by Julie Kenner
“A bed what?”
“A fuck friend?” She cocks her head. “Is that more comfortable for you? Or do you prefer a calling booty?”
I unlock my teeth long enough to snap, “You are not my goddamn booty call.”
“Hm.” The sound is clipped as her smile taps out. She drops her head again—though not quickly enough. The shiny tracks on her cheeks are unmissable. “That is…an interesting point of view.”
Another sensation invades my chest. It’s not like the normal ache when I’m with her. It’s worse—like my lungs are wrapped in rope and a dull knife is relentlessly sawing to get through. Or to get out?
“Mishella.” The dagger’s in my voice now, an entreaty for understanding. But will that matter? She wants things I can’t give. She wants the past. She wants the truth.
She wants too much.
She lets my plea fall into silence, as she turns and leaves on slow steps.
I watch until she disappears—
and then I can watch no more.
I spin back toward the desk, toward the window through which I crave to drive my fist—especially now with the crow on its sill, smugly eyeing me as darkness takes over the city behind him.
Chapter Ten
MISHELLA
“Black.”
“Blue.”
“And red all over?”
I watch, a little stunned, as my quip elicits the same wide eyes and dropped jaws from my two best friends. Their matched reactions are not strange because they have dialed into the video call from different locales in Arcadia, but because they agree on something for the first time in thirty minutes. Granted, half that time has been spent studying the fifty evening gowns I have strewn across the largest of Temptation’s guest rooms, and I am in the worst mood of my life not brought on by my parents, but the tension flowing from the two has been palpable—until now.
“Did she just…make a joke?” Brooke ventures.
Vylet cocks her head. “I think so.”
“Everyone hold the line. I need to circle this day in red—somewhere.”
“Hmmm. Maybe America is a good influence on you, missie thang.”
I groan my way into a face palm. “Two weeks, Vy. I have been away for two weeks, and ‘missie thang’ is already out for some vernacular exercise?”
“Two weeks and three days,” Vy asserts. “Almost four. And I’ll give up ‘missie thang’ when you get rid of ‘vernacular exercise’.”
Brooke, who has given us a backup soundtrack of soft giggles, suddenly sobers. “Sorry, M. I’ve let her slide a little. Things have been a little…strange around here lately.”
“Strange?” I push aside a few of the dresses, needing to sit down. “That does not sound…good.”
Understatement. All the strain I have sensed from them is not my imagination—and I shiver just from wondering why.
“Oh, now you have her going, Brooke.”
“Have me going where?” I demand. “And why?”
“It’s nothing.” Brooke waves a hand in front of her awkward frown. “It’s probably nothing.”
“Probably?” My chest feels rubber-banded. “What does that—” I cannot finish. Coming from Brooke, who is married to the head of all Arcadian security forces, it could mean anything—but I force my mind away from the direst scenarios. The ones left behind are not the most comforting either. “Should Cassian be ordering the plane to take me home instead of sending me more dresses?” Because there will be more—of that, I have no doubt.
“All right. Hold on and chug a chill.” Vy throws up a speak-to-the-hand too, with much more purpose than Brooke’s fly swat. “The heightened security watches could just as well be practice drills, and—”
“Heightened security watches?” My optimistic resolve crumbles. My thoughts race, bringing up the period that changed so much for Arcadia three and a half months ago—thanks to the vigilante group who forced King Evrest to fake his own death, thrusting Samsyn onto the Arcadian throne. Thank the Creator, the movement was swiftly put down—though not the outside forces suspected of inspiring and funding it. “Are the…Pura…back?” I grimace, loathing even having to utter their name.
“No,” Vy protests.
“We don’t know,” Brooke says at the same time.
“Saynt.” His name shoots off my lips, an arrow off the bow of my fear. He is technically not a soldier yet, but desperate times beget desperate measures. Where is he, even now? It is a new day on the island. Is he getting ready for one of those watches? Surely he is not getting done with one. They would not place him on a dangerous night watch so soon. In so many ways, he is still just a boy…
“He’s fine, girlfriend.” Brooke’s words are jabbed with conviction, confirming she has checked that veracity herself. “If anything, he’s jonesing for action a little too hard for Samsyn’s liking.” She inhales with meaning. “But I know how the kid feels.”
Slowly, a smile returns to my lips. I hope she can see the gratitude behind it. I miss my feisty former boss—even her daily grumblings about the grind of being a princess instead of a warrior.
“Well…keep him in line,” I reply good-naturedly.
“We both are,” Vy assures. “Just like his big sistah would.”
“Speaking of keeping males in line…” Brooke exaggerates a brow waggle. “Can we get back to the subject—or should I say the confusing jerk—at hand?”
“And the fact that the blue gown will drive him more insane than the black?”
The dress Vy refers to, a sparkly pale blue sheath, is nearly the color of my eyes—not that Cassian will notice my eyes with its plunging neckline. Brooke’s top choice is a flowing black creation with an equally dramatic bodice: newly arrived from Milan, according to the curious little woman who has come every morning with fresh batches of gowns, per Cassian’s directive—or so she tells me. The man himself has not given me more than twenty words since our “discussion” in the study last week, choosing to work late and eat elsewhere—sometimes even just spending the night at the office. I have little hope that this Literacy Ball is going to change anything, but vow to give it a go.
And yes…perhaps there is a small part of me who wants to really be a princess for a night. Just this once…
“Show us both the dresses again.” Brooke’s request tugs my mind back to the present—away from its empathy with the sobbing sky outside. Like my spirit, the New York weather has been nonstop on the soggy for days. I welcome the chance to flip the smart pad screen, panning it across the bed. As I do, she emits a low whistle. “Daaammmn, girl. You know I’m not into apology by foof, but that man is trying to tell you something.”
“Concurred.” I change the screen back, to let them see my little shrug. “He is trying, I think…in his own weird way.”
Brooke laughs. “What man doesn’t have ‘his own weird way’?”
“Mine,” Vylet retorts. “What you see is what you get with Alak Navarre, thank the Creator. And for the record, I am keeping the hell out of him, so neither of you get any ideas.”
I move to the window seat. Gaze over the labyrinth of wet streets below, the streetlights and neon signs blended by the rain into a giant watercolor. I would have much the same view from Turret One, which is one floor directly above—but I have not returned to that space, perhaps in subliminal protest to the continued lockdown of the other tower. As long as it stays shackled, I cannot help but feel a similar weight, invisible but just as formidable, on my spirit.
“Can you just lend Alak out for a while?” I venture. “How long do you think it would take for him to rub off on Cassian, just a little?”
Brooke sighs. “I think that lesson has to come from you, girlfriend.”
Vylet smirks. “Which, coincidentally, might be best with a little…rubbing.”
Brooke peels off a giggle. I groan. Like old times.
Perhaps too much.
I bite my lip. Too late. The backs of my eyes burn. “Creator’s toes,” I whisper. �
�I miss you both so much.”
Stunningly, Vy is the first to sober on their end. Even more astonishing, her next words aren’t then just come home. She gives four even better.
“We are already there.”
As Brooke nods, her eyes are shiny too. “She’s right, shella-bean. We haven’t gone far…the same way you aren’t ever far from us.”
Now the rain falls inside too. I grip the smart pad as the flooding love of their friendship hits, a storm my heart has desperately needed. One awful sob overcomes another and another and another. They wait as only best friends can, their silence as perfect as a pair of hugs.
“I—I d-do not know wh-what—to do.” The confession finally stutters out. “I—I feel so much for him…”
So much. The new understatement. But I am so afraid of saying more. Saying it will make it real. Too real. And too much…
“I told you, B,” Vy murmurs after a pause. “Did I not?”
“Sure did,” Brooke replies.
“T-told her wh-what?” Despite the stammer, I sound shockingly pragmatic. At least I hope.
Vylet folds her arms, leans toward her camera, and nods with confidence. “That Cassian Court was going to be the man who changed you.”
They both smile. I blush furiously. “Wh-when did you tell her that?”
“From the second he first took your hand, at that reception.”
Brooke nods. “That is what she said.”
Vy maintains her close-up angle. Studies me with the intensity only possible in her big movie star eyes. “Mishella—”
I get in my turn at hoisting a hand. “No. Do not ask it, Vylet Hester.”
“—are you in love with him?”
Yes.
No!
“I—I do not know.” I let out a new moan, conking my head back against the wall. “By the Creator. I am a mess…”
“That’s all right.” Brooke’s interjection is as gentle as the rain against the glass. “Who said life is always neat and clean?”
“She did,” Vy snorts.
After joining my watery laugh to theirs, I mutter, “Point made…dammit.”
“Karma is a nasty bitch sometimes.”
“No,” Brooke interjects. “That little Prim what’s-her-name. She’s the bitch.”
I shake my head—more violently than I can believe. “It is…bizarre…but I do not believe that. She does have a connection to Cassian—”
“You mean hooks?” Vy charges.
“Perhaps even that.” My concession clearly spoils a little of her fun—the woman is always up for a rowdy debate—but I continue, “Though they are not romantic ones.” I shrug, trying to sort through my bafflement. It is no use. “Aggghh. There are simply things I do not know.” Rough breath in. Painful exhale. “Ghosts…he will not reveal.”
Silence. Contemplative but not uncomfortable. Though they are half a world away, sitting with my thoughts is so much easier with the sis-friend-hood around.
At last, Brooke penetrates the pause. “Well, I understand ghosts,” she offers quietly. “Samsyn carries a bunch. A real sucky hazard of the job.”
I meet her gaze, which has turned as somber as the thunderheads outside. “But he tells you about them, right?”
“Now he does. But we’re married, bean—and had six years of friendship before the rings went on our fingers. Things are very different for us.”
“Of course.” There is no use disguising my disappointment.
Brooke’s lips flatten. I know the look but have never dreaded it as much as this moment. Tough love. “Mishella…the plan right now is that you’re there for just six months. So now you have to ask yourself—is that a tolerable time to live with the ghosts?” Her shoulders rise then fall. “I can’t answer it for you, and neither can Vy.”
I swallow deeply. “I just want him to be happy.”
She sighs softly. “Perhaps that’s your problem, girlfriend.”
“Huh?”
“You already make him happy,” she contends. “But maybe…”
“Maybe what?”
“Maybe you want something more than just that.”
“Just that?” I openly glower. What is she talking about? Are there “levels” of happiness I do not know about, like they talk about on the cable service ads on the television? Basic, deluxe, premium?
“I’m just saying that maybe you crave…more.” Her own face twists, as if a small skirmish is taking place in her head, before a heavy breath rushes out. “A more he’s not capable of feeling, or giving. Not right now.”
Not to you.
I let the words—hers and mine--descend into taut silence. That is usually what people do when their heart is scooped out of their chest…yes?
“Mishella—”
“Fine.” I abhor the terse snap, but cannot help it from spilling. I cannot bear a moment of her getting apologetic about it—or worse yet, pitying. “I—I understand, all right? And I am fine.”
“All right, stop.” Vy points a finger at her camera. “Do not punish Brooke for this. She is trying to help you see this clearly.”
I force my lips into a girl Buddha smile. Do not let the serenity climb anywhere near my eyes. Continue to let them simmer while rejoining, “I see everything just fine, Vylet Hester. Now…I am certain both of you have a busy day ahead. I shall let you get to it.”
I click my end of the call short without giving them a chance for farewells. It is a childish move—I am taking my sand toys and going home—but I cannot control the reflex any more than the frustration and fury spawning it. Both take over now, annihilating and untamed, then dump out in an unhindered flood. A long, lonely, ugly cry in a room full of silk, satin, and brocade—finery I would trade in a moment for the true fullness of Cassian Court’s heart.
CASSIAN
Holy fuck.
I must be dreaming.
“No shit,” Scott mutters, confirming I’ve let the words slip aloud. Not surprising—nor would I be stunned if it happened again, as my Ella from the cinders seems to float down the steps, directing her soft smile toward where I wait by the car.
I’m not there for long—as in bolting to get the jump on Scott, who’s done the “courtly” thing by stepping up to “collect” her for me—but I’m screwed for watching any man get near her tonight. Delaying the torture a little longer delivers a solid for all.
Annnd, we can start with the solid any time now…
But fate is already having his fun with me tonight. The fucker takes his sweet time about the kumbaya with my nervous system, letting lightning raze me as she steps closer. The skirt of her gown, made of something that looks like a cloud spun into fabric, swirls and sparkles against the stairs with every step she takes. I pray for a breeze, which would likely flatten the filmy fabric around her thighs…
And just like that, solid arrives.
Between my legs.
Focusing on things above her waist is an only slightly better solution. The gown’s strapless bodice is encrusted with gold and silver beads, with a band of the same defining the curve of her waist. While the neckline doesn’t plunge that far down, thank God, the beads have been glued to lead one’s eye toward the center—and the bit of her breasts that are revealed.
Too damn much for my liking.
Yet I can’t stop staring.
Fuck. Fuck.
I had to go and hire the city’s best hair and makeup to primp her too, didn’t I? Damn that Fabiola, rubbing something into Ella’s skin to turn it more enticing than it already is. The cream, or whatever the hell it is, gives her neck, shoulders, and arms some kind of iridescence…flooding me with visions of exploring all those planes with my tongue.
Not. Fucking. Helping.
My mind growls it out—like my body needs help remembering how long it’s endured without hers. How many days we’ve wasted in this balance between the heaven of where we started and the hell we’re most afraid of, both of us frozen on the tightrope, unwilling to move past the stupidi
ty of surface niceties anymore. I haven’t helped the situation by practically living at the office, but coming home to a place that really is temptation for me now, with her scent and her presence in every molecule of the air, has been a fiasco I made no plans for.
Plans.
You actually started thinking of them in conjunction with this woman…when?
Something will have to happen soon. I admit it now. She’s not happy, and the sole plug she’s given me back to her joy is not a circuit I can connect—not without frying every inch of my psyche. I know that now too, courtesy of the erotic memories that assault my mind’s idle hours. Reliving every moment I’ve spent touching her, kissing her, fucking her, only clarifies the understanding. If she’s capable of consuming that much of me sexually, how much more will she gouge from me emotionally?
There’s no halfway with her.
Goddammit, there never will be.
Meaning I have to think about letting her leave.
“Bon aksum, Mr. Court.”
Especially if she insists on issuing a lot more greetings like that. Professional cool backlit with sensual music, making me a new fan of the whole boss-and-secretary thing…
“And good evening to you, Miss Santelle.”
And especially if I’ll keep being required to bend over her hand like this—snapping a certain something beneath the tux like a goddamn ripe cucumber.
“Well.” She yanks in a breath, lifting a shaky smile. I’ll take it. After ten days of watching the dry cleaners’ delivery guy get more friendly words than me, I’ll fucking take it. “Here…we are.”
Only by filling my lungs with air do I resist kissing away her nervousness. Instead, I go for a friendly smile and an overlay of charm. “It would appear so.”
“That tuxedo is on the cutting edge of…something.” She gestures with her free hand. “Fabiola told me. Several times.”
I press in my lips, working the dimples. No way have I missed what their deployment usually does to her libido—and friendly or not, I’m still not above a few dirty tactics. “I’m sure she did.”