaking to you.”
He might as well be the galaxy itself, unfathomable and dark. Nothing I say is going to affect him. At least that’s how it seems on the outside. “And you’re high. Christ.”
“This is my library now. You’re not welcome here.” I’m ready to tear him apart, to fight off all the arguments he’s sure to make. I’m ready to hate him, until his next words.
“What I said about your mother is unforgivable. I have no excuse for it. But I am sorry.”
All my anger collapses in on itself, a black hole. God. If he had come here self-righteous and cruel, I could have battled him until the end of time. Which just makes him a bigger asshole. “It doesn’t mat
ter,” I tell him, which is a lie.
“It matters to me. And if you want to request that someone else manage your trust fund—”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Never having to deal with me again.”
“I never wanted to have that control. I never asked for it. Sometimes I think your father did it because he knew it would make you hate me. It was the final fuck you.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “I thought you looked up to my dad.”
“I can respect the man and still acknowledge he was a monumental bastard.”
“I’m familiar with the feeling,” I say drily.
“And then other times I think, maybe it wasn’t a fuck you. Maybe he was just that dysfunctional that he thought he was protecting you. It could have been his last gesture of care as your father.”
My throat burns. “I really think it was the first one.”
“You’re probably right.” He puts his hands into the pockets of his slacks, which somehow doesn’t make him look dejected. Instead he looks thoughtful. “Anyway, I don’t think it’s for the best. Your mom dying.”
I swallow around a knot. “No. It’s not.”
He looks toward the front of the library where a temporary wall has been erected, more protective than the heavy layers of plastic sheeting that were there before. “I have a hard time with…”
“Being nice?”
“I was going to say death. Accepting it.”
“A hard time.” My laugh sounds hollow. “Yes, I think I have that, too. I don’t accept it. I can’t. How can anyone accept it? The end of someone you love. It’s not a thing you can accept.”
He stares at me, his dark eyes opaque, because it doesn’t matter what I say. Death doesn’t care whether I accept it or not. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No.” I think of Sutton playing gin with my mother. I can’t imagine Christopher doing the same thing, but I’m tired of pushing people away. And that isn’t what I need from him anyway. I need something more personal. More selfish. “Maybe.”
Christopher leans over the counter and picks up a yellow construction hat. “You should be wearing one of these. This is an active construction zone.”
