Wicked Muse

by Lexi Whitlow

  Hayes slips his hand over mine, threading our fingers together. He pulls my hand against his thigh, pressing it in.

  He is different now. All the airs to professorial authority have vanished. He’s just being himself, and right now that self is a still unsure of things. Just like me. He’s also dressed way better than he did back at school. The boy may have a sense of style after all.

  The snow is really beginning to come down hard as we make our way south along 9th Avenue. I’m thrilled. It’s the first snow I’ve seen in years, and as ill-prepared for cold weather as my wardrobe is, I’m looking forward to seeing the city in a blanket of white.

  Taylor pulls over in front of a nondescript, six-story brick building with no signage or identifying details to mark it. The only entrance is at street level; two massive, black metal and shaded glass doors conceal the space behind from the view of passersby. As we approach the imposing entrance, a doorman appears, swinging the doors open to us, showing us inside.

  Once we clear the small vestibule, passing through another pair of interior doors, I’m astonished. The space is all glowing hardwoods, golden light, open, flowing and bright, with plenty of soft leather and crushed velvet upholstery. It’s plush, yet the interior design is clean, with just enough soft edges to feel comfortable.

  We’re greeted by a young woman seated behind a massive, walnut desk who says nothing at all.

  “Hayes Chandler,” Hayes says. “I called about twenty minutes ago.”

  She smiles. “Yes, Mr. Chandler, you can head upstairs. I’m sure they have your table ready.”

  And they do. We’re seated at a small table in a quiet corner by a window, overlooking the bustling, cobblestone streets of 9th Avenue. The staff address Hayes by name as if they’ve known him forever. Except for the fact of impeccable attention paid to every detail, whether utilitarian or whimsical, the place has more the feel of a college dining hall than a restaurant.

  “What is this place?” I ask Hayes in a whisper. Looking around at the people—the room isn’t even half-full—it occurs to me that some faces are vaguely familiar.

  “It’s a club,” Hayes replies with a guarded expression.

  “A club?” I ask, then I understand what he means. They don’t let just anyone in here. You have to pay, and steeply, for the privilege.

  I see a man stroll to the bar at the end of the room and begin chatting with another, already seated on a stool. I know him. He’s a famous actor—really famous—and he’s the producer of what’s arguably the biggest film festival in the country.

  “That’s why Scott said what he did? Implying you were showing off?”

  He nods. “Am I showing off?”

  “Maybe.”

  I ask Hayes to order for me because I’m too overwhelmed to even think and the menu is complicated. I order a drink to calm my trembling hands.

  “So, tell me,” Hayes begins. “What have you been doing since you got here?”

  I tell him the truth, that it’s been mostly work and more work, trying to fit in at The Foundry, trying to find my place.

  “You’re living with Dan and Scott?” he asks as our appetizers are served.

  “No,” I tell him, then remind him about my father’s private apartment on the top floor of The Foundry, the one with the roof patio where Haye’s took me that first day, when we were kids.

  Hayes looks at me strangely. “Who owns the building now?”

  “Technically, I do. It’s one of the assets in the trust. Lucky for me, it’s encumbered with a ten-year lease to The Foundry. If she could sell it, my mother probably would have already, but no one will buy it with the lease on its existing terms.”

  By the time our meals arrive, it’s his turn to answer questions. He holds nothing back. As wretched as my own situation was in Richmond, after hearing about his last month, I’m not sure how he endures the aftermath. Day after day with Liza making the most of it, and everyone else holding him at arm’s length.

  “I’m not built for the politics of it, or the hours. I want to do good work, not sit on committees and fight off cougars,” he says. “It isn’t turning out like I hoped.”

  It saddens me that they’ve made his dream such a nightmare.

  “It may not be like that always,” I remind him, trying to sound optimistic.

  Hayes shrugs. “Maybe not, but right now it is, and I have to figure out a solution.”

  At least he doesn’t have to worry about starving or being homeless.

  “Tomorrow, if you have time, I have something I’d like to show you,” Hayes says, changing the subject. “It’s across town at my parents’, but I think you’ll want to see it.”

  “What is it?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head. “Nope, you have to see it. It’s a surprise of sorts. Not something you can put in your pocket and take home with you, but definitely a must-see.”

  The waiter comes and clears our plates, bringing us another round of drinks. Now that I’m warm and fed, with a bit of alcohol calming my nerves, I’m feeling slightly emboldened.

  “Okay,” I tell him. “But only of you take me ice skating at Rockefeller Center. For old times’ sake.”

  Hayes looks up from his drink, a triumphant smile brightening him. He’s still so handsome, if a little melancholy since all this drama. I want him to be happy, to give me that unreserved, beaming smile.

  “I can do that,” he says. “As I recall, we’re both terrible skaters.”

  I sip my drink, grinning wickedly, feeling the alcohol coursing through me. “That’s okay. We’re better at some other things.”

  He blinks, then closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath. When he looks up again, he seems uncertain where to go next.

  “I… I do remember that,” he says, biting his lip. “I remember it too well. I also remember that after we did that, just a few days later you packed yourself up and ran away from me.”

  “Well then,” I say. “I guess this time you’ll have to run away, ‘cause I’m done running.”

  “Chloe—I’m not running,” Hayes offers plaintively. “I told you, you’re going to have to convince me you don’t love me to make me give up.”

  Hayes puts his hand out across the table, his fingers open, asking for mine. I slip my hand into his, feeling his warmth, feeling the spark that fires between us at even the slightest touch. He makes me ache.

  “I’m going to sign the check, and call Taylor for the car. Between now and when Taylor shows downstairs, you decide where we go next, or if we call it a night and go our sperate ways until tomorrow. Whatever you decide, I’m okay with.”

  Jesus. What happened with Hayes Chandler of the multiple, over-thrown passes? He’s been chastened. Now I’m in the drivers’ seat?

  He stands to move away from the dining area to make the call to Taylor, and as he passes, he leans down and whispers into my ear, “Choose wisely—life’s short. Anything could happen. And… I like the new look. I can’t wait to pull your new, blond hair.”

  Instantly I flash on his naked body beneath me, his fists wrapped in strands of my long hair while I ride him, his cock buried deep inside me. It’s a fleeting image, and one that leaves me with more questions than answers. My hair is short now, except for the top. He’ll have to find a new grip in order to pull it.

  That’s an intriguing idea.

  “203 10th Avenue,” I say to Taylor as he drives us away from the Soho House.

  He nods.

  It’s just a few blocks, but it feels like the trip takes forever in a near whiteout of snowfall. With traffic, the streets are still clear, but as the night wears on, I know they’ll be covered sooner rather than later. The temperature is dropping fast.

  “Is this it Ma’am?” Taylor asks me, nearing The Foundry, slowing the car.

  I direct him to the side entrance, the one I use after hours to access the top floor apartment.

  “Thanks Taylor,” Hayes says as his driver opens our door at the curb. “I’m in for the evenin
g. I’ll get a cab home tomorrow.”

  “Sir, I’m happy to wait,” Taylor says, not the least bit uncomfortable with the implication.

  “No need,” Hayes insists. “I’m staying. Go home.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  I can’t imagine having people to wait on me like that. It’s almost too surreal to contemplate, and yet, I can appreciate the allure of convenience. I wonder what Taylor is paid to be happy to wait. It’s got to be a fortune.

  “No elevator,” I apologize. “There’s only one, and it’s inside the company.”

  “I remember,” Hayes says, taking my hand in his. “And I don’t mind.”

  I slip my key in the outside door lock, swinging the steel and glass door wide, admitting us into the corridor. As soon as I’ve locked it behind us, Hayes swiftly backs me up to the cool brick wall. Reminding me of his physical strength and speed, he gathers me to him and kisses me deeply, pressing himself against me, sucking me in to him like much needed air.

  “I wanted to do that all night,” he purrs, briefly breaking the kiss. “I’ve wanted to do that for a month.”

  He leans in again, his mouth on mine, our tongues seeking, his heat and scent rising, lifting me. The probing pleasure of his kisses tense me, making me arch against him. I heave for breath, feeling that familiar aching hunger slip down into my belly—then lower.

  “Upstairs,” I whisper, biting his lip in gentle nips. “Before we burst into flames and someone calls the fire department.”

  Hayes laughs at that, allowing a teasing threat of that beaming smile to emerge.

  I’m winded by the time I’ve raced up all five flights, but Hayes isn’t even phased. I fumble with the key at the door. He follows me in, shuts the door, turns the deadbolt and slips the slide bolt into place. Then he turns his attention to me.

  “Don’t give me a tour,” he says, reaching for his top shirt button, working his way down. “I just want to know where the bedroom is, and if we can go there now.”

  “Small apartment,” I say. “Not hard to find.”

  “Show me.” He peels off the fancy tab collar shirt he’s wearing, revealing just a tank-style undershirt.

  He’s as beautiful as I remember. Perfectly built; like a Greek athlete sculpted in marble, depicted in the round in some Athenian temple.

  I take his hand in mine, leading him. As New York apartments go, this one, I am told, is large. It’s about the same size as the one in Richmond I had over Hayes’ garage. Here, they put three apartments in a space like that.

  “Jesus,” Hayes utters, studying the walls of my room which are covered with sketches and some final products from the press and printmaking shop downstairs at The Foundry. He looks at me. “We’ll get back to all that after we address this.”

  He backs me toward the bed, his eyes hooded in concentration, his hands holding onto me at the hips. I want him. I want him to own me like he did before. I want to feel him on me, in me, enveloping me.

  My jacket was shed in the main room. My shirt peeled over my head somewhere between the door and the bed. Hayes lays me down and lifting my right foot, pulls off a boot, then repeats the effort for the left, tossing my footwear aside like so much refuse. He reaches up under my skirt, gripping the band of my tights, rolling them down over my thighs, past my knees and ankles. He lifts my bare feet to his mouth and gently kisses them before moving on to my skirt.

  When I’m stripped to nothing except panties and bra, he climbs in bed over me, his mouth seeking skin, lips, neck, ears, tongue. Finding all of these, he extends my agony. My body rocks against his, but he just uses hands and lips to tease me.

  His fingers and mouth invade me, making me whine and moan. His fingers against my deepest places makes me ache to come against him, but that’s not what I want. It’s not what I’ve been thinking of since leaving him in Richmond. My interest is below the waist.

  I reach down, fumbling with his belt, feeling the bulge behind his slacks. That’s what I want.

  “Inside me,” I huff, reaching down, slowing his hand, pushing it back. “I want you. Not a tease of you.”

  Hayes lifts up, “A tease?” he asks, grinning. “Is that what that is?”

  I nod. “I want you.” I’m white hot and dripping wet.

  “What the lady wants, the lady gets,” he growls, shoving me higher onto the bed. He kicks off his shoes and resting his hand at the waistband of his slacks, he double checks. “You sure?”

  “God, Hayes, c’mon,” I demand.

  He laughs at me, kicking his pants off.

  He slips his Calvins down, grabbing a handful, stroking himself to a full bore, steel hard erection.

  His cock is beautiful in his hand, and will be more beautiful when it’s buried inside me.

  “Please,” I beg him. He kicks my knees apart, his mouth finding mine, his belly and hips dropping to meld with me.

  “I love it when you beg,” he whispers, dipping his hard dick between my legs, sliding it past my clit, between my lips.

  I moan.

  “I want this to last,” Hayes whispers, kissing my throat, nipping my breasts while his heated spear teases my snatch. “I want you to cum and cum. I don’t want you to be able to ever walk away from me again.”

  My body aches for him. My snatch is in detox, in desperate need for this fix.

  I arch up, my breath catching in my chest. Hayes is above me, wrapped tight over me. I’m at his mercy.

  “Please, c’mon,” I beg him.

  Oh, fuck.

  Chapter 18

  Hayes

  Oh, fucking hell. Good god. She’s begging me, and hot, and so tight. I shove in and her muscles seize me like a god-damned vice.

  She cries out.

  “You okay?” I breathe, not moving. Not daring to. Her entire body trembles. Mine just wants to haul on, haul in.

  “Yeah,” she replies, her voice strained, tension creeping. Her fingers gripping the backs of my arms, bruising. “It’s just so good—”

  I lift up so I can see her. She lets out a whimper, filled with the utter pleasure of the moment.

  It is new. She’s new to this, I remind myself.

  “I love you,” I whisper, my eyes on hers, slowly easing out, then gently back in. “I love you with every cell in my body. With every thought in my head.”

  I reach down and lift her ankles so they’re wrapped around me, relaxing her, lifting her hips toward me. I move back in deep, then withdraw.

  Her heat is searing. Her fingernails dig into my arms and shoulders.

  I rock her gently, holding her, watching, keeping the pace, moving slowly until she falls into it. I see it as it happens. Her body relaxes, her expression blanks. Her hands grip me, her heels dig into my ass.

  She moans, low and hungry. Her muscles rip at me, then shudder.

  “Oh, God,” Chloe moans.

  Her orgasm builds slowly, like an inundated damn holding and holding, then all at once, crumbling, all the energy released in a crushing tide.

  “Ah… Oh…” she cries out. I feel the tremors within her, radiating out to my own extremities.

  I can’t help it, I pour into her, my body responding to the rhythm she sets as she hangs onto me, her body becoming one with my own.

  She’s relaxed now, accepting me, riding the tidal wave with me. Her hips rise up, her back arching. I let myself bleed into her, into this moment, clearing my mind of every thought except her… Chloe… my angel…

  “I like this,” I say, threading my fingers through the wave of blond locks crowning her head. The sides are shaved, sharp and prickly. Nuzzling her neck, kissing her ears, her buzz-cut hair tickles my nose and lips.

  Chloe lies limp against me, curled onto my chest, my arms wrapping her. I feel her heartbeat thumping in time with my own. Her skin is impossibly soft, silky to my touch. I think I’ve kissed every square inch of her, tasting her, and still I can’t get enough. I trace the contours of her shoulder with my fingers, noting small freckles and a tiny m
ole just below her right shoulder blade. I want to make a mental map of her body. I want to spend all my time exploring its mysteries, plunging its depths.

  Chloe Harvey has ruined me for every other woman on the planet. The rest of the species, by comparison to her, come up lacking. This girl just keeps surprising me, rocking my world.

  Tonight, I had no idea that we’d wind up here, like this. The best I hoped for is that she would give me an hour of her time, to talk, to apologize.

  I hope she doesn’t regret it.

  My eyes lift, finally taking in the room. It’s spare; very Soho loft-like with bare brick walls and exposed wooden beams overhead. The worn hardwood floors are uncovered. There’s an absence of decoration of any kind, except for the large sheets of paper taped to the brick walls.

  She’s been busy. Busy writing poetry, and busy bringing the words to life at a scale fit for lofting, gallery walls.

  ‘Trying to be an artist,’ she said earlier tonight to Mary Boon. She’s not trying. She’s doing it.

  This work is stunning to look at, but the words are wrenching.

  Statements of loss, loneliness, abandonment, fear. Her world; the one inside her head.

  ‘Hope is that thing they use to tease you into believing the lies that eventually kill your soul.’

  And,

  ‘She wished there was some tool, something sturdy, that would burn her ragged scars into pristine, polished beauty.’

  And,

  ‘You never really own anything, except your own isolation.’

  The mind that made these words, and then made them beautiful and hung them on the walls, is lying here in my arms, naked, vulnerable. There’s so much more to her than meets the eye, and some of it is daunting.

  Holding her, while reading these lines, I realize that I’m either going to spend my life being the bulwark against her self-doubts and scars, or she’s going to crush me under the weight of them. There’s no easy path forward. Being with her is going to be work.

  I realize too, how fortunate I’ve been. I’ve had almost everything given to me, beginning with two parents who love me, and love one another.