Hidden Seams

by Alessandra Torre

  Total madness. I say a silent prayer of thanks that the letter from Andrei hadn’t been sent here. I lean against a light pole and look at the crowd, my gaze moving up and traveling over the house, half of it illuminated by the party. The back half is dark, the pitch of the building too high to see into. I let my eyes drift over the windows and wonder where his bedroom was. I wonder if he used to sit on any of these balconies, reading the paper or watching the street. I straighten and walk further down the side of the house, free of the crowd, the street quieter down here, and stop at a large iron and wood gate, one framed in ivy and impossible to see around.

  Huh. I move further and glance back, trying to orient the gate to the house, the curb cut my biggest clue of the alley that must stretch behind the house.

  A new song begins and the crowd grows louder, everyone’s attention pulling to the show. I glance right, then left, then grip the railings and begin to climb.

  I am at the top in less than thirty seconds, and I push off the pointed spikes and land with both feet on the cobblestone path. Brushing off my hands, I straighten and wait, my body tense, ready to run.

  Silence. Well, not silence. There’s Madonna and Lady GaGa, and ten thousand people, and horns and chants and enough noise to wake a baby … but nothing from the alley. No blare of an alarm, no security guard sprinting out, no cock of a gun or stern warning shout.

  I step quietly forward, moving past a commercial grade dumpster and a dozen scooters. There is a row of garage doors, and I am moving past the largest one when it clicks, hums, and begins to move.

  Oh shit. I sprint backward and duck into the closest shadow, crouching down and peeking a glance at my watch.

  It’s almost two in the morning. Someone is either arriving or leaving, and considering that the gate behind me is still closed, I’m assuming the latter. It could be a hundred different individuals. An employee, or security, or maybe one of the performers. I narrow the list further, this garage the largest of the row. Employees wouldn’t park here, not in this exclusive spot. This is someone important. The rear end of a Rolls Royce glides backward, the silver behemoth unveiled in the glow of the alley’s streetlight, and I tense, crouch-stepping backward until I am deeper in the dumpster’s shadows. I only have a moment to come to a decision—remain hidden and allow the vehicle to pass, or step forward and make my presence known.

  I tense, swallow, and war over a dozen conflicts in my mind. The gate behind me rumbles to life and I watch the headlights flick on, the engine revving as the Rolls shifts into drive.

  It is almost beside me when I make my move.

  Chapter 13

  MARCO

  I need out—away from this party, from their chants, from the weight of Vince that hangs in every hall, the stitch of every garment, the scent of every room. Everywhere I look, there are memories. Everything I feel is a weight of obligation and expectation, this party a brief distraction before the real work begins—running one of the world’s largest fashion brands. I’ve prepared for it for years, but still—in this moment of insecurity—it’s daunting.

  I jerk my fingers through my hair, aggressively digging them into my scalp and loosening the product. The Rolls pulls forward, out of the garage, and when it skids to a stop, it is in the gracefully soft way of a bowling ball landing on nine stacks of pillows. I look forward just in time to hear Edward curse and to see a silent combination of arms and fabric roll onto the hood of the car.

  Fuck. For the first time in years, I open my own door and step into the cool night. The house barely insulates the sound of the crowd and the music, and on the air is the scent of sweat and colognes, perfumes and engine exhaust. My boots click on the cobblestones as I jog to the front of the car. There, in a heap of combat boots, skinny jeans and a knockoff jacket from Burberry’s 2014 line—is a woman. Arms splayed, back awkwardly bent across a bag of some sort, blood already bright red and brilliant on what might be a beautiful face.

  Edward pales at the sight of me. “Sir. Please. If you return to the car, I can—”

  Behind us, I hear the faint sound of the Rolls attendant asking, through the car’s speakers, if we need assistance.

  “Edward, talk to them.” I point to the car, and crouch beside her, carefully moving the dark hair away from her face, her eyes opening, her pupils moving wildly, then focusing on my face.

  Contact. She smiles, and I place a hand on the ground to keep from pedaling backward in response.

  I can’t be around a smile like that. Even covered in blood, it’s dangerous. Tempting. Mischievous.

  “Are you okay?” I force my eyes off her face, and I survey the rest of her, my hands carefully patting her down and accounting for each limb and joint, all which seem, miraculously enough, to be in proper working order.

  “Can a great horned owl smell?”

  I stare at her blankly, and she scrunches up her face and laughs. The action produces a fresh current of blood, and she immediately stops, her hand lifting to her face in the same moment that I reach for it.

  “Shit.” She blinks rapidly, looking up to the sky, her weight heavy in my arms. “That hurts.”

  “Can a great horned owl smell?” I ask her, and if not the most idiotic conversation I’ve had all day, it is certainly the most interesting. She’s soft. Feminine. Underneath the disastrous combination of punk fashion and plaid, she has curves. Warmth. I lean forward in the guise of peering at her nose and smell, through the car exhaust and the scents of the alley—a light scent. I force myself to pull away. I should get in the car and let the staff deal with this. I need to put as much distance as possible between me and her.

  “No.” She closes her eyes, then reopens them. “They can’t.”

  “Most birds can’t.” The addition comes from Edward, who has reappeared beside us. “Should I call an ambulance, sir?”

  “No.” I hold my hand toward him. “Give me a handkerchief.”

  “Talk about a battering ram.” She smiles, and despite the blood, she’s beautiful. Large eyes. Full lips. A delicate nose and cheekbones I could design an entire line around.

  “Excuse me?” I lean forward, and she reaches forward, her hand swaying in the night air before closing on my jacket, crushing the fine fabric as if it is a dime store napkin.

  “Help me up.” She pulls on the jacket and Edward is suddenly beside me, apologizing as he tries to work her hand free.

  “Ma’am, please. Let me help you.”

  “I’m good,” she snaps at him, and looks at me. “Can you tell this idiot to leave me alone?”

  “Edward,” I sigh, and he steps away, worry showing on his face.

  “I should call the attorneys.”

  The woman flays her hands in a frustrated attempt at attention. “God, do you understand the concept of chivalry? Help me up.”

  “I’m not certain you should move,” I say the words even as I cup her under the arms and lift her to her feet. “You did just get hit by a car.”

  “A tank.” She corrects me, wincing as she glances down. I follow her eyes and notice the blood-soaked rip in her jeans, mid-thigh and most likely caused by the Rolls’ diamond-tipped grill. “A tank with teeth.”

  A slogan Rolls Royce should certainly consider. She hobbles left and reaches up, gingerly touching her nose. She swears.

  “It looks broken,” Edward states the obvious, the bad news delivered in the haughty, British-laced accent that perfectly accompanies his vehicle, his stance, and his excess salary.

  “Yeah,” she snipes, taking the handkerchief from me. “I can tell.”

  My attention is caught by a small crowd, one that has gathered at the end of the alley, in front of the still-open gate. They are watching us, peering in, and I can see the verbal discussion about whether or not to enter.

  “Was the gate left open?” I turn to Edward, who sputters in response.

  “Certainly not, sir.”

  My eyes flick to the girl, who presses the handkerchief to her nose, then pulls it
away, examining the result—a smear of blood on the white embroidered cloth. “How’d you get back here?” She shouldn’t have been in a position to be hit by our car. She—

  “I was…” The word falters as she stares at the blood, one knee buckling, and I watch as her eyes roll back, her body wobbling forward. There is a moment of suspension before she faints, and I reach out, catching her fall, my chest colliding with hers as I fight to keep us both upright.

  She smells like pears, and I curse at the elements of this situation.

  Chapter 14

  AVERY

  “Fuck.”

  I hear the curse through closed eyes, my limbs as heavy and limp as I can make them. I picked a great time to faint. The action has his body flush against mine and if he wasn’t gay sohelpmeGod—the things I’d do to this man. A hard body underneath that suit. An expensive cologne that flares my arousal and dulls any reasonable thought process. His strong hands lift me easily, despite the dead weight of my limbs.

  I want to peek, to see where he is carrying me, but that would destroy any illusion, so I only sag, my head lolling forward, against the front of his shirt, and I sneak in a sniff. Yep. If orgasm had a scent, it’d be this one. Masculine. Viral. Expensive, yet subdued. To fully explore it, you’d need to rip open his shirt, crawl up that chest, and nibble your way along that neck.

  Which, of course, an unconscious woman would never do. He lifts my torso, someone grabs my ankles, and I float forward.

  “Should we take her inside?”

  “No. Put her in the back.”

  The back? Maybe fainting wasn’t a good idea. I’d had visions of entering the house, being offered a bedroom, an excellent opportunity for snooping before I decided to reveal, or not reveal, my true purpose. Putting me in the car introduces an entirely new set of scenarios, none that excite me.

  Still. I am with Marco Lent, the man who knew Vince Horace better than anyone. I’ll take that in any form or fashion I can get it. I swallow the instinct to speak and try to understand what is happening. A car door opens and there is a jostle of movement as I am slid across the seat, my hair pinned uncomfortably underneath my shoulder blades. The door closes, silence falls, and I cheat a wee bit, pulling my head up and freeing my hair. Another door opens and my feet are lifted, hands wrapping around my ankles, and the door is shut. Something shifts underneath my feet and I feel the loosening of leather as my boots are undone.

  “You can stop faking.” That strong voice, the deep growl in the tones… it is the sort of voice you could drizzle over ice cream and binge on for hours.

  I keep my face slack and force the illusion by allowing a bit of drool to escape, the evidence making a long and irritatingly slow journey down the side of my face. There is the thud of my shoe as it comes completely off and hits the floor.

  “For fuck’s sake.” There is the rustle of fabric, and then something soft crudely brushes across my face, the saliva captured, part of it smeared across my lips. “Stop that. I’m not sitting on your spit every time I get in this car just so you can continue this charade. Now sit up, before you bleed all over the interior.”

  I don’t move. He’s bluffing. Guessing. There’s no way my dramatic act reeked of anything more than a blood-sighting-induced faint. The napkin thing was covered in blood. A hundred women, or men, or anyone with a weak stomach, would have done the same.

  A car door somewhere in front of us—the chauffeur’s—opens, shuts, and there is the quiet chime of tones as he shifts into gear. The car moves forward, and it’s almost eerie how silent it is. No engine noise or city sounds. I guess that’s what a half a million buys you. The best sound engineering in the world.

  He falls silent, pulling my sock off and I relax, my ruse bought. I probably could have done without it all together. But I needed to distract him from the gate and my unauthorized presence in the alley. Fainting was the first thing that came to mind. And thankfully, it seemed to have worked. If I wasn’t fake-passed-out, I would smile.

  Then he moves his finger, and I quickly see the potential issue.

  Chapter 15

  MARCO

  She has nice feet. In another life, the one where I went down on Stephanie Nelson in the bathroom at prom, one where I smiled and girls, not guys, swooned—in that life, I liked feet. I liked narrow ankles and wrapping my hands around them. I liked cute toes and seeing what color they were painted. I liked soft soles and running my palms along them and the difference between their feminine arches and my big hands. I liked the soft sigh of a woman as I worked my fingers along her calf and her eyes would hood, her body relaxing, her legs opening up for me.

  It wasn’t a fetish, but it was one of those things I loved about a woman’s body. One of the things I’ve missed, like the soft weight of a breast, the smell of their shampoo, the smooth feel of their skin.

  This odd trainwreck of a woman has nice feet. Dark blue polish. A high arch, symmetrical toes. I smile and trail my finger across her heel and down her arch to the ticklish point of her sole. I watch her face, see it tighten in concentration, her body following suit, and I softly drum the pads of my fingers before curling them against her skin.

  She shrieks, kicking forward, my hand arresting the appendage in the moment before it smacks me in the face.

  “Ah…” I drag out the word with satisfaction. “So, the fainting beauty awakes.”

  She props up on her elbows, and my humor dampens at the blood caking around the split on her nose. “Tickling isn’t fair.” She spits out the phrase with the self-important air of a lunatic.

  “Isn’t fair?” I question. “I wasn’t aware that we were playing a game, Miss …”

  She pauses, her eyes darting to the side, and if this is a game, she’s sorely outmatched.

  “Hartsfield….?” There is almost a question mark on the end of the word, and I raise my eyebrows in response.

  “Hartsfield?” I repeat.

  “That’s my last name.”

  “Are you sure?” I smile despite myself.

  “Yes.” She nods as if cementing the decision in her mind. “My name is Avery Hartsfield.”

  “Marco.” I stretch out my hand, and she shakes it with brisk efficiency. I nod to the front of the car. “That ancient stick of British severity is Edward.”

  “Charmed to meet your acquaintance,” Edward mutters. “May I ask where we are headed, sir?”

  “Not yet.”

  He sniffs in return and the corner of her mouth twitches into a smile.

  “I pay him extra for the haughtiness.” I feel myself leaning forward, into her smile, and I force my spine to straighten, moving her feet off my lap and onto the floor. I hold out my hand. “Sit up. Let me look at your nose.”

  She hesitates, then warily leans toward me. I reach forward and gently touch the skin just above and around the split. “The bleeding has stopped, which is good. It should be elevated, though. Tilt your head back for me.”

  “I suppose you’re a doctor?” She says tartly, her chin obediently lifting.

  I pull the ice bucket toward me and grab a handful of ice and drop them into the towel, folding the napkin around the cubes. “I boxed in high school. Broken noses were the norm more than the exception.” I reach forward and press the linen pack against the break. “Gentle pressure. Hold it there.”

  She obeys, wincing at the cold contact and settling back against the seat.

  I replace the bucket, then turn back to her. “May I ask why you felt the need to falsify a faint, Ms. Hartsfield?”

  “Ah.” She pauses, her voice slightly muffled by the napkin. “I don’t think we determined that I fake fainted.”

  “You certainly did fake faint.”

  “I feel like we are over-using this verb.” She glances at me, the corner of her mouth lifting in a suppressed smile.

  “Fake fainting?” I frown in mock thought, and she laughs. The sound is thick and unapologetic, and she surprises me further by dropping the cold compress and looking around th
e car.

  “Where’s my bag?”

  “I placed your knapsack in the trunk,” Edward interjects.

  “Thank you, Edward.” I reach forward, pressing the button to raise the privacy glass.

  “It must be exhausting,” she remarks. “Always calling each other by name.”

  Everything is exhausting. It shouldn’t be, not in this life where everything is done for me. Most of the irritation comes from the waiting, the answering of questions and the explaining of everything. It is one of the reasons why we’ve had the same house staff for so long. Once they learn all the idiosyncrasies of our lives, it’s too arduous to start all over.

  I stretch my legs out and glance over at her. “Where do you live? We’ll drop you off.”

  “Detroit.” She smiles. “Long way to drive.”

  Detroit. I shouldn’t be disappointed that she is a visitor. I shouldn’t give a damn where she is from. Still, the answer doesn’t agree with me. “Where are you staying in New York?”

  She shrugs, and gently presses the ice to her cut. “I just got in. Haven’t gotten a room yet.” She turns her head and glances out the window. “Where were you headed?”

  I was headed to Vince’s house in New Jersey, wanting to be away from the partiers, the noise, the memories. I wanted to sleep in peace, to run on the beach, and to walk into town and fuck a tourist who didn’t know my name. A tourist like her.

  “I’m heading home.”

  “Home?” She raises her eyebrows. “I just assumed you lived… I mean—” Her words falter and she looks down at her lap as if the answer is there.

  “I was just attending a party.” I reach forward and pull a bottle of Perrier out of the ice, holding it out to her. She shakes her head in response and I take off the cap. I don’t know why I lied, except that if she knows who Vince was and that I live there, it won’t take too much brain power to figure out who I am. And tonight, with this woman, I don’t have the energy for that charade.