by Geneva Lee
My words are a self-fulfilling prophecy. She grows louder with every thrust until I really do begin to worry the people below will hear us. The carol changes from We Wish You A Merry Christmas, to a soft, quiet rendition of Silent Night. I match pace with the song.
“No, don’t slow down,” she demands.
I reach around to the front of her hips and my fingertips find her clit.
“Ohhhhhhh.” The syllable rips through the air, discordant with the music below.
I pull back, and her next sound is full of deflated longing. I spin her around and lift her off the ground, placing her hips above mine. Her arms fumble with the fabric of her dress, attempting to get it out of the way. She leans back too far, and I struggle to keep her from falling. I stumble towards the broad wall next to the door, and we crash into it, too cold—and too hot—to care.
Her hips are beyond her ability to control them. They dart downwards again and again, trying to find their home. When at last she crashes down onto me, her moans become shrill gasps. She pushes my lips towards her cleavage, which looks as perfect as new-fallen snow.
“Harder,” she pants.
My thrusts send shockwaves across her body and more long, low moans out of her mouth.
Some distant part of my brain must still be functioning normally, because I eventually recognize the sound of footsteps on the stairs below us. Probably a member of the wait staff headed to the atrium. But when the number of footfalls hits twenty, I know someone is on their way to us.
“Someone’s coming,” I say, slowing down.
“Don’t care,” she says, her hips goading me to return to our previous pace.
Dammit.
I double my pace, desperate to reach our climax before it’s ruined.
“Ahh. Ahh. Ahh.” Adair repeats the sound again and again. Whoever is on the stairs can definitely hear us.
I see a silver-haired head appear below, its owner’s back to us. Adair unleashes her loudest moan yet, and I clamp my palm over her mouth in desperation. I can hardly think, and the distant, still-rational part of my brain screams that it’s a bad idea.
I don’t care.
I kick away the tile propping the door before the figure on the stairs rounds to where he will see us, and slide against the far side of it. We’re all in now.
Adair’s orgasm echoes through the grounds, mixed with the finishing strains of another carol. Mine follows just after, pulling every last bit of heat out of my body and syncing with the shivers I’ve managed to ignore so far.
A sharp rap on the door jolts us back to reality. I set Adair back on her feet and, keeping my weight against the door, furiously clasp my pants.
Another rap follows, this time accompanied with, “Adair?”
Adair’s nervous look is replaced with relief.
“Felix,” she whispers.
Thank god. If it had been her father…
We step back from the door when we hear the old butler try the knob. It opens slowly, and—although it’s stupid to even try—we pretend as if we were simply taking in the performance from above.
He scarcely bothers looking at me, although he definitely sees me. Instead, he addresses Adair. “The performance will conclude soon. You’ll be missed if you don’t return now.”
“Thank you, Felix,” Adair says, the crimson of her cheeks betraying the evenness of her tone.
Had she arranged it with him? Or is he simply so good at his job he always knows where his charges are? It’s impossible to tell by judging his expression. I suppose a good poker face is something of a job requirement for butlers.
Adair takes me by the hand and leads me down the stairs. We arrive back in the atrium half-frozen, and thankfully all eyes are on the final flourish of the choir’s performance of O Holy Night.
Adair spends the next twenty or so minutes making small talk with people, accepting their condolences for her loss, or hearing how proud of the job Adair has done on the party would make her mother. Her spirit, completely revived by our tryst on the roof, begins to dim again.
Before long, I’m sure I feel every bit as bad as she does.
“Lucky, what do you think of coming with me to New York for Christmas?” I ask suddenly. I’ve been thinking of asking her ever since the night of my last final, but I didn’t want to pressure her to do something I didn’t think she would enjoy very much. But seeing her father and brother and how they treat her—I’m sure it’s the right thing. I know how hard losing a parent is, what it feels like on Christmas morning, how it reminds you of what you can no longer have.
“You’re serious?” she says, her eyes lighting up with what I assume are visions of the tree at Rockefeller Center, or visits to F.A.O. Schwartz.
“Yeah. Why not? It sounds like you need to get out of here, and I can show you where I grew up, all my favorite stuff in the city.” A pinch of worry hits me when I consider how cheap my kind of fun is. I imagine she’s never been in a room as small as my one at Francie’s. But it’s too late now, anyway. The offer is made.
“Okay,” she says, trying on the idea a little, which leads to an adorable, nose-crinkling grin. “Let’s do it. My dad hates New York. We went once, but I was too little to remember.”
“It won’t be fancy. Our place is really small, and—”
“It will be perfect.” She quiets me by placing a finger on my lips. “I just know it.”
22
Adair
Present Day
“This is a terrible idea.” I’d been trying to talk Poppy out of going to the Barrelhouse all day. As usual, I’m losing.
“We’re going to support Kai,” she reminds me, turning the wheel of her Mercedes S-Class hard over for the hairpin turn leading out of the Eaton’s parking garage. “Plus, why would Sterling even be there?”
“Oh, he will be,” I mutter.
The night he admitted what he did, how he made his fortune, the sins he committed, I wondered if I could forgive him. I knew something shady had gone down ever since he showed up with a thick wallet, dropping thousands at charity galas and buying a stake in my family’s company. Maybe I didn’t want to think too much about it. It’s not like I don’t have my own secrets. I’ve made mistakes. But I can’t imagine trying to ruin someone’s life.
We didn’t speak that night after I asked him to take me home. We simply gathered our half-eaten picnic and drove in silence back to Nashville. I didn’t say a word when he dropped me at the Eaton. And since?
For the last week, Sterling has been keeping a low profile. There have been no gifts or flowers delivered to my door. He hasn’t visited my office on a whim. He hasn’t even called.
And somehow that makes everything worse.
“Then I will be your bodyguard,” Poppy promises.
“Fine.” There’s no point arguing now that we’re halfway there, and she’s right. It’s not like we get to see Kai perform in a local bar all the time. Usually, he’s selling out the Staples Center.
“And tomorrow,” she says, “you’re going home to get your clothes.”
“What’s wrong with this?” I ask. I happen to think my yellow floral maxi dress is comfortable and pretty. “It’s not like we’re going somewhere fancy.”
“Um, think about this for a second. Kai Miles is performing in Nashville at a place with no cover charge.”
She’s right. The Barrelhouse will be packed, and if I know anything about Kai’s popularity, people will crowd around on the street outside just to get a free listen. Local news will be there, and I’ll definitely talk with Kai. A picture of me in this dress will probably end up on the cover of tomorrow’s newspaper.
“Are you embarrassed to be seen with me in this dress?” I say it teasingly, but the truth is, even with everything at Windfall, I don’t have a quarter of what Poppy does in my wardrobe. She’s probably secretly mortified.
“What? No,” she stammers, “Well, it’s a little plain is all. You definitely don’t want to be the most-clothed person at a
club, you know? Especially one that’s going to be 80 degrees inside.”
“I am plain, Poppy. Plainer than you, anyway.”
“Baloney,” she says brightly, “you’re fabulous. And don’t let anyone tell you any differently. Especially yourself.”
I wish I saw myself as beautifully as Poppy does. Or as Sterling does.
Sterling.
Whenever he comes popping up in my thoughts, I feel paralyzed. I haven’t begun to reconcile the different versions of him. The naïve one I knew before my brother’s wedding. The foolish one who left for the military and wanted to do the right thing—but ended up killing his squad-mates. The vindictive one who came back to ruin me, but couldn’t. The broken one who lost Francie.
They are all Sterling, but none of them is the real Sterling. My Sterling.
And that’s the problem in a nutshell. Sterling may not really be who I thought he was.
When we pull up to the Barrelhouse, it takes us a few minutes to find a parking spot because a crowd has already gathered. Poppy strides straight past everyone waiting in line and right up to the security team. I’m pretty sure that even if we weren’t on the VIP list, she would have no trouble getting in. Not with her toned, brown stomach on display in a champagne sequined crop top, her legs streaming from a tight leather miniskirt down to strappy stilettos. A few people grumble when we pass them, but no one tries to argue. Why would they? She looks like she owns the place. Her inky hair swings around her shoulders as she flashes the guard a sweet smile.
“Poppy Landry and Adair MacLaine.”
“This way.” He holds open the door, running his eyes down us appreciatively.
The Barrelhouse is still nearly empty. A few stagehands are setting up the mic and lighting, with Jack overseeing the process. He turns as we approach, his face breaking into a wide, warm smile. I try to return it as naturally as possible. He killed a dozen men? Maybe more? If someone had told me that when we first met, I might have laughed at them.
Jack doesn’t seem to notice if I’m acting oddly. That might be because he’s buzzing with excitement. “You came!” He reaches for a hug before I can stop him. His arms are as strong as Sterling’s and my thoughts drift to images of him in fatigues in a desert. When he pulls back, he raises an eyebrow. “Sorry. Am I too excited?”
“She’s not a hugger,” Poppy explains, “but I am.” The two of them embrace warmly and I’m left wondering what it must be like to feel that at ease around people.
Someone calls over to him with a question, and Jack waves us toward the side door. “Kai’s in the green room. I’ll see you two later.”
We wind our way past the tables and into a hall that leads to the small room in back, which seems to function as a one-size-fits-all solution for performers. Despite the cramped quarters, it’s amazing to see the names scrawled on the wall. It’s a bit of Nashville history.
“He’s cute,” Poppy says in a low voice as we knock on the door.
“Who?”
“Jack,” she says, “and he can’t stop looking at you.”
I want to tell her that’s likely because he knows that I know that he’s a cold-blooded killer. But it’s not my secret to tell, so I just roll my eyes. “I think he was checking you out, actually.”
“Yes, but I’m off-the-market,” she says significantly. I know Poppy is fishing for information as to what happened between Sterling and me. I’ve been tight-lipped about our date so far. All she knows is what I know: things have changed for us—maybe forever.
The door swings open, and Kai grabs our hands. He hauls us inside and shuts the door, slumping against it. He’s already dressed for tonight’s show in a worn pair of Levi’s and a black t-shirt. Only he could make something so simple, so hip.
“Are you okay?” Poppy’s question mirrors the concern I feel. Kai is so pale that he looks like he’s about to be sick.
“I just fired my agent,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest like he’s checking for his own pulse.
“What? Why?”
“Because I’m going to move to Nashville and work with Jack.” He bites his lip, waiting for our reaction.
It takes a second for me to process. That’s exactly one second longer than it takes Poppy. She’s already screaming. The next thing I know, I’m being smashed into a group hug.
“I’m so glad you came,” Kai says, squeezing us back. “But tell me—have I lost my mind?”
“Absolutely not,” Poppy says. “Right?”
“Yes!” I force myself to sound excited and plaster a grin on my face. Inside, I can’t help thinking about what Jack did all those years ago. Sterling said Jack is on a different path now, but should Kai know who he’s working with? I’m not sure.
“Adair!” Poppy snaps her fingers near my nose, and I startle. “I was telling Kai that we’re going to celebrate next weekend at Maison Blanc. Attendance is mandatory.”
“That sounds great,” I say in a feeble voice.
“No one has ever sounded so depressed at the prospect of a spa day,” Kai says, eying me with concern.
“She had a fight with Sterling,” Poppy tells him.
“We didn’t have a fight.” I blow a stream of air out of my lips, searching for the right word for what happened. “I had a wake-up call.”
“Uh-oh.” Kai shakes his head. “When will that boy learn?”
Poppy glances at me, barely suppressing a smile. “He’ll learn when she teaches him.”
* * *
An hour later The Barrelhouse is packed and Cyrus has arrived. Thanks to Jack, we’ve got a small table near the bar. It’s close enough to keep the whiskey flowing and hear the music, but far from the crowd mashing their way closer to the stage.
“Hey, you ready?” Jack appears at our table, rubbing his palms together. His enthusiasm is infectious.
Poppy, who has stolen a cowboy hat—probably from Kai himself—whistles loudly. “Already losing control of your artist? Let’s get this going!”
Jack’s eyes sparkle. “He told you?”
“Yeah, congrats.” I mean it. If Sterling is right, and Jack is trying to change, I want the best for him. Maybe he made some mistakes, but he seems to have moved on.
The lights dim, and the audience begins to thrum with excitement. A few seconds later, the stage lights fall on Kai as the first notes of “The Liar” start. At least he’s not making me sing it with him this time.
A grin splits Jack’s face, but as he turns to yell something over the crowd, he pauses and waves at someone near the door. My eyes follow his to find Sterling entering along with Luca. I consider whether I can melt onto the floor with no one noticing, when a pretty girl in cut-offs and a nearly sheer tank top follows behind them.
“He didn’t,” Jack says, shaking his head.
My stomach plummets to my feet, and I fight the urge to vomit. I knew Sterling would show up. He couldn’t resist. But I didn’t expect him to bring someone else. A hand closes over mine, and I look up to find Poppy staring at me in concern.
“Bathroom now,” I mouth.
For all the work that Jack has done on bringing the Barrelhouse into this century, he has yet to touch the ladies’ room. There’s a line, but Poppy pulls me along right past the others. “Sorry, ladies, this is an emergency. She just saw him!”
There’s a collective murmur of understanding from the women waiting in line. No one has to ask who him is or tries to interfere as we press our way to the sinks, partly because we aren’t jumping the line to the toilets, but mostly because every single one has a him of their own. No explanation is necessary.
“He brought someone,” I say miserably.
“She might have come with Luca.”
I ignore this rational observation in favor of self-pity. “She can’t even be nineteen. How did she get in here?”
“She knows the owner’s best friend,” Poppy points out. “Or, maybe, she just walked in after them!”
I stare at her. “Is it perpetually sunny in
your version of reality? I’d like to visit. The real world sucks.”
“It is not always sunny,” she says, “but it never rains long!”
“Must be nice,” I grumble.
“Nope. You will not let him get to you,” her voice rises, competing with the music seeping through the bathroom door. “Chin up. Tits out. Never let him see you cry.”
A few girls shout their agreement, and I close my eyes. She’s right. Part of being stronger is choosing stronger, even when I’m not sure I really am. It’s the only way that—one day—I will be.
I do as directed, following her out of the bathroom and back into the bar. But now Cyrus isn’t the only one at our table.
“Bloody hell,” Poppy mutters. “I’m going to murder him.”
I don’t know if she means her boyfriend or Sterling. He’s sitting, talking with his old roommate, and I’m struck by the memory of the first time we were here. They sat and talked about something I couldn’t hear that night. Then, the Barrelhouse was a total dive joint. The kind of place minors aren’t carded. Someone had been playing blues that night. That memory is a million miles away from the remodeled bar and the catchy song Kai is crooning on stage.
“Sorry,” Sterling calls, spotting us. “Did I take your chair?”
“Nope.” I swing onto a stool across from him and turn my attention to the stage.
“I should get back to my sister. She can’t be trusted for long.” Sterling tips his head. “Catch you later, Cy. Poppy.” A hand closes over my shoulder and lingers a second too long to be a friendly gesture. “Adair.”
I hate how my name sounds on his lips: regret mixed with longing and something that sounds dangerously like hope.
As soon as he’s out of earshot, Poppy grabs my arm. “His sister!”
I wish this felt like a victory. Once, I might have wanted to meet Sutton, but that was before I discovered she thought I was a bitch, and before I found out about Sterling’s plan.
“It doesn’t matter,” I call to her and turn my attention to the stage, where Kai is performing a new song I haven’t heard. Try as I might, I can’t keep my eyes from sweeping the bar until they land on Sterling. He’s completely absorbed in the show. He’s not looking for me—not wasting his time. Maybe he senses that it’s really over. My gaze flickers away and locks with the girl sitting next to him.