by Julia Kent
“You broke protocol. You came over to us and our eyes just...”
“Yes, Persephone. I remember.”
“You melted me.”
“No. We... we melded. It was–”
“Indescribable.” My pulse quickens.
“Yes.”
“You sat down next to me. Asked me my name.”
“You told me it was Pinky Thunderpissflaps.”
“I've had people bungle my name in worse ways.”
“And then I asked you to spell it.”
I brighten at the memory. “I spelled it F-U-C-K-Y-O-U-W-I-T-H-A-G-A-R-D-E-N-G-N-O-M-E.”
“And I actually put that on the paperwork. You have any idea how much crap I took for that from my boss?”
I shrug.
“Every single woman in that protest group gave us fake names.” He laughs. “It was trial by fire for me. First case. My boss laughed her ass off watching me fumble.”
“You were kind.”
“I was?”
“I wasn't expecting kind, Parker. I went there to take on the system, fight the man, and instead, I got you.”
“And now you're being kind. To me.”
“A man almost died in your arms. That would make anyone feel traumatized.”
He stiffens. “I'm fine.”
“That's the thing, though. You don't have to be.” I let go of his shoulder, feeling like I'm on the edge of a huge canyon, ready to tip in.
“I never had to be fine with you. You always let me be real.”
“Yes.” I close my eyes, the room a bit wobbly from the alcohol. I haven't had too much, but just enough to be dangerous. This Parker isn't the unbearable being who lives in my mind, the one who is evil and cruel, the man I loved who cackles insanely at my destruction by the topless meme.
He's standing before me, stressed and hurting.
And... this is all I can offer.
One step closer and I'm all in.
And while I have weathered being betrayed by him, I cannot betray myself.
“After this, can we please go somewhere and talk?” he asks.
“No.”
“Really?” The word comes out of him with so much emotion, it stops me in my tracks, my own feelings running amok, my body drawn to him. My refusal is because I know how dangerous it is to be so close to him. The man has already invaded my world in a big misunderstanding, kissed me, saved the life of a man from a group of leering meme-bots who ogled my boobs like they’re a public utility, and now he’s asking to go somewhere and talk?
When he knows we won’t just talk?
“Really. No.”
“You don’t want,” he says, voice husky and fading at the end of the word want, “to be with me? At all? Even to talk?”
The backs of my knees turn to quivering tingles, any shaky resolve left in me fleeing. Our eyes lock across five years of absence and what I see in him makes my next breath so hard to take.
My tongue presses hard against the roof of my mouth and I dig my fingernails into my thigh, all to ground me, all to stop me, all to hold myself back because I know it’s useless, but I have to try.
Right?
I have to try not to grab him as he reaches for me and pulls me in, this kiss clinching the deal, one that isn’t taking me by surprise but instead is taking me by storm. I’m all in, my hands so grateful to touch him again, my breasts so happy to rub against his suit jacket, my lips so joyfully engaged with his. Every part of me is thankful to be wanted right back, at the same time that I hate him so fiercely for what he did.
I’m one big contradiction.
I am hypocrisy personified.
I am betraying my own dignity as his hands cup my ass but by God, this feels amazing.
And worth it.
When you fall for someone as hard as I fell for Parker Campbell nearly six years ago, and you experience that kind of love, you can’t ever let go of how it made you feel.
Of who it made you into.
“We wouldn’t just talk, Parker,” I whisper, looking up into eyes that acknowledge every word from my lips, lips that want nothing more than to taste him again. “You know that.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
“Then why hold back?”
“Because you hurt me!”
“Let’s talk, Persephone. Please.” His breath warms the tops of my breasts, cleavage enjoying the rhythmic heat. As he begins to breathe faster and harder, I find myself matching him, inhaling and exhaling as if we are one person.
Until suddenly, we are.
Parker’s grasp as we kiss is masterful, his hips pivoting until we’re in a tiny closet, the door shutting behind us, our bodies surrounded by coats. At any second, someone could walk in, find us, interrupt and embarrass us, but I don’t care as my fingers grasp his thick, hard chest. He doesn’t care as his hand slides between my thighs, my need to be touched so great that I moan into his mouth, biting his lip. He makes a sound that says he needs this, too, his erection pressing into my hip, the centering of his thickness as he nudges my legs wider with his knee making me hold my breath as he rubs up, just once, just right, just there.
“I’ve missed you,” he hisses as his mouth takes my earlobe, sucking gently, then hard, the tip of his tongue flicking and laving, my clit spasming as it imagines him doing this between my legs. My fingertips dig into his shoulders, one hand diving down the length of his abs until I cup his sac, then ride the ridge of my palm up his long, thick, engorged–
“What are we doing, Parker?” I gasp.
“Whatever we want,” he says, so steady, so sure, so unabashedly here.
“SKIP?” someone calls out from behind the door.
“PERKY?” Mallory whisper-yells, her voice breaking through as I clench, my whole body going tight, the core of me shivering with an orgasm that crashes over me as Parker’s leg, his mouth, his very presence, make me lose my everloving mind.
And all my self-control.
Every shred of it.
“I want more of you,” Parker says, so low that it’s subsonic, my thighs aching and shaking, my slick juices a testimony to how much I want him right back.
“What did we just do? I shouldn’t want this.”
He recoils, the change in demeanor the first thing that cuts through my post-climax haze. “What do you mean?”
“It shouldn’t be so easy. Why is it so easy with you? It was always natural. Like we were drawn to each other by some unnamed force that only affected us.”
“That’s exactly it, isn’t it?” he confirms, brushing my hair away from my face. Slivers of light shine through cracks in the door frame, his eye color like confetti on a sandstone background. “You’re a force of nature.”
“No. Not me. Us. We…”
“Yeah. I know. You don’t have to try to explain. I feel it, too.”
“PERKY!”
Mallory’s voice is so close, I make an eep! sound of surprise. A tentative tap tap tap makes Parker let out a long, frustrated sigh as he reaches into his pants, adjusts himself, then smoothes my hair one more time.
“You ready for primetime?”
“No.”
Mallory opens the door, the light blinding me.
“Too bad,” he whispers before turning to a stunned Mallory and Will, smothering a grin.
“We are sooo talking about this later,” Mal mutters in my ear, the same one Parker was just performing unspeakable pleasures on.
“I need another drink,” I mumble, pulling ahead of her, passing Parker.
Stumbling back toward the main room, Parker on my heels, Mal and Will behind us, I see exactly four people in our private dining room now. Raye, Hasty, Fiona, and Chris Fletcher, from our high school graduating class. I know Will has two more groomsmen who are stuck in traffic, so while the balance is off, it’s better than nothing. Raye is talking to Fletch while Fiona is doing her best to peel every inch of skin off Fletch’s body with her eyes.
I haven't seen that express
ion on her face since twelfth grade.
Five years after she dropkicked him in an epic fight.
She marches over, hands Parker his phone, and turns her back on him.
“Ah, Skip–the police want to talk to us.” Will turns his gaze just behind me. Two uniformed officers are standing on the threshold between the main dining room and our space, Saoirse Cannon and Hasty chatting them up. Hasty's eyes are darting all over, scanning the room and making calculations on how to be relevant and use this to her advantage.
Mallory rubs the space between Will's shoulder blades with a tender touch that makes me wish my conversation with Parker had gone in a different direction. Then again, I’m pretty sure Parker got exactly what he needed.
Guilt floods me as I realize, um, I got something I needed. But he didn’t. The angel on one of my shoulders feels seriously bad.
The devil on the other whispers: Heh. Serves him right.
Without a word, Parker nods and stiffly moves off with Will. Mallory and Raye move to me as Fiona comes over, the four of us huddled like football players planning their next move without a coach's signal.
“So much for a low key, zero-drama wedding rehearsal rehearsal dinner. Now Will and Parker are being interviewed by the Boston Globe and the police, and NECN has a camera crew here,” Mallory says.
“They do? For this?” I’m stunned.
“There happened to be a grand opening event a block away for some community health center. While you and Parker were ‘talking,’ they came around. They’d heard the sirens.” Mal’s finger quotes make Raye and Fiona give me the hairy eyeball. I squirm. My panties are soaked.
A flash of super-bright light from the main dining room makes it clear they found Parker.
“You okay?” I ask Mallory, who looks like she's about to cry.
“I’m even worse after finding you and Parker having sex in a coat closet!”
Fiona’s eyebrows shoot above the rim of her enormous pink glasses. “What?”
“We weren’t having… sex. Not exactly.”
“How do you ‘not exactly’ have sex?” Raye asks, her nose wiggling like a witch doing a tiny spell. She’s so sophisticated compared to high school, her hair long and smooth, eyes clever and amused behind her glasses.
“We didn’t… you know.” I make an O out of my thumb and index finger and stick my other index finger in there.
“You didn’t use a strap-on?” she asks sweetly, making Fiona spray half her cocktail all over the wall.
“WHAT? Who said anything about strap-ons? Besides, it’s not like I carry one in my purse in case my asshole ex-boyfriend accidentally turns out to be a groomsman in my best friend’s wedding and I see him at the rehearsal rehearsal dinner and want to peg him!”
Red and white lights flash in the parking lot, the repetitive glow reminding me of the seriousness of what happened just a few minutes ago.
“Then how did you have sex ‘not exactly’?”
“I came, he didn’t,” I say bluntly to Raye.
“Leave it to Perky to find a way to single-handedly even out sexual behavior statistics,” Fiona jabs.
“Can we stop talking about sex?” Mal says, suddenly serious. She looks at the ambulance. “I'm worried about Will. He and Parker–what if they hadn't been able to save that guy?”
We breathe together, all quietly acknowledging the shared thought, the pulse between my legs feeling tawdry. Disrespectful. Parker went from saving a dying man to giving me an orgasm in a coat closet within fifteen minutes. I do not know how to process this.
So I drink more. My martini glass was right on the table where I left it.
Raye squares her shoulders. “But they did save him. The man is fine. Paramedics just took him to the hospital.”
“Wish I’d been here to help,” Fletch says, interrupting. He’s a paramedic, I remember, the haze of overwhelm making me pluck details out of my memory like I’m skimming a dirty pool with a net.
Fiona turns her back to him and stalks off. He frowns her way and says, “Just got here, and already I need a beer.” Ambling off, he heads for the bar, the opposite direction of Fi.
“Parker said it triggered memories of giving CPR to Congressman O'Rollins,” I tell Raye and Mal.
Mallory's stricken face makes me feel guilty for mentioning it. “Oh, God! I can see why!”
“He’s fine,” I assure her.
A member of the staff appears and tells Mal they’re ready for our salad course. Mal and Raye head to the table we’re supposed to sit at.
Out of the corner of my eye I track Parker, half my attention on my friends, half on him, a silent, invisible self at his side.
One who is suddenly edged out by Saoirse, whose side boob is practically shaking Parker's hand.
“She's a stage-two clinger, isn't she?” Hasty's whisper in my ear damn near makes me hit her, my startle reflex engaged. I jump. She smirks.
“What?”
“Saoirse. Going after Parker like that.” Hasty's eyes dart around my face, then narrow. “You're still in love with him.”
Someone this ambitious and this cutthroat isn't worth lying to, but she's also not my confidante. Tread carefully with Hasty, I've learned:
Here be dragons.
“You know they're dating, right?”
My inner dragon roasts my liver with a roar.
“They're what?”
“She got him to take her to some big journalism dinner in DC a month or so ago. She's already picking out the engagement ring and the house in Georgetown.”
“Are they seriously dating again? Engagement?” I choke on the word.
“What? God, no. Someone as ambitious as Parker Campbell wouldn't be caught dead marrying a journalist.” Her eyebrows bounce as she looks at me, telegraphing every judgmental thought she's also thinking about me.
Which is that Parker Campbell wouldn't be caught dead marrying me, either.
She frowns. “Wait. What do you mean, ‘again’?”
“Saoirse is Parker's college girlfriend. They dated before I met him.”
“Oh! So there's a history.”
Standing on tiptoes in her Manolos, Saoirse places her manicured hand on Parker's shoulder and whispers something in his ear that makes him laugh, a genuine sound that turns heads, incites smiles, changes the energy in the room. Even the cops sense it, Parker's charm potentiated by the beautiful rising star in the news industry.
“She's gunning for a newsmagazine anchor position.”
“But she's with a newspaper.”
“And she's on every major Sunday news show where she can book a spot. Watch some of her clips, Perky. Saoirse Cannon is going for it.” A pause. “Again.” Hasty's tone is a knife to my spinning head.
I watch the way she whispers in Parker's ear.
Oh yes, she is.
Parker walks up to Mallory and Will, speaking in dulcet tones designed to calm and reassure. Assured and suave, he oozes earnest genuineness. A natural peace maker, Parker seeks to understand you. Figure out what makes you tick, then meet you where you are and welcome your best self to the table to talk and open up and create the ultimate solution to make the world better.
It's a quality found in the highest echelons of business, academia, and government.
It can also be a bit sociopathic.
But not in Parker.
And that's what makes him dangerous.
Because he really means it.
“No, stay,” Mallory says reluctantly to Parker, looking to Will for the right answer as the three of them finish talking, Parker pulling away. Rarely so deferential, she's clearly overwhelmed and seeking her soulmate to give her an anchor.
Will, like Parker, has an intuitive ability to read people. His gaze locks on Parker, trying to find the b.s.
Except that's the problem: even Parker's bullshit is the kind that makes you feel like he's rooting for you to join his team and prevail together.
He's the ultimate drinking buddy. The guy wh
o you call when you're moving and need help. The man who will build a deck with you.
The guy who writes legislation that saves at-risk kids.
“I don't want Mallory to suffer because you turned me into an unknowing wingman to help you weasel your way back into Perky's life,” Will says evenly.
I really underestimated him.
“I don't want that, either,” Parker instantly replies.
“Then we're in agreement. Good.” Regret leaks out of the protective shield Will's wearing, a forcefield that extends to Mallory, whose face tightens, tiny wrinkles between her eyes showing emotional pain. After what he's done to me, the tug of remorse at sending Nice Guy Parker away just shows how damn charming he can be.
Will cracks the knuckles on his left hand, three in a row, the fingers going pop pop pop before Mal lays a hand on his elbow and he stops.
But he doesn't back down.
It's not just me, then. Whew. Maybe I can give my past self a break for still being in love with a guy so captivating, he can make really smart, highly functional people like Will rethink their boundaries.
“And you.” Parker's attention focuses on me. His hand goes to his chin, rubbing the bottom of it, that space where the bone can be hard to navigate with a razor. Parker has a small scar there from slicing it open on a fence when he was a kid. If he pulls the skin up just so, you can see it, shaped like a thin canoe.
“Me?”
“I apologize. Deeply.” He smiles and laughs through his nose, the sound teeming with instant self-reflection that makes you realize in real time how stupid you were just an hour ago and wonder why your wiser, present self couldn't have been in charge then. “When I arrived and understood that Will's Mallory was your Mallory, I got stupid.”
He steps closer. Behind him, a team of police officers appears, clearly looking for him. Two men in suits, dark like undertakers, chat casually with them. I'm guessing they're connected to Parker somehow, but have no idea why.
“That is the most honest thing you've said all night, Parker,” I inform him.
“No. It's not.”
“Then what is?” I ask, the words too taunting. I'm baiting him, doing whatever I can to keep him in my orbit at the same time I want to run screaming from this place, away from him.
One step closer and I feel his breath on my cheek as he leans in and whispers, “This is the most honest thing I’ve said all night, Persephone: I'm still in love with you, too.”