by jm blake
“About what? I’m not ready to deliver my report yet.”
“Not about Apollo. About you.”
Great. This should be fun.“What kind of questions?”
He braces his arms on his thighs and focuses on me. “About your contract.”
Oh boy. “Which part?”
“The part where we have to donate an equal amount of your consulting fee to a STEM program for girls. It dictates three specific schools in America. Why those schools?” He doesn’t seem upset, more curious than anything.
“Those particular schools are in areas that have a high student transient rate- because of poverty, familial instability, or worse. That means that states ironically don’t pour as many resources into those curriculums, and students suffer. Girls suffer. It’s so hard for women to break into the sciences and it all starts from when we are young. No one takes us seriously, telling us to concentrate on ‘humanities’ or worse. There’s nothing wrong with that if it’s their true passion, but if a girl wants to learn more about biology, or chemistry or mechanics and engineering, she should have the same opportunities as boys. Even toys in those areas are dominated by images of boys while accompanying pictures show girls playing with dolls or fake cooking stuff. I hate it.” I stop and take a breath. His eyebrows are raised at my impassioned speech. It’s nothing I haven’t lectured on before, but for some reason, in this intimate atmosphere, it feels more relevant.
“Is that what happened to you? Did someone not take you seriously?”
I snort. “Kind of. I wasn’t exactly an easy kid. I bullied my way into a lot of things. And because I tested off the charts, I got a lot of attention from elite schools. Once I got to college, it was easier, but being a little kid sucked.”
“And your parents? Did they not advocate for you?” He tilts his head and smiles in confusion.
Ugh, I hate this part. “I don’t have parents. I’m an orphan.”
“You’re an orphan? Who raised you, then?” He looks outraged, as though my parents chose to die and leave me alone.
“No one. I grew up in foster care. They died when I was just a baby.” My road to adulthood was rather long and twisty, and I don’t want to go into it.
“Your sisters?” How did he know I had sisters?
“They are actually my foster sisters. We wound up in the same house when I was about eight. Brin was ten, and Gem was five.” He’s quiet as he digests this information. I can tell that he wants to ask a million more questions about it, but thankfully he doesn’t. “Who was the man that was with you at Campus?” He asks evenly, but there is an undercurrent to the question.
“James? He’s a colleague. He works out of a think tank here in London. We met ages ago at a conference.” I don’t add that James is gay because it’s not relevant, and yes, I like the thought that he is twisting over it. “Is that it?”
“Who owns this flat? Why aren’t you staying at a hotel?” This guy is relentless.
“James knows the owners and told them that a friend of his needed a place to stay. They are out of the country indefinitely. There is an older couple upstairs, but I rarely see them. I wanted something that had an open-ended leave date—just in case.” There is no way in hell that I am telling him that it looks like I may be here for about a month. Not now, anyway.
“What’s that on your shirt? Some sort of rock group?” He points at my chest, his thick brows drawn into a frown. There is a little crinkle in between them that I want to smooth out. With his pouty lips and high cheekbones- the broody look works on him. It really does.
I point a thumb at the image, “It’s Pinhead. You know, from Hellraiser?” I shrug. “You don’t know Hellraiser? It’s a famous movie.”
His handsome face looks revolted. “No. Is it one of those horror movies? That looks bloody awful. Why do you have that smile on your face?” I’m grinning like a fool.
“Because I just realized that you’re afraid of scary movies. It’s okay, Ayden. No one is perfect.” I lay the sympathetic sarcasm on thick and chuckle when his eyes narrow in annoyance.
“I never said I was scared. Just that it looks terrible. Why would someone put pins all over their face?” He grimaces as he stands and holds up his hand. “No. Don’t explain it. I would like to sleep soundly tonight.” He leans down and offers me a hand. I stare at it for a moment before slipping my fingers into his, as he pulls me up quickly. We are only standing about an inch apart, and I stare at him while he looks at every part of my face, individually, before settling on my eyes.
“Did Batroni behave for the rest of the day? Let me know immediately if he doesn’t. I already had a word with him about his attitude— I won’t tolerate him mistreating you.” His voice is raspy and smooth—a highbrow accent dotting every word.
“Eh. I get it. I mean I would be a complete asshole if someone walked into my lab or classroom and tried to take over. And I have no problem putting Batroni in his place if he acts up.” I shrug again. “But, I will put his approach in my report if that makes you feel better.”
I take a step back—his smell and the heat from his skin getting to me. He smirks a little but moves to the door. I follow behind, trying not to notice how his tailored pants fit his incredible butt. I tuck my hands under my armpits to prevent an accidental grab and squeeze. He steps onto the stoop and turns to look at me again. I see an expensive car purr to the curb, and a well-dressed guy jumps out and opens the back passenger door.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Cassidy.” He looks like he wants to say more, but doesn’t. Giving me one more heated look, he bounds down the steps and slips into the seat. I whirl around and close the door behind me before I watch him leave like a lovesick puppy. He behaved himself, right?
So why do I feel so disappointed?
Ayden
I went back the next night.
And the night after that.
I learn that her middle name really is Michael, and it was apparently also her birth mother’s middle name. She goes by C. Michael Masters partly because there is another person in the scientific community named Cassidy Masters, though they are in a completely different area. She is very close to her foster sisters—one a lawyer specializing in Child Advocacy and the other a marketing director for a fashion label. She’s proud of both of them, even though she claims she is the boring one out of the group- something I highly doubt.
She is fiercely passionate about creating opportunities for underprivileged children. Her program at Berkley sounds complicated, but from what I understand, it’s a radical approach to teaching with no textbooks or set curriculum. Students take hours with her every semester, where they work on a four-year project that dovetails into their other classes. All of the students have to meet a very high standard of academic performance, and one hundred percent of them are scholarship recipients, all racially diverse— none from wealthy backgrounds. And there are precisely half boys and half girls.
All of her ‘kids’ as she calls them are at a perfect or better grade point average, but most importantly, they created a pseudo-family— connections they will take with them forever. Next semester was the last of the four-year experiment, and almost all of them are going on to another level of education, with a good number of them already securing jobs at high profile companies. I told her that I would love to take a look at their accomplishments and see if any of them would be a fit at DevCo. The brilliance of her grin about knocked me down, and she chattered excitedly about a few that she thought would be interested in moving to England.
She is brilliant. An absolute genius. She has an uncanny ability to swerve from trying to convince me to watch one of her horrid movies, to lecturing me on cement being ‘seven percent of global emissions and how I needed to eliminate it from all of my buildings’. She is a walking encyclopedia and I am obsessed with listening to her talk about anything and everything.
She’s funny. By nature, I am not a giggle-prone person. I have a tremendous amount of familial and business responsibilitie
s and have my whole life. I like to think that I am a fun person, but that title belongs to Bash. At most, I am ‘mildly amused’ and often ‘way too serious.’ But Cassidy makes me laugh out loud. She is an apt mimic and does a fabulous job of imitating many of the people at DevCo, and is quick on her feet. Last night she had tears coming to my eyes doing a reenactment of a conversation that I had with my brother. I had no idea that she found it humorous, but apparently, she was laughing the whole time. She got our dynamic perfectly, and it made me look at my relationship with him closely.
I learn that she is impossibly beautiful when she laughs.
I learn that she is gorgeous, even when she is shoveling coq au vin in her mouth and talking at the same time.
I learn that her heart is as perfect as she is, almost too big for her petite body.
I learn that I want her more than my next breath.
The fourth night, I brought food from my favorite French restaurant (a first for me, and the chef fell over himself to pack a perfect dinner a deux. I can only imagine this getting out to the rags and the speculation it will cause.) Her face lit up, and we ate on the carpet of her flat while she chatted about Apollo and the report she will be delivering soon. She has already rearranged the lab (much to Batroni’s rage) and set up a healthy snack and coffee station. Previously the technicians would have to bring their food, and Cassidy is adamant that we should provide fuel to the team instead of making them suffer. The staff was ecstatic, and productivity has surged.
Tonight I am debating what kind of food to bring her when Bash stops me in my car.
“Pub tonight? I’m gagging for a pint.” He rubs his throat dramatically, and I roll my eyes. “Not tonight.” My driver opens the door, and Bash steps in my way. “Why not?” He is a mix of suspicion and amusement. “Where are you going? I could join you.”
I grit my teeth but keep a calm demeanor. “Nowhere. Just back to my flat.” I try to enter the car again, but he’s still in the way. If we weren’t the same size, I would throttle him and leave. “Which one? I could follow you there.” He’s all but blocking my way, and it’s taking the strength of Hercules not to shove him to the ground. If I didn’t think he would rat me out to our mum, I’d do it in an instant.
“I’m meeting someone. Move out of the way, Puddock.” The nickname from childhood spreads a broad grin on his face. “I could join you and leave before things get…intimate. Who are you meeting?” He knows. The dodgy fucker knows.
“I’m going over to Cassidy’s. We’ve been discussing the project.” My voice is brisk, but he doesn’t fall for it.
“Ohhhh. Then I will join you. I’m sure Dr. Masters won’t mind.” He runs around my Bentley and plops into the other seat. “I’ll just come in with you tomorrow morning. My car will be fine here.” He waves his hand around, a wolfish smile and sparkling eyes watching me.
A deep sigh pops out of my mouth, and I reluctantly swing my legs in. Clayton closes the door, and Bash automatically starts chattering about this and that—while I compose emails and have Phyl order Italian from Signor Sassi. I ask her to order enough for three and grunt responses to my brother. We make it into London while Clayton runs into the restaurant to pick up our dinner. Bash says nothing; he just raises his annoying eyebrows (I don’t care if they are identical to mine- they are still annoying) and smiles.
He is out of the car before I am and knocking on her door loudly. She is still in her jeans and jumper and laughing when I walk up. I give her an apologetic look as Bash settles himself in her kitchen, pulling out plates and flatware. I place the bag of food on the table, and they keep up their conversation, jumping from Apollo to music to museums. They dig into the food, and Cassidy exclaims over the pasta, Bash taking all the credit for the selection. I’d be rightly jealous if I didn’t catch Cassidy glancing at me every so often with a warm look on her face. She likes Bash- they are of an age, but there is nothing romantic in their interaction. Though that doesn’t stop Bash from flirting with her— and her putting him laughingly in his place. I listen to them quietly, enjoying their banter, when I hear Cassidy tease me about not liking scary movies. Her blue eyes are shiny, and I want to kick my brother’s bony arse out of here and bury myself inside of her.
“It’s not that I’m frightened. I just think they are ridiculous.” I cross my arms over my chest and glare slash smirk at her. She grins, rolling her eyes while Bash snorts loudly.
“Bollocks. When we were wee ones, that one movie had you with nightmares for weeks. You had to have Mum sleep in your room if I recall.” Cassidy’s eyes widen, and I can see her trying not to smile. “Which movie?”
Bash glances at me wickedly, and I decide at that moment to leave him out of my will. No inheritance for him, the wanker. “The one with the clown that comes from under the bed and tries to strangle the boy. The one with the TV and the little girl.”
“Ohhhh. Poltergeist,” Cassidy nods gravely. “That was terrifying. There were a few sequels that weren’t so bad, but yeah. I was scared of that clown too. I get it now—you were traumatized.” Her luscious lips are quivering with laughter, though she is trying desperately to remain sober.
“I wasn’t traumatized,” I protest. “Just that scene wasn’t right. Terrible.” Bash snickers. “He was traumatized. To this day, he can’t sleep with the telly on.”
I throw my fork at him, which he expertly ducks laughing loudly. “And with that, we shall leave you for the evening. I need to take this infant home before he embarrasses me further.”
I pull Bash out of his chair and shove him toward the trash bin. We help her clean up quickly, and she walks us to the door. Bash tries to kiss her hand, and she gently chops him in the stomach, giggling. I smile at their antics and bow to her slightly. More than anything, I want to stay, but I know there is no way with my brother acting like a fool. She waves at us before closing the door, and I run a frustrated hand through my hair. I tell Clayton to take Bash to his place, which is close to mine, and drop my head back on the seat, closing my eyes.
“What are you waiting for?” Bash asks me quietly. “She wants you. It’s plain to see.”
“She doesn’t want to sleep with me while we are working together. She thinks it will complicate things. I’m trying to respect that.” I don’t tell him that I am determined to get Cassidy past that. I just need a little more time.
“You are different with her. Happy. Relaxed. She is good for you.” He frowns a little. “She is actually exactly what you need. Not the least bit interested in your wealth or our family. Just you. Rotten luck that she lives halfway around the world. ”
I glance sideways out the window. Rotten luck, indeed.
Cassidy
These little meets up are killing me.
Every night, after Pat drops me off, Ayden pops up with some gourmet meal and a smile on his gorgeous face. We talk about everything— I learn that his dad died when Bash was just a baby (they are five years apart), so while Ayden has vague memories of him, Bash has none. His mom married an old family friend who raised both of the boys, and their paternal grandfather—a lion who rules the pride— is still alive. Apparently, Bash has always been a pain in the ass, and while he gets on every nerve Ayden has, it’s clear that he loves his brother to death.
He tells me all about his best friend, whom he met when the guy was nursing a broken heart. And that same BFF is now exceptionally happily married with two babies—one of whom is his godson. He told me a funny story about the niece of the best friend, who is a very adept pickpocket even as a toddler. I was in fits when he told me she was so quick and agile that she also got one over on him.
He got me to open up a little bit more about my childhood, though there were areas I just wouldn’t go. He was respectful of my reticence, but I can tell that he wants more information. He’s insatiable, and I’ve never had a man truly fascinated with every detail about me—it’s unnerving but also exhilarating.
He has a quiet sense of humor—dry but quick. I love
making him laugh—the lines next to his eyes pop out, and he has a teeny little dimple at the corner of his pouty lips. I want to poke it. And then maybe lick it.