THE DIRTY ONES

by JA Huss

  “Are you coming?” I look over at the door and find Hayes peeking his head through.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Get dressed, Kiera. That wasn’t really a question.”

  I laugh. “Fuck off.”

  “Seriously,” he says. “I’m gonna drop you two off at Sofia’s and then I have shit to do before Connor gets home.”

  “Home?”

  “Sofia’s house. We’re gonna stay there for now.”

  “We?”

  “Get up and get dressed.” He leaves me with that. No explanation, just orders.

  I don’t mind the orders, but I would like to know the rules of this temporary arrangement. But that can’t happen until we’re all four together again, so I give in. Get up. Get dressed. Pack up my bag I brought and place it in front of the doorway as Hayes talks on the phone about… whatever. And Sofia takes extra long getting ready in her suite bathroom.

  When we’re all back on the same page, heading down the stairs—two house people carrying our bags—I suddenly remember something.

  “Did they ever find Emily?”

  Hayes ignores me. Or pretends he didn’t hear the question. Or maybe he’s just thinking about something else. So I ask again. “Hayes? Did they ever find Emily?’

  “Yes,” he says, straight away this time. “She was found early this morning. She’s back where she belongs now.”

  “Good,” Sofia says, letting out a long breath of air once we reach the bottom of the stairs.

  “Has anyone talked to Camille?” I ask.

  “I called her while I was getting my stuff together,” Sofia says. “She’s gonna meet us for dinner.”

  “Cool,” I say. And I mean it too. Because this is the part I’ve missed living up in Vermont. Meeting for dinner and stuff like that. And Camille lives in the building across the street from Sofia. If I stay there with her—if we all stay there with her—then I can meet up with Camille all the time.

  I feel unreasonably happy about this new perk.

  When we get outside the frigid air reminds all of us that it’s mid-December.

  And then I have another thought. If I stay in the city I can go to Christmas parties. Surely Sofia and Camille have invitations to all the best Christmas parties. I’ll get to go shopping, and buy gifts for people, and wake up to Christmas morning. Which I used to do with my mom, before she died. But these past two years have been very lonely for me during the holidays.

  There’s a car waiting for us. A driver opens the back door and since I’m the first to reach it, I get in and scoot all the way down. Sofia gets in after me, then Hayes.

  We sit there, breathing out puffs of steam, as the driver closes us up and walks around the back of the car to get in the driver’s seat.

  There’s a partition between us and the driver, so that’s the last thought I have about him.

  Now all I can think about is how good the heater feels, and how nice it feels to be pressed up against another body. One you’re allowed to be pressed up against.

  Sofia must feel the same way, because she leans over and rests her head against Hayes. And I do the same to her. So we are a sideways pile of people who are allowed to crush each other with body parts.

  I want to giggle at that thought. I should write that down. What a fun sentence. Use it in my next book.

  But then Hayes says, “How would you like to go to a party this Saturday night?”

  Sofia says nothing so I answer for us. “Yes.” It’s like Hayes can read my mind.

  “Great. I’ll let Connor, Bennett, and Camille know attendance is required.”

  “Whose party is it?” Sofia asks. She must be tired because her words come out in a mumble.

  “Louise Livingston’s.”

  I have never loved New York City. I’m not a New Yorker. My little town of Charlotte, Vermont is my happy place. But I have to admit, being chauffeured down Fifth Avenue and dropped off in the valet in front of Sofia’s pre-war building impresses me.

  I’ve read her books. I read all about her version of New York. I’ve lived in the apartments and townhomes of her characters. I’ve walked through Central Park across the street and sat on the steps of the Met to eat lunch. I’ve experienced the splendor she writes about and even though none of those settings were her own personal apartment, I thought I’d prepared for the luxurious and opulent world she lives in.

  I was wrong. I am not prepared at all. I get the doorman. I get it. I have seen these things on TV, and I’ve been to the city with Hayes several times over the years, so I’m expecting the greeting. “Good afternoon, Miss Astor.” But after that things get a little surreal.

  “Hello, Gregory,” Sofia says, accepting Hayes’ hand as he helps her from the car.

  Gregory tips his head at Hayes. “Mr. Fitzgerald. How are you doing today?”

  “Just fine, thanks,” Hayes replies, reaching in for me.

  “Hello, miss,” Gregory says to me with a cheery smile. “Welcome to the Corinthian. You’re a new guest for our Miss Sofia, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I manage to say, looking up at her building like a tourist.

  “Gregory, this is Kiera Bonnaire,” Sofia says. “She’s staying with me.”

  “Welcome, welcome, Miss Bonnaire! Anything you need, you just ask.”

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling nervous for some reason.

  Then Sofia leans into him, cupping her hand near her mouth like she’s gonna tell him a secret, and whispers—not all that softly—“She’s a famous author, Gregory. So if any fans come looking…” Sofia makes a shhhh sound with a finger to her lips.

  “Mum’s the word.” Gregory beams.

  Sofia beams back.

  “We have two bags,” Hayes says, palming a tip into Gregory’s hand.

  “I’ll take care of it, sir.”

  Then Hayes is between us, placing his hands gently on the small of our backs, urging us towards the door. Gregory turns a key in a short pillar of stone near the entrance to the classic green canopy that covers the walkway leading to the entrance. And when we enter the lobby that’s it, I’m done.

  I know it’s dumb. I just came from a mansion so big I can’t wrap my head around it. But that was Long Island. This is Fifth Avenue.

  It’s art deco. Straight lines that bend in sharp corners. And glittering sun medallions made of inlaid marble on the floor. It’s black, and white, and gold, and old. Every man is in a suit. Every woman fresh with perfect makeup and designer clothes, and necklaces that cost more than my cottage.

  How is this real?

  It makes no sense. So many rich people in one place, sipping afternoon tea in low velvet upholstered chairs with tiers of scones, and pastries, and pretty little finger sandwiches piled on silver trays. There are small gatherings of conversation. People whispering secrets, holding martini glasses, and drinking in the bar. Because this isn’t an apartment building. It’s a hotel. She lives in a hotel penthouse.

  I knew that. I did. But I didn’t understand it until this moment.

  “You coming?” Hayes asks, pushing on my back a little.

  I realize I’ve stopped to gawk. I look down at my feet. My shabby shearling boots. Realize I’m wearing leggings and a too-big coat and get a little lost in the inlaid marble sun medallion as I try to control my instant feeling of inadequacy.

  “Yes,” I say, looking back up at the expectant faces of Sofia and Hayes. “Sorry.” I laugh. “I’m just… wow, this place is a palace, Sofia.”

  “Wait till you get upstairs.” Hayes chuckles, urging me forward again.

  We stand in front of the bank of brass-fronted elevators. The art deco design continues here. Something that looks like an upside-down waterfall engraved into the gold facade parts in the middle as a door opens and we get in.

  There’s a bench in there. And an attendant. “Good afternoon, Miss Astor,” the woman says. “How are you today?”

  “Oh”—Sofia laughs softly, placing a hand on her heart as she looks at Haye
s and me—“I’m having the best time.”

  “So happy to hear that,” the attendant replies.

  I wonder, as we ascend to the heights above New York, what it would be like to interact with so many people in the course of one day. And for it not to be a special occasion, like it is for me, but an everyday occurrence.

  I don’t know if I’d like it. Intimacy isn’t my thing. I prefer to write about it. I prefer to live it in my head and put it down on paper.

  The doors open directly into Sofia’s apartment and the first thing I see is New York. And the park down below covered in white.

  “Wow,” I say.

  “Jesus,” Hayes says. “You have never been this impressed with my place.”

  “No, well…” I laugh and stutter. “Your place is super impressive, Hayes. But I’ve been there before. And it’s like a museum. I can relate to a museum. I just can’t relate to this at all.”

  “You hate it,” Sofia says, pouting.

  “No.” I chuckle. “I love it.” Then I take a deep breath and look around. Everything is decorated in black and gold, just like downstairs. So Sofia. Long drapes hang at the edges of floor-to-ceiling windows. The floor up here is classic black and white tiles laid in a diagonal pattern. And they have glittering flecks of gold where the grout lines should be. Something you’d see in a pre-war penthouse, for sure.

  There’s a staircase leading up to a second floor and a grand living room beyond the foyer. My whole body turns to take it all in. To picture her here, all these years, writing.

  “Where’s your office?” I ask.

  “Down that way.” She points, then squeaks out a surprise as Hayes leans down to kiss her. “Be back soon,” he says, and gets back in the elevator. “I’m gonna go find Connor and Bennett. Kiera, don’t forget. You need something to wear this weekend.”

  Right. The party at Louise’s house.

  I’ve never been there. I wonder if it looks more like Hayes’ museum? Or Sofia’s penthouse?

  Then I start thinking about how different Hayes is from when I first met him at school in senior year. Back then he was wild. A party guy. Always drinking, and smoking pot, and driving fast and doing shit rich-boys with no fucks to give do.

  But over the years he’s mellowed a lot. Turned back into the boy his parents raised instead of the one who rebelled.

  I like all his parts. The bad ones, the good ones, the wild ones, the mellow ones. And I like the fact that I know him—have known him—all the ways I know him. Because even though everyone else ghosted on me—or maybe I ghosted on them? Not quite sure about that—he was always there.

  At first it was kind of like dating. Except we didn’t kiss, or fuck, or anything like that. We just met up, or went out to lunch, or went to dinner, or a movie, or a gallery opening.

  Mostly it was in Burlington not New York.

  I realize that Hayes Fitzgerald has been the only constant thing in my life for the past ten years.

  Well, that and writing.

  Sofia and Camille were there online, but that’s different. It’s much less personal. I didn’t get to smell their perfume, or see their home décor change over the years, or help them decide if a guy hitting on them at a party or a bar was worth their effort.

  And now all that is gonna change. I know Connor didn’t say we’re gonna be together, and Sofia and Hayes didn’t say we’re gonna be best friends, but we are. I know it.

  Once Hayes leaves Sofia and I stare at each other in the large foyer.

  We will be best friends, right? We already have so much in common.

  “So…” Sofia says.

  Oh, God. Please. Do not let this turn into one of those awkward we-have-nothing-in-common moments.

  “Wanna see the office?” Sofia offers.

  “Yes,” I breathe. Relief flooding through my body.

  Because my fear is stupid. We have a ton of things in common. Writing, for one. Books, offices where we write books… Connor. Hayes. Sex. Books. Writing. Camille and Bennett. School. Books. Writing. Sex…

  I don’t know about this. The whole idea seems crazy now that we’re alone at her place. Like an unobtainable dream.

  “It’s down here.” She leads me through the large living room, past the gleaming stainless steel chef’s kitchen, to a hallway that goes both directions once we reach it. We turn right and head towards the side of the building that faces the park.

  I know before we even step inside that she has that same view. And she does.

  The New York skyline sweeps out before me. Her walls on either side are lined with navy blue painted built-in shelves with a splash of gold peeking out from behind the books. They climb all the way up to the vaulted ceiling. An elegant writing desk, painted to match the built-ins, sits in the middle of the space. It’s very art deco with an oval top and skinny brass legs that taper to a point on the floor. Laptop closed up on top and a gold velvet armchair tilted to one side, like she just got up to take a break, but will return to work soon. It’s a corner room, and the other window faces a side street, not Fifth Avenue. There’s a large sectional couch the same gold velvet as the chair pushed up against the window on that side. Almost a perfect square.

  Sofia notices me looking at the couch and says, “Camille lives right across the street in that building there.” She points and I look out at the terrace just a short distance away. “Sometimes we write together. Well, not together. I sit here on my couch and she sits there on her couch and we write.”

  “Wow,” I say, unable to stop the awe in my voice. “I write on my couch too, laptop propped up on a pillow, wearing leggings. But it’s nothing like this. I bet you even get dressed every day, don’t you.”

  “You’re stupid.” She laughs. “But no. I mean, yes. I do get dressed everyday. But I don’t always write in here. Sometimes I write in bed. Especially when… you know. Those scenes come up.”

  I raise my eyebrows at her. “You get off on your own sex scenes?”

  “Don’t you?”

  I laugh. Loud. Shake my head. “No.”

  “Never?”

  “Well, sometimes. But I don’t like… stop writing to masturbate.”

  “Oh.” She fans herself. “Lucky you. I turn myself on so hard sometimes I lose a whole afternoon.”

  “You do not.” I giggle.

  “I swear to God. Sometimes Camille has to come over here and shake me out of it.”

  “Sicko,” I say.

  She shrugs. “You should try it.” Then she blushes unexpectedly and says, “I’m really glad we all got back together yesterday.”

  “Yesterday, Jesus. How has it only been one day?”

  “Feels like you never left,” she says, closing the small space that separates us to wrap her hand around my arm. “And I really hope you stay, Kiera. I mean that. This… whatever it is we’re doing. I love it already. I want things to be like this for a while. Maybe even a long while. And I’m excited to see Louise. Aren’t you?”

  “I dunno,” I say, slipping out of her grip to walk forward to the windows. I press my forehead to the cold glass and look down at the street below. Maybe this is too much change for me? Things seem to be moving forward pretty fast and I’ve always thought of myself as a girl stuck in the past. That’s why I live where I do. That’s why I don’t have to go to the library or the coffee shop down the road for internet, that’s why I don’t mind not having cell coverage or even a TV. That’s why I listen to old records like Bennett.

  Hmmm. I get lost in that realization for a second. Bennett and his Victrola and all those old records. Did I steal that from him?

  “Shit.”

  “What?” I ask, not turning to look at her. Because I’m second-guessing everything and I hate it. Why do I always do that? I always withdraw when things go fast. Why?

  “We forgot the book. I wanted to read it today.”

  “We don’t need to read it, Sofia. We know what it says.”

  “Do we?”

  I turn to look at
her. “Of course. We know how it ends, at least. With us breaking up and going our separate ways.”

  She shrugs. “Maybe whoever wrote it gave us a HEA?”

  “I don’t see how,” I say, a little bit of annoyance leaking out in my tone. “It was one of us and we’re not HEA kind of people.”

  “Speak for yourself,” she says. And now she seems annoyed. “HEA is my job. It’s yours too.”

  “Yeah, but you write the kind of story that leads to an HEA. Mine are dark. And most of the time I just want to kill them at the end.”

  “What?” She giggles. Like this was a joke.

  “For real. I hate writing happy endings. Hate it.”

  “Why? That’s the best part.”

  I shrug. “Not for me. I like the crisis myself. I like that moment when everything is so hopeless and I know my readers are getting pissed off.”

  “Hmmm,” she mumbles. “You’re kinda weird, you know that, Kiera?”

  I nod. “I know.”

  We’re quiet for a little while after that. I turn back to the window and press my head on the cold glass. Watching the little people down below. Thinking up stories about them.

  “You see that lady?” I say, breaking the silence. Sofia is close, but not right up against the window like me. “That one with the red knee-high boots?”

  Sofia takes two steps and looks down. “Yeah.”

  “Who wears boots like that in the fucking snow? I bet they’re like four-inch heels.”

  She huffs. I think it’s a laugh but I’m not a hundred percent sure. “New Yorkers. They’re probably leather too,” she adds.

  “Yeah, and by the time she gets to the first-date dinner she’s all dressed up for they’ll be ruined.”

  “But her date… he’s super rich. Like Hayes.”

  “And weird,” I add.

  “Super weird. But in a kinky way. And he insists on buying her a new pair. Like immediately. Before they even have dinner.”

  “Because he’s a controlling asshole and needs her to be perfect if they’re gonna dine together in the Corinthian restaurant.”

  “No.” She laughs. “Because he’s worried that her feet are wet and cold.”