by B. B. Miller
“It took like ten minutes. The biggest time suck was waiting for them doing a safety check and putting the baskets on. But I used that time wisely to pick up supplies. Not to worry.” I push the sea-foam green bike in front of her with a helmet. “Your chariot, Miss Skinner.”
Cassidy
Fresh air blows my hair in my face. Leaning forward over the rail, I can see the water curling into foam as the ferry plows through New York harbor. “So, you’re taking me to Governors Island?” I point at the rapidly approaching boat dock.
He grins. “Ever been here?”
“Once. I attended a boring political fundraiser held at Fort Jay years ago.” I raise my chin and close my eyes, savoring the feel of the wind and sun on my face. “Something tells me this isn’t going to be boring, though.”
“Smart girl.” Maintaining a grip on his bike, he wraps his free arm around my waist and pulls my back to his chest. “I’m the least boring person you’ll ever meet,” he whispers in my ear.
“Ain’t that the truth,” I mutter, and I can feel his lips curl into a smile against my cheek. My body still aches from the unboring workout he gave me last night. This man just might kill me if I don’t start doing Pilates or something.
He nips at my earlobe, sending a shiver down my spine. “You weren’t meant for boring, Fly-girl.” He straightens and pulls away slightly as another couple walks past with steaming lattes in their hands. Besides a few looks at his hair, no one has paid any attention to us. “The woman who can jump out of a perfectly good airplane with nothing but a bit of silk to stop her fall will never be satisfied with boring.”
I have a feeling he’s talking about more than dreary fundraisers. Neither of us has mentioned Jack or what happened backstage since we went upstairs. My stomach churns with the secret knowledge of Jack’s proposal. I need to tell Sean, but when? My skin seems to burn under the weight of his hand on my hip. It’s guilt, although I haven’t done anything to feel guilty. Yet.
As the ferry pulls into the dock, the passengers surge toward the exits. Sean claps his hands together and gives me an excited grin. “Time to get this party started!” He helps me shoulder my backpack again and gestures grandly for me to go first with my bike. Gripping my handlebars, we join the line forming to disembark.
Shaking my head, I put aside all thoughts of proposals and guilt. I’m going to enjoy this while it lasts.
“Stop! Stop, woman!”
I brake and coast to a stop off to the side of the bike path. Sean catches up and comes to a jerky stop behind me.
“I thought you said you hadn’t been on a bike in years?” He glares at me, but his panting ruins the effect. I look down at my feet to hide my smile.
“No, I said I hadn’t been on a moving bike in years.” I squint and look up at him, finally letting my grin out. “Haven’t you ever heard of spin class?”
He huffs and looks around, as if getting his bearings. “I think you played me, Fly-girl.”
“Maybe. I thought you said you could go all day.” I give him my best innocent look. “We’ve barely gone five miles.”
He narrows his eyes at me, but there’s a smile lurking on his lips. “Five miles after you dragged me around that damn museum all morning.” There was an exhibition of avant-garde sculpture at Fort Jay I’d read about in the Post. It was fabulous, made even better by Sean’s lively, impromptu commentary, and then we toured the historical exhibit about the island itself. Now, after a quick lunch from a food truck, we’re on our way to the other side of the island to see “the real surprise.”
“Suck it up, buttercup.” I look over the field of lavender blooming next to us and inhale deeply. The soft scent fills my lungs, giving me a sense of peace. “So, are we close to wherever we’re going?”
“Just around the bend.” He points ahead and pushes off, giving me a challenging look. “Come on, slowpoke. Try to keep up.”
“Ta-da!” Sean waves his arm in a grand gesture for me to precede him through the drawn tent flap. “I told you I was going to find a quieter place for us.”
I feel as though I’m stepping into a page from Arabian Nights. The tent is huge and looks like something from a movie, with its white canvas forming neat corners and erected on a wooden platform. There’s a real bed—an enormous king-sized bed—and even a funky chandelier mounted at the peak. Off to the side is an attached bathroom, also with canvas walls but with cabinetry boasting all the regular bathroom amenities—even a shower. I run a hand over one of the fluffy towels. It feels like a cloud. There’s even a front porch with Adirondack chairs positioned to take in the sight of the harbor and Statue of Liberty.
“This is amazing! What is this place?”
He walks over to the mini fridge and pulls out two bottles of Perrier. He opens one and offers it to me. “It’s an ‘urban camping experience,’” he quotes meticulously as I accept the proffered bottle and take a sip. “They’ll bring dinner when we’re ready, and there’s a firepit not far away we can sit around later if you’d like.” I can’t help my laugh.
“Camping?” I look wide-eyed at the furnishings. “This isn’t camping. This could be a layout in GQ.”
He takes a long drink. “There’s a tent.” He gestures to the pristine white canvas overhead. “What more do you want?”
Chuckling, I step closer and clink my green bottle against his. “Well, it’s a far cry from the nylon tents and sleeping bags I grew up with. And the mini fridge is way more efficient than a cooler filled with ice. Thank you.” His eyes crinkle with humor and he nods in acceptance. “But, come on. All those trips with your parents when you were a kid to help build schools? You can’t tell me you ‘camped’ like this.”
Slipping his arm around my waist, he pulls me close and whispers in my ear, “Of course not. But why not have a little luxury when you can?” His lips on my neck send a bolt of warmth down my spine. “You deserve to have the world laid at your feet, Cass. I want to do that for you.”
How I haven’t dissolved into a puddle at his feet, I don’t know. My pulse thrums in my throat when I look into those wild green eyes that seem to devour me in a glance. “Thank you. Truly.”
He grins and steps back. “Anything for you, milady,” he says, joking again, and makes a sweeping bow. “Shall we go survey the rest of your kingdom?”
We leave the bikes parked at the tent and stroll toward a grove of trees. We pass a few other tents on the way, but they seem deserted. “Where is everyone?” I toss my empty bottle into a recycle bin along the path. “I wanted privacy.” He shrugs and drains his bottle before tossing it in the bin. He holds his hand out to me and I take it. “I don’t want anyone else hearing you scream my name tonight.”
I stare at him as we walk. “You rented out the whole place? But, but, what about the people who already had reservations?”
“They were well compensated, I’m sure. I just asked how much it would cost and I paid. I didn’t worry about the details.” He squeezes my hand and leads me into the thin grove of trees. Light filters through the leaves, speckling the ground.
“I must be getting used to you.” I shake my head at his extravagance—it must have cost him thousands. This is so him: over the top, and I have to admit, I like it. “I’m not as shocked by that as I should be.”
“Good.” His impudent grin makes me laugh as we emerge from the trees into a sea of red rope hammocks strung on sturdy poles. There are dozens of them, swaying gently in the breeze. I finally spy a few other tourists, but they’re leaving the hammocks and heading away on their bikes.
“Did we scare them away?” I ask, confused, and then narrow my eyes at his overly innocent smile.
“I ’spect they’re on their way to the docks to catch the last ferry. They don’t want to be stranded here; there’s a fine.”
This time I gape at him. “Wait—we’re all alone? On the whole flipping island?”
He leads me to a hammock that’s in the shade and helps me in. “Well, besides the camp manag
er, caterer, and assorted park rangers, we are.”
I flop back on the woven ropes, laughing helplessly. “Holy crap, Sean. That’s…that’s…I don’t know what that is.”
“It’s fabulous, obviously. Scoot over.”
He makes shooing motions with his hands, and I shift awkwardly to one side as he grabs the ropes. “Will it hold both of us?”
“It’d better.” He climbs on, but a shrill chirping from his phone stops him. “This had better be important,” he growls, pulling it out and looking at the screen. His eyes shoot open. “What the ever-loving fuck?”
I sit up, setting my hand on his arm. “What is it?”
“It’s a text from Kennedy fucking Lane, that’s what!” He jabs at the phone and holds it to his ear, scowling. “And now he’s not answering, the prick. I can’t fucking believe it.” He shakes his head and quickly scrolls to another contact. “Damn it, Matt’s not answering either,” he grumbles. More scrolling, and then he yells into the phone, digging his free hand into his hair. “Where the fuck is everyone? Three! Call me as soon as you get this! Did you know what our illustrious leader was planning? Why the fuck didn’t he tell us?”
With his face screwed up in exasperation, he taps out a text, and shoves the phone back in his pocket. Then he starts pacing and shaking his head.
I stare in fascination at his display. “What did he do? What happened?”
“He got married, that’s what. He and the lovely Abigail went off and eloped, the little shits. And he’s also apparently knocked her up.” He waves his hands as he talks and paces. “How could he do this and not tell us? Tell me?”
I cock my head to one side, trying not to laugh at his righteous indignation. “Don’t you like this Abigail?”
“What?” He stops in his tracks, staring at me. “No! Abby’s smashing. Kennedy’s happier than I’ve ever seen him and his songwriting has been even more incredible than it usually is. It’s a fucking match made in heaven.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
He heaves a sigh, his shoulders sagging in defeat. “We’re his family. His brothers. How could he do something so…so fucking life changing and not tell us? And he’s not answering his phone!”
His dejection makes me want to pull him onto my lap like a child. “Maybe he’s talking to someone else,” I offer. “His parents, maybe. If they ran off without telling their parents, they’ll probably have some fast talking to do.” I know I would. My mother would skin me alive if I eloped and prevented her from having my wedding splashed on the society pages.
“Maybe,” he grunts. “Fuck. First Syd, then Three, and now our dear leader. The world’s gone crazy.” He crams his hands in his pockets and kicks at a clump of grass.
“You sound like marriage is the worst thing in the world.” A knot forms in my belly, the secret of Jack’s proposal weighing on me.
He looks at me, his eyes troubled, and then frowns toward the trees. “Of course not.”
I pat the edge of the hammock in invitation and he climbs in after me. We wriggle around until we’re comfortable, wrapped around each other. The edges of the hammock stretch up around us, creating our own little bubble. We’re quiet, absorbing the gentle rocking of the hammock, and his tense muscles relax. “Are you more upset that they got married, or that they didn’t tell you first?”
He huffs a chuckle. “Isn’t it written somewhere that you have to tell your nearest and dearest when you get married?”
“He did. He just waited until after the fact.” I rest my head on his shoulder. The hammock is incredibly comfortable, but as he relaxes, my nerves are jangling. Then the words are out before I can stop them. “Jack proposed to me.”
“What?” Sean’s entire body stills; his fingers stroking my arm freeze. “When? What did you tell him?”
His voice is calm, but I can tell he’s anything but calm. A frisson of fear spikes through me, and I take a deep breath, forcing myself to answer him. “Just before I saw you backstage last night. I told him I had to think about it.” My stomach churns and my palms begin to sweat. “I thought I could wait to tell you until I’d decided, but… I can’t keep it from you. You deserve to know. And you need to know why I’m considering it.” He twists away from me and grabs the edges of the hammock to get up, but I clutch his arms. “Wait. Please. Will you listen?”
My heart is in my throat as I wait an eternity for his answer. When he finally looks at me, the turmoil swirling in his emerald eyes hurts my heart. “Listen to what?” he mutters, his jaw set.
I pick at the edge of the hammock. Everything in me wants to stay silent, but I can’t. Of all people, Sean needs to know. “I told you I went to school at UCLA,” I begin, my voice just above a whisper. “Everything was great. I’d found my calling, I had friends, and I loved being so close to the beach. I was happy. Then, in my junior year, I went to a party with a friend.”
The wariness in his eyes softens, curiosity getting the best of him, and he lies back into the hammock. His body is rigid, but I wrap an arm around his waist and lay my head on his chest anyway, yearning for his acceptance, and praying I’m not making a mistake.
“It was at a frat house. My friend, Sara, had a brother there.” I try to swallow down the lump in my throat, but it doesn’t work. “We did everything right. We stayed together, got our own drinks from the keg instead of accepting any from strangers, and stuck to the public areas where everyone was gathered. Around midnight, I started to feel sick, so we’d decided to go home. Sara needed to go to the bathroom first, so I waited outside the door. Just in that short space of time, things started spinning and I was so tired; I remember sliding down the wall and calling out for Sara, and then…nothing.”
He grips the edge of the hammock, his knuckles white, but he doesn’t move. I take comfort from the heat radiating from him and glide my hand over his stomach, his T-shirt bunching up under my palm. Golden red hairs glint in a shaft of fading sunlight that finds us through the leaves above.
“When I came to myself, I was back in my apartment. Sara was crying, kneeling beside my bed, and I was draped in a blanket. Underneath, I was naked.” My voice is soft, but matter-of-fact, as if I’m discussing the weather instead of the event that changed my life. “Apparently, when Sara got out of the bathroom, I was gone. In a panic, she grabbed her brother and they searched until they found me. They burst into a bedroom to find three of his ‘brothers’ groping me and taking pictures. They’d removed my clothes. They hadn’t raped me yet, but one was inches away from it. They stopped him.”
With a strangled noise, he breaks; wrapping both arms around me, he holds me tightly, his face buried in my hair. “Cassidy…how…what…”
“They hadn’t targeted me. We found out they’d painted a few random cups with rohypnol and waited to see what would happen. It was just dumb luck that I’d picked one,” I continue, my voice muffled by his T-shirt. “I hid away for a week. I took endless showers. They’d marked me; hickeys and fingerprints where they’d pinched me. I almost scrubbed myself raw, trying to get rid of them, trying to feel clean again. My brother, Kevin, kept calling but I couldn’t answer—we talked almost every day, so I knew he must have been worried. But I couldn’t talk to him or anyone. I turned everyone away. I just felt powerless.”
“Didn’t you call the police? You or your friend?” His voice is rough, and I feel him lay his cheek against my hair.
“I didn’t want anyone to know. I was ashamed and terrified what they might do with the photos they’d taken if I provoked them. And I was worried that if I got the police involved, it would hurt my dad. He was in his first term and still trying to establish himself.”
“They assaulted you! They were going to…to…” he chokes out, his body vibrating with outrage. His arms feel like steel bands, both protecting and comforting. I want to curl up in a ball and let him sooth me, but I have to get it all out now or I may never be able to.
“The end of the week, Kevin showed up on my doorstep. As
soon as I saw his face, I lost it, started bawling, and blurted it all out. He was madder than I’d ever seen him. I begged him not to call the police—I didn’t even want him to call my parents. He finally agreed about the cops, but he called my dad and explained what happened. I couldn’t speak to him myself; I was a mess. The next day, Dad’s chief of staff, Dale Canton, showed up. He talked to my brother, said he’d take care of it and left.”
Sean huffs out a breath, blowing strands of my hair around. “What did he do?”
“That night, all three of the fuckers ended up in emergency rooms with broken bones and concussions. But they wouldn’t say a word about what happened to them—they were scared shitless. I can only assume that Dale arranged something. I don’t know for sure.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “I don’t really want to know.”
“They got off light,” he snarls, his voice deep and dangerous. “What happened to them then?”
“Their frat kicked them out, and they all ended up dropping out of school. One is a teller in a tiny bank in Bakersfield and has been divorced twice, one is homeless after declaring bankruptcy, and one died of an overdose about five years ago. Kevin keeps tabs on them.”
“I want to know who they are.” His voice is soft, but filled with so much anger I can’t help my shiver.
“Why? It doesn’t matter, Sean. It’s in the past.”
“Like hell it is,” he snaps, and then takes a deep breath, as if forcing himself to calm down. “I’m sorry. So, what happened then? How long did it take you…how did you…manage?”
I roll on my back, but he keeps me in his embrace. The leaves flutter above us and I hear ship horns in the distance. “It took about six months, but I finally started to relax. I stopped looking over my shoulder, expecting to see someone who knew what had happened, or who had one of those photos. My internship with McQueen came just at the right time. I graduated, went to London, and never looked back. Until I got a call from Dale about a year later.”