The Experiment

by Holly Hart

  I shouldn’t ask, but.... “What happened?”

  “Little driving mishap. Kind where your car gets stolen, and you get dragged maybe ten, twenty feet behind it.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Brandon.”

  “Lily.” I shake carefully, but he still chokes on his next inhale. “What are you even doing here? Shouldn’t you be getting a massage? Soaking in the hot tub?”

  “Thought a workout might loosen me up.” His color’s coming back, at least. “Look, uh, not to horn in on your business, but if you want me to give a statement—about your boyfriend, I mean—I’m in the Presidential suite for at least the next few days.”

  Boyfriend? Ew. “Wayne? He’s not....” How to explain Wayne? “He’s my boss.”

  Brandon’s eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously? Your boss treats you like that? I’ve heard of hostile workplaces, but...wow. What do you guys do?”

  “I’m the—” Actually... No. It’s nice, talking to someone who has no idea who I am. Once that cat comes out of the bag, well, everyone’s got a demo CD. “We’re in the rodeo business. Gets a little rough-and-tumble. You?”

  “I’m in transportation. Aviation. Aerospace, uh—I’m an engineer.”

  Uh-huh. “You sound confused.”

  “Might’ve hit my head harder than I thought.” He rubs at his temple, where the bruises are darkest.

  “Either that, or you’re lying. Hiding something embarrassing. Let me see... You’re a traffic cop?”

  “Nope.”

  “Garbage man?”

  “I smell that bad?”

  “You smell like hotel soap.” I take in his square jaw, his broad shoulders. “Okay—I’ve got it. You’re an underwear model. There’s a sixty-foot version of you flashing your Jockeys over Times Square right now.”

  His laugh turns into an indecorous snort, then a deep, pained moan. “Ugh—don’t make me laugh.”

  “Sorry.” I’ve got to get out of here. Flirting with this guy might be fun, but it’s also a horrible idea. He’s charming, but so are a lot of assholes. And this one’s already showed his teeth. “Well, I’d better....” I gesture vaguely at the door, already backing away.

  “Wait—didn’t you need the treadmill?”

  “Only had five minutes!” My elbow hits the door. I yelp stupidly and duck out ass-first. Last I see of Brandon, he’s smothering a chuckle behind his hand.

  “She didn’t do nothing about her roots.”

  Not sure who Wayne’s talking to, but he’s been doing it all day—stalking around the set, propping up his ego at my expense. It’s the photographer who answers. “Nah, I like it. It’s cool. Like she doesn’t give a fuck. Take a sip, sweetheart?”

  I lean back on the divan and sip iced tea from the bottle. The camera snaps and flashes.

  “Gorgeous.” He tilts the angle and zooms in. “Let some of that drip down your chin?”

  Eugh. I let a thin amber stream trickle between my breasts.

  “How drunk would you be, if that was really whiskey?”

  I laugh, and he takes a picture of that.

  “This’ll be great. Gritty but sweet. Like...sunshine metal. That a genre?”

  Sunshine metal. I love that. “Should be.”

  “Yeah, dial down the sweet.” Wayne’s hands dig into my hair, crunching it into a staticky mess. There’s whiskey on his breath—the real stuff. “Do, like, a growl. And crawl on your knees. Like a she-wolf. Rawr.”

  I cringe away as far as I can without messing up the shot. “Wayne—”

  “We’re not really lit for that.” I could kiss the photographer—Jeff, I think his name was. My hero. “Just, uh—yeah, rake your hand through your hair. Do me a sleepy look—but, like, sleepy-sultry. Like your hot boyfriend’s just stepped out of the shower.”

  I roll over on my side, propped up on one elbow. I’m tired enough that letting my eyelids droop isn’t a stretch.

  “Perfect. Hang your hand down, like you’re looking for that whiskey?”

  I flop on my back, lips parted, eyes closed. Grope for the bottle. The shutter whirs. Wayne’s muttering something about the iced tea, how it’ll bloat me up like a puffer fish. How the camera adds ten pounds. How my “baby bump” will be all over TMZ.

  I concentrate on Jeff’s instructions instead. The tips of my ears are burning. I’m embarrassed, but it’s fury curdling in my gut, setting the hairs on the back of my neck on end. Doing the shoot is one thing. Being ordered to my knees... What the fuck? Wayne used to rail at me for not being classy enough. Letting my trailer trash show was how he put it. Now—

  “We should do one of her on the toilet—legs spread, cigarette hanging down. Like Courtney Love.”

  Jeff grimaces. “Aw, c’mon. That’s just degrading.”

  —I’m pretty sure that’s the point. I sit up, shrugging out of my borrowed jacket. “We’re Maidenfang. Not Hobofang. I’m going.”

  “Oh, no, you ain’t.”

  “Actually, that about covers it.” Jeff hoods his camera. “Thanks, sweetheart—gonna be a hell of a spread! Probably even a cover in there.”

  “Truly my pleasure.” I flash him my warmest smile, but not before turning my back on Wayne. Don’t want him thinking any part of that’s for him.

  My dressing room has a lock this time, the kind that makes a satisfying thunk when the bolt shoots home. A knot loosens in my stomach: safe at last. I take my time in front of the mirror, feeling the mobility return to my face as I dab away hours in the makeup chair. It’s a shame: they did a beautiful job, transforming my face into a glittering galaxyscape from brow to cheekbones. Comets dissolve into nebulae under my cotton ball; shooting stars streak my cheeks. A rhinestone comes to rest above my lip.

  Yeah. It’s a mess, all right.

  I used to stand up for myself. Used to fight like hell. When’d I get so tired, so beat down? If Jeff hadn’t been one of the good ones, I probably would’ve crawled for Wayne, snarled like a bitch—maybe even sat on the toilet.

  A smile steals across my lips at the thought of Wayne flat on his ass, massaging Brandon’s bloody knuckleprint off his jaw. So many times I’ve wanted to do the same thing. Maybe with one of the Grammys he keeps in his office like he earned them.

  I don’t need someone like Brandon protecting me. Still, it might be nice to lose myself in those arms, draw a little strength from them. Or...just get a hug. One hug. A touch that wouldn’t hurt or humiliate or set my hackles rising.

  I shiver, full of craving. There’s a song in that somewhere—a duet for me and Jed, all growls and screams, something about desire—not just for sex, but for...power. Confidence. A way back to the self. That feeling I used to get, like I could do anything.

  Shake it off.

  I can’t get caught up in this now. The rest of the night’s mine. And I’m going to fill it with TV, ice cream, and a long, hot bath. Sweet oblivion.

  Chapter Six

  Brandon

  I can’t concentrate. Lily’s been on my mind all day. There’s something about her, something familiar. Reminds me of summer break—hot days and apple-scented nights. Dad’s ’56 Chevy. Sweetness and nostalgia. Maybe it’s just the relief of talking to someone who doesn’t have an agenda, but it feels like something more. Something I ought to remember, like a word on the tip of my tongue.

  This is driving me nuts. I know her from somewhere. Or she reminds me of someone. Not her face: I’m good with faces. It’s her voice. Her perfume. Her laugh?

  I need to see her again—if she’ll even speak to me. In the last two days, I’ve beat up her boss, ruined her workout, and lied to her face—and been caught in that lie. And mocked for it. As first impressions go, I’d say I’ve blown it.

  I peel myself off the bed. Time to stretch my legs. Hurts worse when I let the stiffness sink in. It’s about time I scrounged up some food, as well. I should be starving by now, but four showers later, I can’t shake that jet fuel stench. Think it’s in my hair. Or grimed into my arm where it scraped through the dirt.<
br />
  The elevator dings to a stop as I reach for the button. I step back as Lily gets off.

  “Oh—hey! It’s you!” She smiles like she’s actually happy to see me. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better. Thanks.” I really am: my back’s one huge knot, and I’m pretty sure I’m bleeding through my shirt, but, hey, my jacket covers that. “How about you? Everything okay?”

  “Ever have one of those days where you don’t know whether to punch someone, laugh your ass off, or dive into bed for a week?”

  Yeah. Yesterday. And I kind of did all three. “How about dinner, instead?”

  “Dinner? Uh....”

  Here’s where I get shot down. Didn’t even know I was going to ask, till it popped out.

  “Yeah—why not? I was just going to inhale a pint of ice cream, but real food sounds good. What are you in the mood for?”

  Something that doesn’t smell like bodies roasting over a tire fire? “What’s good around here?”

  “Tacos.”

  The way she says it gets me laughing. “You know, if you said haggis-stuffed duck stomach in that tone of voice—with that kind of conviction—I’d probably give it a try.” I hold up a hand. “Don’t though. Not sure my gag reflex could handle it.”

  “Tacos it is.” Lily hits the button for the lobby. “I’ve been craving them for weeks.” She’s got this faraway look in her eyes, like she’s talking about her hometown. Her first love. The best day of her life. I like that look on her.

  “So...crunchy or soft?”

  Her tongue darts out, quick and pink. “Both. A soft taco, then a layer of refried beans, then a crunchy taco inside.”

  “Chicken or beef?”

  “Crispy potato and chorizo.” Her eyelids fall to half-mast, and she bites her lip. “Fried peppers. Sour cream. Guacamole. Tomato and onion and jalapeños. Lots of hot sauce—or, no. Fresh-squeezed lime. So tart, when you lick it off your fingers.”

  “Hungry?”

  She moans, resting her head against the wall like she can barely hold herself up. Either she’s not as shy as I thought, or she’s starving. “You have no idea.” She holds out her phone, open to an Instagram shot of burgers on the grill. A skinny blonde’s lounging in the background, tucking into an entire rack of ribs. She swipes to the next frame, and the same girl’s kicking some guy going in for a bite. “I worked all day, while this was going on.”

  “That’s gotta hurt.”

  “My lunch was celery and oyster crackers.”

  “Oof.” Talk about adding insult to injury. The elevator jerks to a stop and I stand back to let her off.

  We end up at a food truck, balancing paper baskets of the sloppiest, drippiest tacos this side of the border. There’s already hot sauce running down my arm, and I haven’t even taken a bite.

  “Sit.” Lily plops down on the edge of a brick planter, stretching her legs. I lower myself more carefully, ignoring the molten burn in my hips and knees.

  “You eat here a lot?”

  “Whenever I’m in town.” She squeezes her lime slice and sucks the juice from her fingers, eyes fluttering shut. “Mm...so good.”

  I look away, shifting my basket over my lap. Those full lips; the sounds she’s making... It’s far too easy to imagine those in another context.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Guess I am.” I pick up a taco and turn it this way and that. “Just, uh, planning my attack. Want to avoid a hot sauce/white shirt situation.”

  She laughs. “Yeah—I’d have warned you to change, but then you would have, and I didn’t want to wait.”

  Fair. And it’s not like I have anything casual to wear. It was all I could do to get a few suits couriered down on short notice. An entire shopping trip, well, that’ll have to wait till I can dress myself without graying out. I bite into my taco. A roasted pepper escapes, trailing grease and hot sauce down my front.

  “Aw....” Lily hands me a napkin. Her shirt’s pristine. “Well, at least you got it over with. Now you can sit back and enjoy.”

  Why not? The night’s nice, the food’s great, and the pain’s down to a dull roar. And Lily doesn’t seem to be holding our rocky start against me. There’s still something about her—something I can’t put my finger on. Her black hair obviously comes out of a bottle: she’s got sandy roots an inch long. But picturing her all blond doesn’t jog anything loose.

  “You ever been to Toronto?”

  She looks up from her taco, licking a dab of sour cream off her lip. “Hm? Sure—couple of times. Why?”

  “I don’t know. You remind me of someone. Been trying to figure it out all day.”

  “You’ve been thinking about me all day?” She arches an eyebrow, lips quirking up.

  “Would it bother you if I was?”

  “I’d be flattered.” Her smile spreads. “I’ve got one of those faces, though. Everyone thinks they recognize me. But I know I’d remember you...and I don’t.”

  “This would’ve been ten, twelve years ago. Picture me fifty pounds lighter, with glasses like—” I make finger-circles over my eyes. “Big Coke-bottle lenses. Massive frames.”

  “Doesn’t ring any bells.” She sips her drink. “And I’d still remember you. You’ve seen yourself, right?”

  What, black and blue and covered in an impressive array of condiments? “Thanks, I think?”

  “Oh, it’s definitely a good thing.” There’s a trail of lime juice down the side of her hand, all the way to her wrist. I look away, swallowing the impulse to follow it with my tongue.

  I clear my throat. “So, uh...what’s that like, doing the rodeo circuit? Got to admit I’ve never even been to one. What do you do—ride bulls? Lasso broncos?”

  Lily sets her taco down. “It’s exciting. Kind of a way of life. You get lost in it, the whole performance. You’re riding this high, doing what you love, and when the crowd loves you back....” A slow smile lights up her face. “I mean, you’d still want to do it if no one was watching, but that moment when it all comes together, and you know you’ve given ‘em something they’ll never forget—something that’ll stay with them all their lives, weave itself into their memories....” She flushes. “Sorry. That’s dumb. It’s just rodeo.”

  “No—no, I liked it. You should be passionate about what you do.” Been a while since I heard anyone talk about work like that. “You make it sound like art.”

  “Maybe it is, in a way. Oh—hold on.” Her phone’s vibrating. She fishes it out, reads the text, and frowns. “Sorry about that.”

  “Bad news?”

  She holds out her phone again: hope ur out fixin ur roots.

  “Your boss?”

  “Yeah. He’s declared war on my hair.”

  “This is the same guy with the....” I sweep my hands down the sides of my head to indicate a mullet.

  “One and the same.”

  “Yeah—hello, Kettle? This is Pot. You’re black.”

  It’s not that funny, but she laughs till she has to wipe her eyes, shaking her head as she gathers herself. “Phew—sorry. I needed that. Been a long day. A long few years.”

  We ditch the sad remnants of our tacos and drift back toward the hotel. I don’t want the night to end, but asking her back to my suite would be premature. Not sure that was even a date—though, if it was, I’d be pressed to remember a better one.

  “Could I ask a favor?”

  “Mm?” I blink back to reality. “Yeah. Ask away.”

  “Before we go back inside....” She shifts from foot to foot. “Could I get a hug?”

  There’s no keeping the grin off my face. I’ve been asked a lot of favors by a lot of people, especially lately, but this is one I’m happy to grant. I fold her into my arms, loving the way she snuggles up to my chest. My battered ribs protest her embrace, but it’s worth every ache and twinge. I find myself rubbing her back, wanting the moment to last.

  At last, she releases me, with a quiet sigh. She’s looking anywhere but at me
, eyelashes lowered. “Thanks,” she whispers, a shade too hoarsely. “Well, I.... That was fun. We should do it again, if you’re going to be here a while.”

  “Couple of weeks, at least.”

  She rises on tiptoe to kiss my cheek, and next thing I know, she’s fleeing, disappearing through the revolving door so fast I don’t get to ask for her number.

  Chapter Seven

  Lily

  I slide down the inside of my door, more out of breath than I should be. We didn’t even kiss. Not the way I wanted to, with lips and tongues and grasping hands.

  Touching him at all was a mistake. I want it too much—the solid security of his arms, the comfort of his hand on my back. The fantasy of someone who doesn’t know who I am, doesn’t care. Someone who wants me, just me—not Lily Walker from Maidenfang. For a while, maybe....

  We’re a couple of out-of-towners in a hotel. Three weeks from now, I’ll be hitting the road. He’ll be back in, uh...Canada, I guess. I don’t need the ghosts of stolen moments reminding me what I can’t have.

  Or maybe that’s exactly what I need: something sweet to look back on. Something hot and anonymous and all mine.

  I can still feel where he held me—where one hand cradled my arm; where his chin rested on my head. I run my own fingers along my jawline, where the rough wool of his jacket brushed my face. It’s easy to picture him kissing me there. He wouldn’t waste time on gentleness, but I’d urge him on anyway, gripping him by the scruff of the neck. Tilting my head to bare my throat. He’d be a biter: rough and urgent, nipping and sucking, tasting my sweat. Sinking his teeth into my shoulder hard enough to leave a mark. He’d undress me fast, fuck me hard: on my hands and knees, with my hair wrapped around his hand.

  My own hand’s wandering, following the column of my neck. His breath would be hot and quick, harsh gasps of pleasure I’d wring from him with every trick at my disposal. My hands, my mouth... I’d devour every inch of him. Make him say my name over and over, just to feel it whispered against my skin.