by Celia Aaron
“All right, gotta go.” I opened the cab door.
“Have fun at the photo shoot. Send beaver shots.”
I flipped him off and closed the door right as he added his signature “fuck you.” He waved me away as the car took off, and I gave the driver my instructions. I needed to wipe the image of the Shitake Shocker from my mind, so I tried to focus on what I would post to the blog about my upcoming events. Anything to drum up press would help get the word out on the day my book released. But the more I thought about the parties, the more I wondered about what Scarlet would wear. Something that showed off her curves, her legs, her dainty ankles? Did you just think the words “dainty ankles”?
“She’s a thief. A con artist. Don’t get involved any more than you have to,” I reminded myself as the cabbie gave me a glance in the rearview mirror.
He grinned, his two front teeth missing. “Women, right?”
The universal experience of having no fucking clue what to do when faced with a determined, intelligent, and sexy woman seemed to transcend even the not-insignificant social distance created between a cabbie and his fare.
“Women.” I nodded. “Right.”
My conflicting feelings begged the question: How fucked was I?
We pulled up out front of a four-story building, and I just caught the shimmer of Scarlet’s red hair cascading over her shoulder as she pushed through the front door. My chest constricted, and I momentarily forgot that I actually needed to pay for the cab ride.
Answer: Completely fucked.
8
Scarlet
I twirled in a feathery skirt, the white fluff around my knees arcing away from me as the camera snapped again and again.
“Perfect.” The photographer stood straight and flipped through the pics on her digital camera. “Now have a seat on the sofa.”
I backed up and sat gingerly as an assistant walked over and ruffled the skirt, then straightened the off-the-shoulder top. The pretty princess treatment was a new experience for me, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it. But I was the only one. Willis sat in a worn side chair behind the photographer, his scowl deepening with each set of photos we took.
“Kick your legs up for me.” The assistant, Carl, grabbed my ankles and arranged them next to me. “Perfect.”
Willis stood and paced, though his eyes never left me as another set of clicks and flashes filled the photographer’s loft.
After ten more minutes of fluffing and posing, the photographer called for a break and an outfit change. The assistant followed her into a back office as I headed to the small changing area off to the side, hidden from view by a series of mismatched curtains hung on ropes strung across the room.
I ducked behind the nearest curtain and shimmied out of the skirt. Willis continued pacing, his footsteps echoing around the open space.
“What is wrong with you?” I asked as I peeled the pink top off and laid it on a black table covered with other outfits.
The footsteps moved closer. “What do you mean?”
“You have this look on your face like I jumped in a time machine, travelled back to the nineties, found your very first pet—the one you loved so much that you slept with it every night and gave it kisses before you left for school—and made you watch as I lit it on fire and did a witch’s dance to celebrate.”
He coughed. “Wow, that was oddly specific.”
I grabbed the next dress on the table and studied it. Black, short, and low cut along the top. Perfect. Squeezing into it, I asked, “Seriously, why are you so pissy?”
“I’m not.”
“So that’s your happy face?” I got the dress on for the most part, though the hem barely covered my lady bits and the scoop neck flirted with my areolas.
His footsteps stopped next to the curtain. “Maybe I have resting bitch face.”
“I suppose anyone with a stick up their ass like you’ve got would go around mean-mugging.” Shots fired.
“There is no stick.”
“Then what?” I fought to get the back zipper up.
A heavy sigh made the curtain nearest to me ripple. “He keeps touching you, and you look so…so—”
“Delicious?” I peeked through a break in the curtains and caught a look at his back, the muscles drawn tight.
Sexual. Tension. A thrill coursed through me, and I decided to turn the heat up a notch.
“Can you help me with this zipper?”
“You insult me and then ask for help?” His voice had lowered an octave. Pissed, yet ever so sexy.
“Just because I burned you like a piece of toast doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.” I stepped out from behind the curtain.
His eyes widened beneath his Clark Kent glasses, though he tried to play it off by glancing away.
“You like?” I walked up to him. “Wait till you see the heels that go with this.”
He cleared his throat, his blue eyes pinning me to the spot. “Heels?”
I nodded and ran my index finger down his bicep. “Red ones.”
“Fuck.”
“What’s the matter? You don’t like red heels?”
“Why are you doing this?” His glare could melt steel.
“Linda set this up. Not me.” I spun, giving him a view of my bare back. “Zip me?” Swiping my hair off my neck and over my shoulder, I waited.
His body warmth buffeted me, sending goosebumps shooting along my skin.
I held my breath. When his gentle touch unexpectedly brushed the base of my neck, I let out a little gasp. He slowly ran his fingers down my spine, then splayed his warm palm at my lower back.
Looking over my shoulder, I caught his gaze. He leaned down, his mouth at my ear. “What are you doing to me?”
That was a good question. What was I doing? Teasing him was great, but the desire that welled up inside me, that told me to take it further, wasn’t part of my plan. Focus.
“Just getting you to zip me, Sparky. But if you want to add a reach-around, I won’t tell anyone.” I kept it flippant, but the breathiness in my voice was a dead giveaway.
He pressed one hand on my bare shoulder, sliding his fingers beneath the fabric, and rubbed his thumb back and forth across the back of my neck. Each stroke traveled down a live wire that ended in sparks between my legs.
“You’re the devil.” His lips pressed against the shell of my ear.
My knees went weak, and I leaned against him. When I felt his sizeable erection against my backside, I made an mmm sound that was decidedly pornographic.
“Fuck.” He smoothed his other hand down my waist.
A creak from the office door opening had us separating from each other. The photographer and Carl walked over.
Willis cleared his throat. “Stuck zipper. Just a slight zipper malfunction. But we’re all fine here now. How are you?”
I laughed as his fingers scrambled around to try and find the zip at my lower back. “We’ve almost got it.”
Carl raised an eyebrow. “Uh huh. We just have maybe half an hour of shooting left. And then you two can…do whatever it is that you need to do.”
Willis zipped the dress up and stepped back. “All done here.”
I missed his warmth the moment it was gone.
“Actually”—Zelda, the photographer, stared at Willis—“you two have a great look together. Let’s do some test shots with both of you.”
“No.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not supposed to be in the pictures.”
“Oh, come on. What will it hurt?” Zelda motioned us toward the set. “Just some test shots. You wouldn’t happen to have any better clothes?”
He glanced toward the shopping bags lined up next to his chair. “Not really, n—”
Zelda snapped her fingers. “Carl, see what he’s got over there and pick a few things.”
“They’d need to be ironed or dry-cleaned or something.” While Willis protested, Zelda kept shooing him toward the white set space.
“I have a
steamer.” Carl searched through the bags.
Zelda stood him in the center of the set, in front of the couch. “Scarlet, get those heels on. You’ll need them next to this tall drink of water.” She backed up and began snapping pics of Willis, inspecting each one and making camera adjustments as I grabbed my heels and slid them on.
I edged up next to him.
“Look at each other.” Zelda moved around and flipped on a few of the umbrella lights, then re-took her position.
I turned to Willis.
His jaw was set in a hard line. “I don’t see why this is a good idea. I’m just her…” He trailed off and crinkled his nose. “I’m her um…”
Zelda popped up from behind her camera, her dark eyes piercing through any excuses. “I don’t care what you are. I want to snap the look I just walked in on.”
“These will do,” Carl called and carried a shirt and pants over to a steamer set up near the curtained wall.
“Great.” Zelda retreated behind her camera. “Now get to work, you two. Keep it natural for now.”
Willis grumbled but turned to me.
“Just relax.” I ran my palm down his cheek as Zelda snapped pic after pic.
“This wasn’t the plan.” Despite his words, he closed his eyes and leaned into my touch. Just the feel of him sent me spinning like an uneven washing machine at a drunken laundromat.
No, this definitely was not the plan.
“How’d it go?” Hannah’s voice floated through the dusty motes that swirled in the entryway of our dated Jersey City apartment.
I closed the door behind me, the hard thunk reassuring me as I flipped each of the three deadbolts into place. “It was sort of weird, but fun.” Guilt churned in my stomach that I was out having fun while Hannah was cooped up in our place.
“I can’t wait to see the pictures.” Her perennially sunny disposition shone through despite the shadows falling outside.
“The best news, by far”—I kicked my shoes off, passed the cluttered living room, and stopped at Hannah’s bedroom door—“is that I got to keep some of the clothes.” I held the bag out.
Her eyes lit, and she tossed her finished Rubik’s cube onto the pile of about fifty in the corner of her room. The latest addition clattered amongst its brothers. Hannah knew the exact number. Hell, she knew exactly how many of each color square were on each cube, how many separate pieces of plastic comprised the puzzles, and the age of each.
She took the bag from me and pulled out the clothes. “These are amazing.”
“They’re a bit out of our price range.” I sat next to her and smoothed a hand through her long blonde hair, tucking it behind her ear. “But I think they’ll look great on you.”
“I haven’t gotten too skinny, have I?” She peered down at her bony frame and frowned.
“No.” I forced a smile despite my worries about her sliding back into an eating disorder from all the stress of the Pauly situation. “Besides, I’m ordering Chinese tonight, so it’ll help add some padding.”
“That sounds good.” Her disinterested tone failed to convince me.
“You’ll like it. I’ll get you some sesame chicken. Sweet and sticky.”
She smiled, though her big brown eyes, the same shade as mine, remained sad. “Thanks.”
“No problem. That’s what big sisters are for.” I pulled my phone from my bag and dialed the Chinese place down the block.
She took a deep breath. “Hey, um, I need to tell you something.”
I canceled the call, and my stomach lurched. “What?”
“Pauly came by earlier.” Her voice shook.
“You didn’t let him in, did you?”
She shook her head. “No, but he banged on the door. And he said that if we didn’t get the rest of the money to him by the end of the month that he’d hurt us, that he’d—” Her bottom lip trembled too much for her to continue, and her face crumpled as the tears began.
“Come here.” I pulled her into my arms and rocked back and forth as she shuddered. “No, shh. Nothing’s going to happen, okay?”
“It’s all my fault.” Her small body shook with sobs.
“No.” I tightened my grip on her and only let up when I feared her frail bones might break.
“I messed up.” The pain in her voice brought tears to my eyes. “I messed up so bad.”
“Shh.” I rubbed her back. “We’re past that now. Okay? I don’t care what you did. You don’t deserve this.”
“You don’t either, and it’s all my fault. All me.”
“Hey.” I pulled her away from me, her eyes wet with tears as another sob tore from her lungs. “We’re in this together. You’re my sister. We will always be in this together.”
Her thin arms wrapped around me, hugging me tight. “Thank you.”
I ran my hand down her hair the same way our mother used to. “I love you. We’re going to get out of this. Don’t worry. I’m working on it.” I refused to cry, refused to weaken in the face of the hand we were dealt. I’d pay what Hannah owed, and then we’d be done with this apartment, with this city, with this shitty excuse for a life. We’d start fresh.
Patting her back, I pulled away. “Besides, when you ugly cry, I worry that your face will stick that way.”
She laughed through her tears. “I don’t ugly cry.”
“You do. You look like a gremlin.”
Her laughter overtook her sobs. “Mom said I look like an angel.”
I arched a brow. “Only when you’re asleep. And not snoring. Which is never.”
Her laughter subsided into a sheepish grin. “Jerk.”
“You love me.” The iron band around my heart loosened the tiniest bit as a spark lit in her eyes, the despair lessening just enough for the old Hannah to shine through.
“Maybe a little.” She shrugged. “Now what about that food you promised me?”
“I’ll order it.” Snagging my phone off the bed, I rose and headed toward the living room. Once I was out of Hannah’s sight, I leaned against the wall and bit the back of my hand to keep from screaming.
9
Willis
The limo rolled to a stop in front of the same building where the cab had dropped Scarlet off the night I’d met her. She stood near the curb casually, as if it was completely normal for her to look like sex on a stick. As if it made total sense for a gorgeous vamp to be standing on a bustling street in downtown Manhattan in a small crimson dress, high black heels, and with her long hair cascading over one shoulder in waves of red.
“Holy shit.” I pulled at my collar, stuffing two fingers between my skin and the fabric. The air inside the limo turned from pleasantly cool to boiling.
The driver pulled to a stop despite the myriad of honks behind us.
He reached for his door, but I stopped him. “I got it.” I swung the passenger door open and got the full-on view of Scarlet.
Was I too young for heart problems? The organ stuttered, lost its footing, and splattered against my ribs as she slid into the limo, her smooth legs kissing the cool leather. Her scent washed over me, feminine and vanilla as she closed the door.
We pulled away from the curb and took the first right, heading toward the park.
“You okay, Sparky?” She smiled, her eyes glinting in the city lights.
I realized my fingers were still stuffed down my collar and pulled them away. “Fine. I’m fine.”
She opened her green handbag and pulled out a tube of lipstick and a mirror.
Jesus Christ, she’s trying to kill me. Twisting the tube, the too-phallic stick of deep red lip color appeared. She applied it, sweeping the shade across her lips while I watched. My mouth went dry, and I was dimly aware of my palms sweating.
She pursed her lips and inspected them in the mirror before cutting a glance to me. “You look nice.”
“Thanks,” I croaked.
“You clean up nice. Has anyone ever told you that?” She popped her lips, then stowed her lipstick and the mirror. Reachin
g out, she ran her fingers down my smooth jaw. “Clean shaven and dashing.”
I wanted to grab her wrist and kiss up her arm like we were in an episode of The Addams Family, but my hands remained at my sides—not without great effort on my part. She was a temptation, the perfect embodiment of Scarlet Rocket. A brighter, sexier, polished version of the ideal, all in a delectable package.
“Speechless is a cute look on you, Sparky.” She smiled and leaned back against the leather seats as we maneuvered through traffic.
“It’s just that you’re so, so…” My mind short-circuited as it tried to settle on one word to describe what a stunning creature she was.
Her big brown eyes focused on me, expectant, with maybe just a hint of self-consciousness.
“Pretty.” Ohmygodyoudumbass!
She smirked, the devil in her details. “For a writer, you have a terribly small vocabulary.”
I swallowed, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth as I mentally kicked myself over and over again right in the egg basket.
“Thank you all the same. I appreciate it.” She turned to watch the people walking along the busy sidewalks.
Awkward silence fell between us as I tried to clear my mind of the she-is-the-hottest-woman-I’ve-ever-seen haze. I reminded myself she was a thief and a liar. But, somehow, when I was close to her, none of that mattered. The same thing had happened at the photo shoot the previous day. She turned me around until I couldn’t trust myself.
She drummed her black nails on her bare thigh. “Do you know where this thing is? I didn’t look at Linda’s manifesto about it.”
I took a deep breath and straightened my glasses. “At the David H. Koch Theatre. I think it’s a Cosmo benefit for the ballet.”
She turned back to me, and my heart seemed to beat a little easier when we shared the link of eye contact. “Do you think there will be movie stars?”
“Maybe.” I shrugged. “This is my first event, so I really don’t know. You’re the one with all the hobnobbing experience.”
“I dabble.” A hint of a smile tugged at her red lips. How soft were they? What would she taste like?