I was aware of Adrienne from the minute I walked into the cathedral, but it wasn't until we got closer that I could see her. Her back was to me, but I could still tell it was her. She stood at the front pew, shaking hands and greeting the mourners beside her young, red-haired stepmother. Adrienne was wearing a stupid little hat, but it did nothing to tame her hair. As we got closer, my heart sped up in my chest. Her black hair was as unruly as I remembered it, curly and messy and streaming over her shoulders and down her back. She was adorned in a navy dress again, but this one fit better than the one from her mother's funeral. It was cut to fit her ass and big tits perfectly. Otherwise, it was unremarkable, unlike everything else that had to do with her.
When the crowd parted and her face came into view, I stared unabashedly. She was even more stunning than I remembered. Before, the soft innocence of youth had hidden some of the haunted, drawn quality of her countenance. Now it was on full display. Her cheekbones jutted out and her eyes were sunken in her face with grief. Freckles dotted her cheeks and stood out against the grayish parlor of her skin. Her pain was so palpable, I could almost feel it in the air between us. It was an addicting sensation. I followed my father through the motions, shaking her stepmother's hand then moving on to Adrienne. She held out her hand, on auto-pilot, not even looking at me.
That wouldn't do.
Her fingernails were bitten low, to the quick. Her knuckles were scratched, like she'd just punched someone or something. Her neck was mottled and I spied a love mark beneath her left ear. Adrienne Hamina was a nasty girl, I decided. She was as unkempt and as wild as she ever was. One boring tailored dress didn't change that. I lifted her hand to my lips, opening my mouth to scrape her knuckles across my teeth. She jerked out of her stupor and squeezed my hand. For a long moment, she stared at me like she didn't know who I was. Finally, her magical, mysterious amber eyes worked over my face, recognition sparking in their depths.
“My condolences,” I said smoothly. “Adrienne,” I couldn't resist saying her name, letting my tongue caresses over the consonants and syllables. Her lips tightened and her eyes narrowed for a split second, then the moment was over. She dropped her hand and I moved down the line, following behind my father. I don't remember the rest of the service other than the fact Selene gave me a hand job under my coat as the choir sang. It was strange, I wouldn't have pegged Hamina as a Catholic, but even the bishop stood up and sang his praises. I stared at the back of Adrienne's head the whole time, my body tensing every time she moved. When she lifted her hand to shove a strand of unruly hair behind her ear, I almost moaned out loud. Selene's fist pumped too slowly for me to come, but I didn't stop her. It felt too good to stop. I could almost imagine Adrienne's lips working over my cock, if I concentrated hard enough.
Then, I was still too young and stupid to realize that a woman like her didn't come along everyday. After the funeral, I went back to my well-planned out life. I got married and assumed my position at my father's side. It wasn't until after I received an invitation to one of her stepmother's annual galas that the problem started. As I turned the thick card in my hand and re-read the Hamina name over and over, something clicked inside of me. Just like that, it started, like a pinprick hole in a dam which, after being ignored for too long, suddenly became a gaping crack. My life was exactly the way I had always wanted it to be, and Adrienne Hamina, an Oxford dropout and a known eccentric weirdo, had no place there. She was messy and dark and complicated and far away, but that didn't stop me from obsessing over the few memories I had of her. Late at night, when I was in my car on my way home to my perfect wife, my thoughts would drift back to the lost girl in the tree.
Then it became a flood.
As the next few years passed, my obsession grew and grew until it became this unruly, uncontrollable thing, like a tree root that pushed its way into every part of my life. When I fucked my wife, I wondered how Adrienne would want it and how she would sound when she came. When I was on a plane for business, I wondered where she was in the world and what she was seeing and thinking. When I closed my eyes, I thought of slim ankles and soft thighs and tangled hair. I thought of violent things too, so many dirty and crude and disgusting things.
In my dreams she liked it rough.
As rough as I did. Maybe more. At the funeral, I could tell she wasn't a scared, innocent virgin anymore. I could tell there was something dark and angry under the surface of her skin, like the sea at nighttime, deadly but beautiful. Maybe she didn't know it but I could see it behind her eyes, glistening and alluring. Begging for some poor sucker to ignore the peril and jump in, only to drown because it was inevitable.
Turns out, I was right.
About everything.
CHAPTER TWO
It's a hot, muggy night in New York City. I'm on the Upper-East side of Manhattan, one of my least favorite places on the planet. I'm two hours back from seeing hell on Earth in Mexico but I can still say this without hesitation. I'd rather be anywhere else but here. I tell the cabbie to take Lexington but he claims the traffic is too bad. So we take Madison and pass the bakery where my mother and I used to go every morning before prep school. We pass the townhouse near the corner of 77th, where I spent the early part of my childhood. Years after that were spent at the mansion up the Hudson, but I have no intention of going back there, that's for sure. Ever. I don't even want to think of it, even though I can't help it. I'm only in this city at all because I promised Jessica. I've broken so many promises to her, but I'm forcing myself to be better. There's only so many young bodies in graves and funerals you can witness before you start searching for the good in life.
Jessica is the only good in my life.
I owe it to her to be good as well, as good as I can be. That's how I see it, anyway.
Finally the yellow cab pulls to a stop. The cabbie parks behind the stretch limos and sleek foreign cars that are lined up outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The well-heeled and rich crowd around the doors, laughing and chatting before slithering into the museum for Jessica's gala. I take a deep breath as I pull some cash out of my bag, mentally preparing myself. As if there's anything I can do to truly prepare myself for the snake pit I'm willingly walking into.
I pay the cabbie and strategically step out of the car, careful not to catch my gown on anything or trip over it. I am fresh from the airport and jet-lagged as hell, but I'm still dressed for the occasion. Barely. The gauzy mint-green gown brushes across the ground, instantly getting dirty from the city street. I sling my worn leather bag across my shoulder and light a cigarette, needing a way to procrastinate.
I take a puff and comb my fingers through my thick black hair, which I keep trimmed in a short bob. I know she'll ate it, but my hair isn't really something I have time to maintain. She'll probably hate my dress, too. It's several seasons old and I can already feel eyes on me, judging. The fact that I'm wearing beat up old hiking boots underneath it is just the cherry on top. The dress is long enough to cover them... almost. But there's nothing to be done about it. I don't own a pair of heels anymore and I didn't have time to go shopping. I barely had time to quickly shave my armpits in the airport bathroom, let alone match my shoes to my dress.
I take one last good drag on my cigarette and turn in time to see a big SUV pull up. I watch it as it slows to a stop, something about it catching my eye. It's not any different from the other expensive cars there. It's shiny. It's black. It's discreet but expensive as hell. As I watch, the door opens and a man steps out, his expensive leather shoes shiny in the glow of the streetlights. He buttons his suit jacket at the waist and then lifts his head. The breath catches in my throat as I realize who he is.
He still looks the same. Well, the same but different. He's tall, taller than me. His brown hair is parted at the side and is impeccably trimmed and combed. His black suit fits his masculine frame perfectly. The symmetrical lines of his face stand out in the low light. He's still as devastatingly handsome as he ever was. More so. The softness of youth has
worn off and now he looks dangerously sharp.
His name is Dorian Armstrong.
I barely know him, but I know I hate him.
He turns and extends his hand to his beautiful blond date, helping her out of the backseat. Her sequined dress hugs her thin frame and glitters in the light. Several flashbulbs go off, the photographers out front finally jumping to action. He pauses to pose for a picture, the blond smiling bright and melding herself to his side on cue. When the photographers get their shots and move on, their smiles fade. I study their body language, because it's what I'm good at. The blond moves away from Dorian as soon as possible, dropping her hands to lift her skirt as she heads up the limestone stairs toward the entrance.
As I study her, I spy the three carat diamond wedding ring on her left hand. I realize then that she's his wife. In fact, there's a matching gold band on his ring finger. If I followed the society pages, I suppose I would have known he was married. It doesn't really matter, I guess. I study her face. She's impressive, as any wife of Dorian Armstrong should be. She looks like a flower, a white lily or a rose or something equally beguiling and banal. But when she isn't smiling, she looks hard and cold. As any wife of Dorian Armstrong would have to be.
They're not happy. Their body language screams that they barely tolerate each other. I wonder if they still fuck. It's none of my business, but I can't help but wonder. Dorian trails behind her, patting his pockets, and I realize he's looking for his cigarettes. Takes a smoker to know one. Apparently, he hasn't been able to quit anymore than I have in the years since we last saw each other. He glances up after a moment and I feel my body tense. He can smell the smoke and his gaze finds mine like a laser through the darkness. Then he's walking towards me and there's nothing I can do but take another drag and wait.
There's nowhere to run this time.
“Have another?” he asks, his voice as deep and smooth as I remember.
“How much is it worth to you?” I ask, even though I know I shouldn't engage with him. Talking with him will probably lead me somewhere I don't want to be, like down a dark and dank well of filled with bullshit. A slow smile curves over his lips and I immediately regret asking him the question. I don't think I want to know the answer. I flick my butt to the ground and dig in the front pocket of my bag, unearthing my crumbled pack of smokes. I toss it to him, to avoid having to step closer.
No, I haven't forgotten that he tried to molest me when I was fourteen.
“Unusual brand,” he says, examining the pack, which is the last one I bought before I left Mexico. I don't respond, just toss him the lighter. He catches it and lights up, the sharp planes of his face briefly illuminated by the flame. His wife sees he's lagging behind and stops to see what the hold-up is. She eyes me, sizes me up quickly, and apparently decides I'm no threat. She continues up the stairs alone, without her husband. “They're strong,” he says, a puff of smoke escaping his lips.
“I should quit,” I say, even though I don't know why I say it.
“I've been saying that for fifteen years,” he replies. “I dislike it but I can't seem to stop.” His voice is low and intimate. It sounds so close, like he's in my ear, despite the space between us.
“What does your wife think?” I ask. He raises an eyebrow.
“She chooses her battles.” He takes a deep drag, the smoke snaking out of the sides of his lips. “Carefully.” I feel my heart stutter in my chest. I don't know what I expected, but it's strange to hear him talk about having a wife so casually. I know perfectly well that neither of us are the children that we were when we first met, but it's still strange. It makes no sense but I almost expected him to lie or pretend that she was only a girlfriend or casual date. He seems like he'd be a good liar.
They all are.
I move to step around him, giving him a wide berth. I don't want any part of me, not even the hem of my skirt, to touch him accidentally. “Keep them,” I toss over my shoulder. I avoid the red carpet that's been rolled up the center of the stairs or all the crème de la crème attendees and dash around the side to jog up the plain stone. I hike my skirt up to my knees and hurry up to the entrance, past all the other guests in their glittering finery. I remind myself that I'm no longer the traumatized girl who met Dorian Armstrong all those years ago. I'm older and wiser and I've seen some shit. I can take care of myself. I'm freshly returned from documenting a drug war, for Christ's sake. After snapping shots of a fresh grave of mutilated bodies, decomposing in the blistering sun, a party full of vile snobs should be a walk in the park. At that moment, it doesn't seem like it though. It seems like willingly making a deal with the devil.
I look over my shoulder, because I can't help myself. I can feel a pang of something close to alarm in my chest when I see his eyes are still on me, watching me. I look away quickly and ignore the little voice at the back of my head telling me to flee. I step through the big doors at the entrance to the museum, trying to focus instead on the real reason I'm here. In a few moments, I'll see her for the first time in over a year and hopefully, it'll make up for some of the sleepless nights I've given her in the meantime. Seeing her at this gala, which means so much to her, will put a smile on her face at least. At this point, that's all I can give her. All I have is myself.
I check my leather bag in the coat room and resist the urge to sling my camera around my neck. I'm not working tonight, but I relate to the world easier through a lens than face to face. The thought of having to make mindless chatter or even to breathe the same air as any of these people makes my skin itch. I don't belong in this world anymore, but I'm here for the night, so I decide to make the most of the it. I take two quick shots of tequila at the bar and force my eyes skyward, above the heads of all the people I'd rather ignore. I haven't been to the Met in years. The last time I came here was with my father when I was in high school. I ache to stroll the quiet hallways and feel the calm, still air on my face.
I have to find Jessica first.
I order a tequila on the rocks to nurse and then I begin searching the crowd for my stepmother's tell-tale scarlet hair. She's already a tall woman but, at times like this, she's bigger than life. She'll be wearing a flashy gown and have on a small country's net worth in jewelry. The crowd will mold and shift around her, wherever she is. My heart skips a beat and a smile stretches over my face when I finally catch a glimpse of her. She's chatting a mile a minute at the opposite end of the room, her manicured hands flying and her diamonds sparkling as she talks about the starving women and children in Afghanistan. I can't hear what she's saying, but I know that's what she's talking about. It's her latest cause. Since my father's death eight years ago, she's been on a mission to spread his money around, taking up cause after cause. I'm perfectly fine with her philanthropy. I don't want my father's money, not even want a cent of it.
Watching her from afar, a slow, steady warmth seeps through me. Suddenly, it's all worth it. The long flight, the rushing, the crowd - everything. I'm not happy very often but I realize I'm happy to see her. More than happy. It feels like the best drug. It makes me giddy and shaky and almost scream out her name but I don't. Instead, I slowly make my way to her, my heart thumping so loud that it drowns out the music and the din of the hall. I reach out for her, my fingertips grazing her bare shoulder. Time seems to slow as she turns to look at me and then her eyes light up and she throws her bony arms around me and pulls me close. My drink sloshes and spills on my dress but I don't care. I love the smell of her perfume.
“Adrienne, I can't believe you're here,” she drawls in my ear.
“I told you I would come.”
“You always say that,” she says, tightening her arms around me. “You look terrible. Have you been sick?”
“You look too skinny,” I say, squeezing her in return and ignoring her question. “Like a skeleton.”
“You can never be too skinny. Haven't I taught you anything at all?” she says with a girlish giggle, pulling away to look me in the eyes. Her makeup and skin are flaw
less. Her champagne-colored gown sets off her hair perfectly. She's pushing forty, but she looks my age. Pure, blind affection for her wells up in me as we stare at each other for a few long seconds. She reaches up and runs her fingers through my short hair.
“I hate your hair,” she says wistfully. “It's too short.”
“It was a hassle,” I say. “Long hair is impractical.”
“It was beautiful,” she says stubbornly.
“It can grow back,” I say.
“And it will,” she nods decisively, then pulls me back against her hard body for another hug. She's been overdoing it on the yoga and laxatives, I can tell. Her eyes have the slight nervous tick that she gets when she isn't eating. But she's a former model, she's doesn't know any other way. She slides her arm around my waist and takes my drink. She sips at it and makes a face.
“It's tequila.”
“I know,” she shakes her head. “It's also disgusting.”
“I don't drink because it tastes good,” I say, even though it does taste good. The colder it is and the higher the proof, the better it tastes.
“I want to hear all about your latest assignment.” She rests her head against my shoulder, careful not to muss her perfect hair. “Tell me you were off photographing cute animals or babies or something.”
“Something like that,” I murmur, taking another sip. Her lipstick stains the rim of my glass.
“Someday I'll open a magazine and I'll see a photograph of a rainbow or a sunset or some movie star and I'll say 'my Adrienne took that' and I'll hang it up on the refrigerator for me and the maid to appreciate.”
“You can hang my work up now,” I offer, even though I doubt she's looked at any picture I've taken in the last five years.
“You're right. That shot of severed heads? Perfect.” She tightens her arm around my waist and I ignore the reason behind the gesture. I know she's thinking why I can't be like all the other women here, married and living comfortably and easily and out of harm's way in a luxurious Manhattan high-rise. I know she's wondering why I can't be more like her.
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