Iron Princess (Iron Palace Book 2)

by Lisa Ferrari

  In the cab, riding back to my hotel, I conclude Nathan must do this a lot. He seemed to know everyone at the restaurant and clubs, which is how we got right in.

  I wonder if he makes a habit of flying young, impressionable, fame-hungry female writers such as myself to Manhattan to impress them with his wingback chairs and smiling secretary and ready access to local party scenes so he can sink his pedigreed balloon animal into them at some point.

  That’s not going to happen.

  I Skyped with Kellan from the club like a bitch.

  But I’m not letting Nathan touch me.

  And that’s when he touches me.

  He puts his hand on my thigh.

  I grab it and put it back on his thigh. “Nathan, I’m seeing someone.”

  “Call me Nate.” He leans forward, opens his mouth, and sticks out his tongue.

  I lean back, until I’m against the door of the cab. I think it’s a Prius; it’s very quiet.

  “Nathan, no.”

  Nathan sits up. “Oh. Sorry. I guess I misread your cues.” Nathan hiccups. He’s speaking very slowly. Maybe he’s more intoxicated than I thought.

  “What cues?”

  “The dinner, the drinks, the dancing, your sexy hair. Me grinding Nate Junior against your delightfully delectable and positively scrumptious posterior. I would readily imbibe a kilometer of your fecal matter in order to discover its origin.”

  Oh for fuck’s sake. He did not just say that.

  Good Lord.

  He actually said it; he actually said the phrase.

  Except he kinda butchered it by using a bunch of bullshit ten-dollar words.

  Mercifully, the Prius pulls up in front of my hotel. I open the door and am halfway out, hoping he gets the message. But I also want to know if our professional relationship is intact. Unless it was obliterated by flashing zombie beavers.

  “So, it was nice meeting you, Miss Valentine,” Nathan says.

  He holds out his hand.

  Tentatively, and with great reservation, I shake it.

  “I’ll be in touch regarding your books. I like your writing very much. You’re very talented. Good evening.” He turns to the Prius driver, a very exhausted-looking young man who is from somewhere in India. “Home, Jeeves!”

  The driver rolls his eyes at me as I get out and close the door.

  As the driver is waiting to pull out into traffic, I walk around the rear of the taxi (it is indeed a Prius). I catch a glimpse of Nathan holding a short glass tube to his nose, which he uses to snort up a small mountain of white powder from a little mirror.

  What a day.

  BACK IN MY hotel room, I flop on the bed. I am so full. I feel bloated. And drunk. And sleepy. And remorseful. I want to watch TV but the TV remote is over by the TV and I don’t want to get up.

  So I simply sprawl, arms and legs akimbo, whatever akimbo means. My purse in one hand and my phone in the other. My shoes still on.

  The room is very quiet.

  It’s nice.

  The clubs were very loud. My ears are ringing. Sometime in the next thirty years or so, hearing aid companies are going to make buttloads of money off all the people who trashed their hearing by spending so many nights in clubs.

  Boop-BEEP-boop, boop-BOOP-boop…

  Skype.

  Kellan.

  Yay!

  I tap the green icon and he appears. He’s sitting on the bed in his hotel room, just as I am. He’s shirtless. His pecs and shoulders look amazing. He’s holding a little black ready-meal tray and eating what looks like asparagus.

  “Hi, gorgeous,” he says.

  Oh… so sweet.

  “Hi.” I’m waiting to see how pissed he is.

  “Sorry our communication sucked earlier. Third time’s a charm. How was your meeting?”

  Kellan sounds fine. He doesn’t sound pissed at all. Unless he’s biding his time, pretending to be fine, when, in reality, he is so totally not fine.

  “Um, it was interesting.”

  “How was the publishing guy? What’s his name again?”

  “Nathan Wentworth. Um, he was fine. He’s very smart and very accomplished. He talks a lot, though. But he loves my writing. He’s read the entire trilogy and his deconstruction was so precise and thorough that I was totally blown away. He actually read my books. No one I know has read them. My mom hasn’t read them. Beth hasn’t read them. My dad doesn’t read them. Not even Denise. I gave her a printed copy and everything. I inscribed it to her and wrote a nice dedication and that was it, I never saw it again and she never mentioned it and no freakin’ way on God’s green earth am I going to go chasing after her or anyone else begging them to read my books.”

  “Shoot.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry, Claire. I should’ve read your books. Damnit. I feel really bad now.”

  “No, that’s okay, don’t feel bad.” I’m drunk enough to feel really badly about Kellan feeling badly.

  “No, I should’ve read them. Instead I’ve been reading Harry Potter.”

  “Harry Potter is mandatory reading for any man who wishes to be in a relationship with me, I will have you know. Harry Potter is required reading. So you’re excused.”

  “Okay. But I do want to read your stuff. Really. I’ve never really been the book-reading type, though, you know? I usually read non-fiction type stuff that relates to business or bodybuilding or cars or human potential or whatever.”

  “I know. It’s cool. You can read The Love Mush Room while I’m sucking your love mushroom, okay?”

  Kellan chuckles. “Okay.”

  We both lapse into silence, staring at our phone screens. It has that slightly offputting sensation of disconnectedness because Kellan’s eyes are on his screen, so he doesn’t appear to be actually looking at me.

  “Do me a favor,” I say, “look right into your phone’s camera for a second.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can pretend you’re actually looking at me.”

  “I am looking at you.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I am, too. You’re right here on my screen.”

  “I know, but it’s not the same. Watch.” I direct my gaze directly into the tiny little lens of the front camera on my phone. “There. See?”

  “Oh, yeah. Wow, that’s way better.”

  I resume our conversation while staring into the camera. “So how was your personal appearance?” It takes every ounce of strength I have, but I refrain from mentioning Stacy.

  “It was actually really good. We had a huge turnout. At least five hundred people. I shook a lot of hands and took a lot of selfies and signed a lot of stuff. One guy had me sign my name very, very carefully on his shoulder because he was going to a tattoo parlor from there to get my signature tattooed. He had Arnold’s tattoo on the other shoulder. Pretty good company.”

  “Serious… seriousous…” Crapola; I’m wasted and sleepy and slurring my words. My mouth won’t work. I bet it would work if Kellan’s penis were in it. His hot, throbbing—

  Claire, focus.

  I try again, “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. Pretty crazy.”

  “Very.” I love Kellan so much it hurts, but I haven’t considered tattooing his name on my body. “Did you sell lots of supplements? And make lots of money?”

  “Oh yeah. Sold out. It was a good day.”

  I’m still looking at the little camera lens on my phone.

  “Claire, it’s okay, you don’t have to keep doing that.”

  I shift back to my screen so I can see my man. I wish I were there so I could lick his nipples and then hold him down and rape him all night.

  “You do it.”

  “Okay.”

  Kellan’s eyes look up, right at me. It’s better. And kind of haunting. But his gorgeous cornflower-blue eyes are so, so, er, gorgeous. I immediately want to masturbate.

  “How’s that?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Kinda eerie, huh?
”

  “Totally.” I unbutton my jeans and push them down to my knees, along with my panties, and start rubbing my clit. It occurs to me that my bare butt is on a hotel comforter and we all know the microbiological calamitousness of hotel room comforters. But I’m drunk enough to not give a rat’s ass. The only ass, rodent or otherwise, about which I give, is Kellan’s.

  I start flexing and squeezing my thighs together, trying to orgasm quickly while he’s staring into the tiny lens on his phone. It’s like he’s here with me. I miss him.

  “Are you… are you touching yourself?”

  I’m starting to breathe heavily now. My mouth is open. I’m getting close. “Yes.”

  “That’s hot.” Kellan looks away from his camera and down to his screen, breaking the illusion.

  “No, wait, look at me again. Please?”

  “Like this?” He looks into the lens once more.

  That’s better. Alcohol lowers inhibitions, which raises libido. But it can also decrease the ability to climax. But such is not the case this evening. Five seconds later, I’m coming. And it’s a good one.

  My phone slips out of my hand and falls to the bed and then onto the floor.

  I’m too busy writhing around on the dubious comforter, locked in my orgasm, to retrieve it.

  Finally, a minute later, or perhaps longer (who the heck knows, given my inebriation and inability to discern time passage), I lean over the bed to get my phone. It’s on the carpet, face up. Kellan is still there.

  I roll too far and lose my balance and fall on the floor. Having my jeans around my knees doesn’t help.

  “You okay?” Kellan asks.

  I’m belly-down on the carpet beside the bed. The carpet is rough on my bare thighs. Hotel room carpet must surpass comforters in the don’t-touch-that! category, right up there with the black, rubbery handles on escalators and the buttons on ATM machines.

  “You bet I am, sailor.” I’m almost one-hundred-million-percent positive Kellan does not sail.

  I stand up, kick off my shoes, and march in place while stepping on my jeans until I eventually get out of them.

  I flop down on the bed.

  I get up again, yank the covers back, and flop down on the clean white sheet. It’s cool against my butt and smells clean the way heavily-bleached hotel sheets and towels do. I’ve always loved that smell.

  “See?” I ask and point my phone at my vagina as I open my legs. I start rubbing myself again. My clitoris is surprisingly not ticklish and I think I can go again. I spread myself open and push my middle finger up inside as I point my phone at my crotch, doing my drunken best to keep my delicate lady parts framed up properly for Kellan’s enjoyment.

  “Oh, wow,” Kellan exclaims.

  I should probably turn down my phone’s volume. The little speaker on the back is surprisingly loud.

  “Wait,” Kellan says.

  I look at my phone and see him flopping around on the bed as he gets naked. He holds his phone down between his legs. I can see his scrotum and the underside of his erection. It’s the same thing I see when I’m between his legs, fellating him.

  I love it.

  Kellan begins stroking himself. Violently.

  “Let’s come together, Claire. Put your phone between your legs.”

  I do as he requests, angling it so I can show him what he wants to see while also seeing his beautiful penis on my phone.

  Kellan starts grunting and breathing heavily. Behind his penis and his rapidly-pumping fist are his perfect 8-pack abs and massive chiseled chest, and his heart-wrenchingly beautiful blue eyes.

  “Oh God…” he calls out. “Oh God, Claire… I’m going to come… Come, Claire, come! Ah!”

  He erupts.

  I’m mesmerized as the semen shoots out. Kellan angles the phone to give me a perfect view.

  Wow.

  I orgasm a second time as I watch. I hold my breath and finally exhale loudly. I do my best to hold my phone so Kellan can see me, and I’m rolling around in the clean white sheets, burying my face in my pillow as I climax. It seems rum-and-Cokes are an aphrodisiac for me.

  Or, perhaps, it’s Kellan and his absolutely, positively divine manhood. His penis should have its own television show.

  Claire, focus.

  I am!

  Kellan is holding his phone up by his knee, angled down. His abs and chest are covered in semen. His semi-erect penis is resting on his abdomen. He’s smiling at me. He looks sleepy. I certainly am.

  “Turn off your lamp,” he coos.

  I reach over and switch it off. Kellan does the same.

  We’re alone together in the dark, our faces lit with the blue-white shadowy light of our phones.

  “I think I may be obsessed with your penis.”

  Kellan laughs. “That’s good.”

  We comfortably share silence. For how long I have no idea. Nor do I care.

  “Goodnight, Claire. I love you.”

  “Goodnight, Kellan. I love you, too.”

  I roll over and plug in my phone and prop it up against a pillow so it’s pointing at me. I want Kellan to see me while I’m sleeping.

  I pull the blankets up to my chin, everything except the comforter. Blech.

  Kellan dabs himself with some tissue and pulls the white sheet over himself.

  “This is nice,” he says. “It’s just as good as being together.”

  “No, it isn’t.” I’m almost offended by this. But I smile.

  Kellan smiles, too.

  “No,” he says, “it isn’t. I miss you. Stupid, huh?”

  “No, it’s not stupid. Why would it be stupid? I miss you, too. Vehemently.”

  “Vehemently?”

  “Yes. Vehemently. It means fiercely or passionately.”

  “I see. How much did you have to drink tonight?”

  “I don’t remember. Four rum-and-Cokes. Five? Six?”

  “Wow. I’m impressed.”

  “Me too. I love you.” I miss him so much and the alcohol is making me sleepy, a bit woozy, and very much in touch with my love for Kellan Kearns.

  “I love you, too.”

  “Keep your phone on, okay? So I can fall asleep with you.”

  “Okay.”

  I close my eyes.

  I open them a few seconds later, afraid Kellan has hung up.

  But he hasn’t. He’s there, lying on his side, with his hands curled beneath his chin, a little smile on his lips. It appears as though he’s actually looking right at me.

  I close my eyes once again and we fall asleep together.

  I OPEN MY eyes two minutes later, to make sure Kellan is still there. He is. Sleeping. He hasn’t moved. His hands are still curled under his chin. He looks peaceful, and I can see what he must’ve looked like when he was a little boy.

  But it hasn’t been two minutes.

  It’s been many, as in multiple, hours. It’s morning. Daylight is filling my room.

  I squint at my phone to see the time: 8:47 a.m.

  It’s 5:47 a.m. in California.

  Except that Kellan isn’t in California. I don’t know where he is. He never actually told me where his first appearance was and I didn’t think to ask. Oops.

  My flight isn’t until 3:05. I don’t need to be at JFK until 1:00. So I have a few hours.

  The hotel phone rings. It’s loud.

  I grab it midway through the second ring.

  It’s a woman at the front desk. She says there’s a Mister Wentworth there inquiring about me. She says he wants to have breakfast and take me to the airport.

  I feel weird. Immediately. Especially after Nathan, Nate, tried to kiss me in the nice Indian man’s Prius.

  But he did apologize.

  And he does like my books.

  “Ma’am?” the lady asks.

  Shit. “Okay, tell him I’ll be down in twenty minutes.”

  “Certainly.” And she hangs up.

  How the crap am I going to get ready and packed and be downstairs in twent
y minutes?

  Leaving Kellan to doze on my nightstand, I hurry into the shower to wake myself up.

  When I’m finally ready, Kellan is still asleep as I pack my charger and grab my phone.

  “Kellan…” I coo. I’m not sure if I should wake him up. “Kellannn…”

  He doesn’t wake up.

  Crap.

  I have to go.

  I end the call. He’ll understand.

  In the elevator, I send him a text.

  Last night was

  AMAZING.

  Wish you were

  here with me.

  Call me when you can.

  I love you.

  NATHAN IS WAITING in the lobby.

  He looks good.

  Like he did yesterday, only fresher. He’s preppy and intellectual looking in a blazer and turtleneck. He’s handsome and tall and fit. And successful and connected. Denise would have his babies in a heartbeat.

  We take a cab, another Prius, to a local breakfast place he knows called Omelet All In. Clever.

  Despite the cutesy name, the food is unreal. Probably the best omelet I’ve ever had.

  Nathan and I talk shop during breakfast. He tells me all about his agency and the publishers he knows and what they’re looking for and what the current trends are and how he plans to pitch my trilogy to this guy at this agency and that woman at that agency…

  It all sounds very impressive and scary and exciting, and by the time our cab is dropping me off at the Departures curb at JFK, I’m convinced Nathan is a good guy, a good agent, and he loves my work. Last night’s sloppy kiss attempt was an aberration.

  Nathan promises to be in touch and I head into the terminal.

  THE FLIGHT IS unremarkable, the weather is better, but I’m out of food so by the time we land in Sacramento, I’m ready to attack the Cinnabon cart.

  But I resist.

  I head out to the curb, secretly longing and hoping Kellan will be there holding a huge bouquet of flowers. He’ll sweep me off my feet and ram his tongue so far down my throat I can taste his breakfast. The women nearby will weep with joy for us.

  But it doesn’t happen. He isn’t there. He’s in Seattle or Raleigh or Houston or someplace.

  I catch a blue-and-yellow SuperShuttle to Kellan’s house.

  I use the key he gave me yesterday to let myself in.