by Alexis Hall
“Any word will do.” He shifted impatiently. “I understand red is traditional.”
Red was boring.
The silence stretched out between us. Every single word in the entirety of the human history of language was somewhere else right then.
“I…I know I’ve probably startled you. Maybe even frightened you. But, Arden, I really don’t want to hurt you in any way that—”
Oh God, the look in his eyes. Like a half-tame wolf the second before its spirit broke.
“No,” I cried. “No. It’s fine. My safeword is…um…Mace Windu.”
“It’s what?” Caspian asked, finally.
I shrugged. “He’s the badass Jedi with the purple lightsaber.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.” He sounded faintly affronted that I’d doubted his knowledge of the Jedi Council. “I just don’t know why you’d— It doesn’t matter. If that’s what you’ll remember. If it makes you feel safe.”
I thought about telling him he made me feel safe, but I didn’t think he’d believe me. “It’s Samuel L. Jackson,” I said instead. “Of course I feel motherfucking safe.”
Caspian really did leave after that. He had his phone out as he stepped into the elevator, immediately back into work mode.
And I was, once again, alone in One Hyde Park.
But it wasn’t so bad. And, God, I was spoiled. There were homeless people. And here I was, conceding that an extravagant, exclusive apartment in central London was “not so bad.”
I unpacked and changed into my whale print lounge trousers for the sake of my arse. Although not before I’d spent some time admiring how red and totally owned it looked in the bathroom mirror.
Then I arranged myself, stomach-down on the bed, and got to grips with the emails I’d neglected while in Kinlochbervie. I even made a spreadsheet so I could keep track of what I’d written, where I’d sent out, and what the outcome was. And, okay, it was only five lines long but it was still a motherfucking spreadsheet, motherfuckers. Finally, I settled into brainstorming up some fresh ideas. Because Caspian was right: even if Milieu rejected me, there were still countless opportunities for frivolous-article writing floating about in the universe.
And, no, it wouldn’t make me a billionaire or change the world. But a lot of things that changed the world were actively bad. And this was what I wanted to do.
I was so caught up in writing—a column pitch for GQ entitled “The Ten Most Awesome Things in the World Right Now” that I thought I could put together monthly and research entirely on the internet—that I almost brain-hazed right through the ringing of my phone. I scrabbled for it and answered about a second before I would have lost the call. “Uh, hello?”
“Arden?”
Caspian’s voice, perhaps still the part of him most familiar to me, slipped down my spine like an unexpected caress. “Gosh…it’s you. Hi.”
“Did I wake you?”
“N-no. I was just—what time is it?”
“It’s late. Nearly midnight, I’m afraid.”
I guess I’d stopped expecting more than terse little texts so this was almost as startling as it was gratifying. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, of course.” He sounded slightly flustered.
And then fell silent.
An intriguing possibility crept into my mind. “Is this…I mean…do you miss me?”
“Actually, I thought you might prefer to hear from me personally because I won’t be able to see you tomorrow as I’d hoped. I have a conference call that will likely take most of my evening.”
“Oh.” I’d been back less than a day and we were doing this again? Seriously? And right after all the promises he’d made? Well, okay. The promises he carefully hadn’t made. Gah. Still, at least he’d phoned instead of sending one of his heart-crushing little texts.
“In fact, the whole week is looking somewhat overwhelming, and I need to be in Paris on Wednesday. Can we do Friday?”
“Sure. Whatever.”
“I’m truly sorry.” He sighed. “I would much rather be with you.”
On some level, I recognized that he was trying. But it was still too reminiscent of the treatment that had driven me to Kinlochbervie in the first place. “And what if, by the time Friday rolls round, there’s something else you absolutely have to do?”
“Sweetheart, I’m the owner and CEO of a multinational corporation. There will be times when I have to work, but I give you my word that I’ll be here on Friday come hell, high-water, or the simultaneous collapse of the dollar, the yen, and the euro.”
I muttered balefully.
“What was that?”
“Calling me sweetheart. It’s cheating.”
“I’m sorry. I won’t if you don’t want me to.”
“No, I do. That’s the problem.” Fuck. I couldn’t start an argument now. It couldn’t be my first contribution to our newly reconciled relationship. And, besides, this was who Caspian was. There was no point agreeing to bang a billionaire if you took issue with them, y’know, being a billionaire. “Friday’s fine. And if the entire global economy implodes I won’t mind if you can’t make it.”
Somehow I knew he was smiling. And when he spoke, his voice was all silk and menace and mirth. “I was thinking you could perhaps arrange for sushi?”
Well. That was definitely promising. And would hopefully console me for the last time I’d attempted to seduce him with dinner and light bondage. “And what will you bring?”
“My tie.”
I made an undignified, gleeful squeaking noise. And then flailed desperately after sexy. “I look forward to it, Mr. Hart.”
There was another silence. I was fully expecting him to wish me good night and hang up and I would have actually been okay with that since I’d had more of Caspian today than I would have thought possible before Kinlochbervie. But instead he asked: “How’s your…how are you feeling?”
“I feel good. My arse feels sore. I think about you every time I try to sit down.” I grinned, even though he couldn’t see it. “And I’ll probably be thinking about you later too.”
“Is that so?”
“Oh yes. I’ll be thinking of you…very…hard…indeed.”
He laughed—uninhibited for once and joyous. “Is this how you’ve spent your evening?”
“What? No. That’s going to be my reward. I’ve been super productive.”
“What have you been doing?”
Wow…this was. Wow. If life was Buzzfeed, it would definitely be near the top of the Arden’s Best All Time Moments list. Caspian Hart had hurt me and fucked me, and was now asking about my day. And it was perfect. Like having a real boyfriend. I pushed my laptop aside and swooned into a happy heap on top of the duvet. “I’ll tell you but I need to know something first. Where are you right now?”
He hesitated for a moment. “I’m on my balcony,” he said warily. “Thinking about having a cigarette. Why?”
“I just wanted to be able to picture you while we talked.” And I could: waiting like Rapunzel at the top of some great glass tower, halo-ed in artificial gold from the city that lay at his feet. I wanted to tell him: you can come back to me. I wanted to beg: please don’t be alone. But he already knew that. And at some point he was going to have choose for himself. So I went on lightly, “It’s not very exciting. I organized myself and drafted another couple of articles.”
“Did you send your piece to Milieu?”
Eep. “Technically…no.”
“Are no and technically no the same thing?”
“Kind of.”
“Is something holding you back?” he asked gently.
“You mean, apart from anxiety, insecurity, and raging imposter syndrome?”
“Yes.”
I sighed. “I guess I keep tinkering pointlessly with it?”
Even little silences felt epic on the phone.
Finally, he said: “Would it help if you shared it with me?”
I blinked. “Seriously? You want to read my crappy
article?”
“Well, I did. But”—his voice turned teasing—“now you’ve told me it’s crappy, I’ve changed my mind.”
“Hey, I’m just managing your expectations. I…um…I could read it to you. If you have, y’know. The interest.”
“Of course. Give me a moment.” I heard the click of a lighter. Followed by Caspian’s indrawn breath. “How about we make a pact? You read it to me and then submit it to Milieu.”
“What if you think it’s terrible?”
“Unless I think it’s terrible. But if I don’t think it’s terrible, you have to send it.”
“Um. All right.”
Wait. What was happening?
Had I really offered to read my article to Caspian? And had he really said yes? I was suddenly and completely overwhelmed by self-consciousness. This was a man whose time was so valuable he needed his own plane. Also, what if I sucked? What if I sucked so badly he stopped believing I was charming and special and adorable? What if I put him off wanting to fuck me?
Ahhhhhhh!
But then. Did I trust Caspian or didn’t I? In what deranged world did I live in, that I as up for him tying me up and hitting me, but so-so on showing him some words I’d arranged into a particular order? And, hell, if I didn’t have the bollocks to share this with someone who was demonstrably on my side, how in God’s name was I going to face editors and publishers and a public who would have nothing else to judge me by?
So I did it. I read the damn article to Caspian Hart.
And he was…nice about it. I wished I could have seen his face, but he made soft, amused noises at the bits I’d intended to be funny and, afterward, he told me he liked it with just the right amount of conviction that I got all flustered and glowy. As praise went it was pretty straightforward, but any more and I would have felt patronized. I was under no illusions that what I’d produced was a heartbreaking work of staggering genius. But I hoped it was, well, good enough to entertain someone while they were on the loo or stuck in a queue anyway.
“You have a very engaging voice,” Caspian said. “Although, of course, I’m somewhat biased.”
I squirmed with pleasure. “Thank you.”
“Given this is not my field and I have little experience or expertise to bring to bear, would my feedback have any value to you?”
And that was when I realized he was self-conscious too—in his own way—and wanting to be helpful. It steeled my nerves and made me nod pointlessly into the phone. “Absolutely.”
My trepidation wasn’t entirely unjustified. You didn’t become a billionaire through sensitivity and good karma. I was half expecting him to annihilate me—not maliciously, but by dint of having no conception of how lesser mortals might feel about things. But he was actually perfect. Focused and thoughtful and…gentle, so that rather than leaving me crushed into the dust, I felt weirdly excited about what I’d written. The ways I could refine it and make it even better.
None of his observations were particularly harsh—they just drew my attention in small, careful ways to places where my meaning wasn’t quite clear or the structure wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t anything any other moderately astute reader couldn’t have told me. Except it was exactly what I needed. And it was even better because it was Caspian.
I didn’t for a moment believe this was how he interacted when he was billionaire-ing. But it still offered a glimpse of that side of him. A man who, for all his cold ways and his locked-up heart, understood people. And how to motivate and inspire them.
“I, ah, I hope it’s useful,” he finished. “I’m not exactly a literary critic.”
“It’s wonderful. You’re wonderful.”
He made a snuffly noise, which I thought might have been embarrassment. And was adorable. Then cleared his throat. “Remember our pact.”
“I’m going to make these changes and I’ll send it. Promise promise promise.”
“Then I should probably say good night.”
“I guess you probably should.”
Except…neither of us did. We just hung around in the silence like teenagers.
Until Caspian cleared his throat again. “I’ll see you on Friday.”
“I’m crossing my fingers for the future of the dollar, the euro, and the yen.”
“As am I. Good night, Arden.”
And then he was gone.
As laid down by the terms of our pact—OMG, Caspian could be the cutest sometimes—I gave my article one last edit and then fired it off to Milieu.
I really hoped they wanted it. Abandoned hospital rave seemed so them. It was quirky and unusual and—honestly—the whole affair had reeked of privilege. Of exclusivity and payoffs and self-conscious slumming. An ultimately upper-class hobby. I also hoped the fact I’d sent it at 2 a.m. made me look like a wild party animal. Rather than just, say, horrendously unemployed.
Regardless, I felt shiny and accomplished as I put my laptop away and gingerly rolled myself up in the duvet. I did wonder how well I’d sleep, given the requirement to lie on my stomach. But I didn’t wonder long.
Because in minutes I was gone. Blissfully, totally gone.
Chapter 6
I only woke up because I could smell smoke. Not house-burning-down type smoke. The lightly-toasted skunk-flavored smoke that meant someone had weed nearby.
I rolled over with a muffled moan, which was followed by an entirely unmuffled yell. Ellery was sitting right there, back against the footrest, spliff in her hand.
She took a nonchalant toke. “So you’re here.”
“Um, you’re in my bedroom.”
“What is this—a be-more-obvious contest?”
“No, it’s a…” I was way too nonconsensually naked for banter. “What are you doing here?”
She shrugged and kept on smoking. For all her half-closed eyes and general stoner air, you didn’t have to be Jean Grey to notice she didn’t seem entirely happy. She was wearing New Rocks, suspender tights, and a barely there T-shirt dress with the Rolling Stones Sticky Fingers tongue on it. From the smudged glitter on her eyelids, she’d probably been out all night. I guess I was lucky she hadn’t a brought a bunch of friends with her this time.
“Do you want to crash?” I tried. “Take a shower or something?”
Another shrug. Another drag.
I resisted the urge to flap the smoke away with my hand. “Are you really just going to sit there? Getting high? On my bed?”
Shrug. I was sensing a theme.
“Okay, fine. But I think I might go back to sleep if it’s all the same to you.”
Since no answer forthcame, I wriggled onto my stomach, tucked myself into the duvet, and stuffed my head under the pillow. I didn’t actually believe I would prance off to slumberland with my…uh…okay I was still drawing a blank on what to call whatever I was doing with Caspian…with Caspian’s sister sitting right there, but it was better than effortfully extracting whatever the fuck was up Ellery’s arse.
“Are you coming to my birthday or what?” she asked, the moment I was settled. “Caspian was supposed to give you an invitation. But probably he didn’t bother.”
I refused to exit the pillow. “I got it. And I’m definitely coming.”
“You didn’t RSVP.”
“I haven’t had time.” Also RSVPing scared the crap out of me. What if I did it wrong and everybody was secretly laughing at me?
“If you don’t RSVP they won’t let you in.”
“Ellery, what time is it?”
No reply.
I sighed into the bed. “I’ll RSVP today. I promise.”
There was a long silence. I was starting to regret my sleep-based strategy because it meant I was essentially stuck facedown with nothing to do until Ellery got bored, passed out, or we both died of old age.
“It’s lame.”
If Hazel had been here, she’d have thrown back not as lame as your use of ableist language, just like she did when I was in my teens. The words sounded so familiar in my head it was al
most as if she was there to say them. I thought better of trying them out on Ellery, though. “What is?”
“The party.”
That was a pretty low-key way of describing what was likely to be the poshest do of my life. A party was when you went to someone’s house with a bottle of £4.99 wine and ended up sitting on the floor because the living room was too small for the twelve people who’d turned up. A masquerade ball was…something else. “It sounds, uh, amazing.”
“It’s Trudy’s thing.”
I de-pillowed and turned, settling the bits of me that needed it as carefully as possible. “Trudy?”
She muttered something.
“Huh?
“My mother.” Her already husky voice had acquired that weed-hoarse edge so she sounded like Lauren Bacall in a bad mood.
“Um, you call your mother Trudy?”
She glanced up, her strange blue-green eyes sparking. “Textbook, aren’t I?”
“I’m not your counselor.”
She unfolded her legs and climbed off the bed, boot buckles jingling. Took the final drag of her joint and then vanished with the roach. Truthfully, I was relieved she didn’t just toss it onto the carpet or something.
As soon as she was out of sight, I shot out of bed, pulled on a pair of boxers and the biggest T-shirt I had—which I’d got at a John Grant concert, and the only size they’d had left was apparently elephantine. It said callipygian on it, with the definition underneath. Nik had bought it for me. Since it definitely applied.
I was trying to bring order to my hair, which had assumed its usual sleeping position of every-fucking-where when Ellery came back. She lingered in the doorway, toeing at the wall in a not-quite-kicking it way.
“I didn’t know where you’d gone,” she said finally.
I blinked. “Uh, home? I mean, back to Kinlochbervie, where my family live.”
“Did he hurt you? Is that why you had to leave?”
“Well…kind of.”
Her hands clenched into fists and now she did kick the wall, making me flinch. “Then you should have stayed away. He hurt his last boyfriend too. He hurts everyone. So they leave.”