Until The Last Star Fades

by Jacquelyn Middleton

  “Hey!” The naked squatter looked over his shoulder. “Sorry, did I wake you? I’m Hunter.” He began to swing around, a musky scent accompanying his arrival.

  Oh, good God, don’t! Ben squinted, but it was too late. Mr. Rock-Hard Buns, AKA Hunter, was full-on full frontal, his nine flaccid inches swinging with pride. Ben gulped, his eyes widening. He’s hung like a fucking donkey! He quickly looked away, his eyes scrambling for somewhere safe to land.

  “Gotta get my squats done before jogging to the gym.” Hunter held his head high and scratched his head through his close-cropped brown hair. “They warm everything up, ya know?”

  No, I don’t know, actually. A stack of men’s fitness magazines on the hardwood floor held Ben’s stare. He cleared his throat and played with the dark hair on his forearm, unsure where to look next.

  Hunter leapt into jumping jacks. “Glad you got the keys off my neighbor, let yourself in. I meant to be here when you arrived, but work called. Did you sleep okay? Sorry it’s not big.”

  Ben looked up—a big mistake—and got an eyeful of bouncing penis. “Oh, it’s big—”

  “What?’ Hunter stopped jumping and scratched his rapidly rising and falling pecs, which were pumped up, hairless, and sculpted to male model perfection.

  “Uh, I mean it’s big enough—the sofa, it’s great, thanks.” Ben gave an awkward double thumbs-up and bowed his head, keeping his sightlines PG.

  “I know it’s not ideal.” Hunter exhaled heavily, surveying his home. “Most Airbnb guests only stay for a night then go elsewhere.”

  Yeah, I wonder why, mate. Ben smiled politely and ran a hand through his messy hair, trying to tame the pieces pointed toward the red ceiling.

  “Sorry about…” Hunter casually swept his hand down his naked body. “I usually warm up in my bedroom, but I’m storing stuff in my there for my new business venture. I like to stretch and warm up naked. It lets me see how my body reacts—it’s become a habit.”

  “It’s okay, really. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

  “Exactly, dude! Hey, if you don’t mind the sofa, you’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like. Your email said something about a couple weeks?”

  “Hopefully, yeah, but I need to find a job, otherwise…” Stomach growling, Ben brushed his hair from his eyes. “I can’t afford to stay on anyone’s sofa. Time’s a-ticking.” He squinted toward the half-tilted window blinds and the gray day peeking in. “Speaking of, what time is it?”

  Hunter squatted, picking up his phone from the floor. “Quarter to nine, the Sunday after St. Patrick’s Day—first one I’ve greeted without a hangover, I think…”

  “Yeah, me too.” Ben nodded. “Hey, do you have a laptop or a tablet I could use? To search for jobs?”

  “Want something under the table?” Hunter scrolled through his phone.

  “Maybe.” Ben’s eyebrows furrowed. “Why do you ask?”

  “Your accent—Australian?”

  “British.”

  Hunter nodded. “My buddy’s Spanish, here illegally. I’ve become an expert at finding cash-in-hand work. I might be able to help you land something…” He stared at Ben’s bandaged hand. “I was going to suggest joining his flat-pack furniture assembly biz, but—”

  “I can do that.” Ben sat up, eyes keen and bright. “My hand—it’s just a cut. I’ll do anything.”

  Anything, huh?” Hunter chuckled, giving Ben a once-over. “Okay. I’ll make some calls.”

  Eight

  Lining up boxes of perfume just so, a yawn escaped Riley’s pout. Her hand quickly ran interference, covering her mouth as her puffy eyelids flickered and fought to stay open under the headache-inducing fluorescent lights. It was no use—this yawn would not be muffled. Wake up! Look alive.

  A co-worker snickered. “Rough St. Paddy’s, Riley? Grab my extra espresso in the break room—you need it more than I do.”

  “Aw, thanks…” Riley yawned again, straightening her black Sephora tunic over her hips. “You’re a lifesaver.” Her eyes swept the shop floor, searching for her manager, who had already told her off once for looking pale and exhausted that morning. A quick getaway was imperative. She had to be peppy and back in place for the arrival of Sunday’s first customers. Boss nowhere to be found, Riley made a dash, leaving her post in ‘fragrance world’ for a much-needed rendezvous with the two Cs—concealer and coffee.

  A burst of chilly air sailed up the back of her black tights. Shit, 11 A.M.—showtime. She circled back to her department, smiling at the rosy faces emerging from wool scarves and fur-trimmed hoods. The shop in Soho was open for business whether Riley was ready or not. Her eyes strayed to the people passing by outside on Broadway, the morning foot traffic heavy despite yesterday’s snow and the boozy St. Patrick’s Day vibe that still hung over the city. An old habit roused itself—making up stories for people sailing past on the sidewalk: well-groomed women heading toward Balthazar for avocado toast, teenagers in unzipped parkas exercising their parents’ plastic in Uniqlo, the lanky dark-haired guy hidden underneath a green ball cap shuffling to—wait! Ben? It’s Ben! A strange sense of giddiness lightened her mood. The place where he was staying was a few blocks away so it made sense to see him around. Riley smiled, happy he was okay. He looked snug in a quilted coat ideal for a New York winter. Thank God he ditched that light jacket! Snow began to dance in the blustery air as he slowed his pace and adjusted his hat, lifting the peak and turning his head. She raised her hand in a half-wave and his eyes met hers, delivering a blank stare—under a New York Jets cap. This guy’s hand wasn’t bandaged. His lips were thin and unkind, displaying zero joy or interest, his cheekbones unremarkable, and his eyes…steely and impatient. Even if she never saw Ben again, she wouldn’t forget his sparkly blue eyes, carefree and inviting—fun. Ben was like a friendly puppy, all gangly and unable to sit still…unlike this guy. With a double take, he frowned, stared at his phone, and stiffly strode away, out of sight, out of mind, instantly forgettable—unlike Ben.

  Riley’s smile dissolved as quickly as it had appeared. Why hasn’t he texted to say hi? She stood up straight, the freezing air pushing past the open doors, waking her up. Riley, you told him your number was for ’emergencies only’. That’s WHY, stupid. Hopefully he’s all right. New York alone is…well, I hope he’s okay—

  “Riley!” Frustration tinged the woman’s tone. “A client’s waiting.”

  Ugh, the boss. She snapped to attention. With an apologetic smile, Riley slipped her fingers down her sleek ponytail and smoothed her tunic. She turned around, meeting two familiar faces.

  “Gotcha!” Underneath the hood of her shearling coat, her oldest friend, Erika Kobayashi, stood tall and posture-perfect, a grin raising the corners of her burgundy lips. “Like my angry boss voice? I’m practicing for when I get that promotion. It’s good, isn’t it?”

  Riley nodded with a sleepy smile. “Almost too good. You’ll have ’em quaking in their boots and eating out of the palm of your hand.”

  “Aw, you really think so?”

  “Yep. The Four Seasons would be crazy not to give you that promotion. Plus, you always get what you want.”

  “That’s true.” Leia McClelland, Erika’s best friend and fellow New York Islander WAG, stuck her hands in the pockets of her wool coat and tapped her foot. Willowy and ethereal with a thick mane of long red hair, Leia was bewitching yet unassuming. Wherever she went, she drew envious stares, and today was no different, her makeup-free complexion still lightly sun-kissed from her Caribbean vacation with Erika six weeks earlier during the NHL’s all-star break.

  “So, what are you doing here?” Riley looked around her friends, ensuring her boss wasn’t hovering. “Erika, weren’t you and Scott booked for a spa day?”

  “You never get out anymore. I had to ambush you.” The twenty-four-year-old carefully lowered her hood, revealing her sleek black tresses immaculately coiffed into a bun. Not a hair, not an eyelash, not a sweep of blush was out of place—but tha
t was Erika, always ready for her close-up. The Japanese-American stunner and former teen ballerina was perpetually dressed to impress for any high-profile occasion that might roll her way, be it a star-studded Midtown fundraiser, or an impromptu casting session for the Real Housewives of New York—her favorite TV series. Riley was always amazed by her high school friend’s elegance and had no clue how she kept it up, rain or shine, weekday or weekend. “Scott blocked a shot last night, puck hit his arm.”

  “Ouch! In the gap?”

  “Yeah, between the glove and elbow pad. It ballooned and turned purple. The doctor’s examining it again, so I’m here, ready to take advantage of your staff discount.”

  Riley slouched into a whisper. “Not today, okay? You know I would if I could.”

  “Well, save me some of your gratis products, then.”

  “I gave you a bag full last month, greedy guts, and it’s not like you can’t afford them—”

  “You can take the girl out of Staten Island, babe. Besides, everyone loves free stuff!”

  “Yeah, you more than most, Eri.” Leia yawned, her blue eyes hopping to Riley, who was fiddling with her ponytail. “I’ll be over in hair products.” The twenty-five-year-old’s boots scuffed aimlessly toward the rear of the shop.

  “Was that a dig?” Riley examined the ends of her hair.

  “No! Your hair looks super cute today! But—”

  “What?”

  “Your eyes look puffy— you did go out last night!”

  “No! I was up late with Pip and her tequila.” Riley looked over her shoulder, praying her boss wouldn’t swoop in and catch her socializing. Thankfully, her engagement news would have to wait. She exhaled quietly, relieved that Erika—who was eating, breathing, and sleeping weddings—could be kept in the dark a little longer. One whisper of Josh having proposed and Erika’s delighted squeals would be heard all the way back to Staten Island and their old neighborhood. Riley’s boss would probably celebrate, too—by firing her.

  “Aw! I get it. I used to drink when I missed Scott. It sucks being apart.” Erika sighed and rifled through a row of perfume boxes. “Want to do lunch? Tell me about spring break? I don’t have to pick up Stanley from daycare until three.” Stanley Pup was Erika and Scott’s Boston Terrier, named after the Stanley Cup, the NHL’s top prize. Riley adored him. In many ways, she preferred dogs to people—they were loyal, reliable, uncomplicated.

  “Can’t—I’m broke.” She straightened the scents Erika had messed up. “And I’m here ’til closing, doing a double.”

  “Is that smart?” Erika’s eyebrows lifted. “You look like you’re running on fumes, and isn’t tomorrow—”

  “Did you see these?” Riley snatched a frosted bottle from a shelf, trading the rest of her friend’s sentence for a decadent eau de toilette spray. She waved it under Erika’s nose. Look! Shiny things! If it was new, heaven-scented, and eye-catching, Erika would latch on and forget what they had been talking about. “Just arrived. Limited edition.”

  Erika’s eyebrows launched toward the ceiling, buoyed with competitive zeal. “Ooh! Leia doesn’t have that one!” Her pale manicure flew down the buttons of her coat, unveiling a designer dress yet to hit stores. “So! Get this—my bachelorette is almost planned!”

  Riley cradled Erika’s perfume and started down the aisle. “Which one?” Leia was organizing all of Erika’s pre-wedding parties and gift grabs.

  “Which one! The first one.” Erika’s intense concentration climbed the shelves. “Leia thinks she found the perfect club.”

  “Male strippers? Seriously, that’s still the plan?”

  With a nod, Erika’s chandelier earrings tinkled cheerily.

  Riley scrunched her nose. “That’s such a cliché.”

  “Babe, I want cliché. Every aspect of my life is ordered, professional, top notch. I want sweaty pelvises grinding in my face. I want handstands in banana hammocks! I want penis-shaped cake! Don’t be a killjoy—let me have my smutty fantasy.” Erika giggled, dumping several boxes of perfume into Riley’s arms. “Leia’s taking this research seriously. She has one more club next Friday and then she’ll make her decision. The timing couldn’t be better.”

  “Why?”

  “The Islanders’ western road trip? Tyler won’t be around to distract her and with Scott gone, I can get the 411 about the dancers! But only if his arm is better and he travels with the team. He’s dying to get revenge on the LA Ducks.”

  “You mean LA Kings.” Riley smiled politely at a passing customer.

  “Ducks, Kings—all I care about is the guys being gone for six days, and Leia and I are taking full advantage. You should, too! We’ll have a girls weekend! Cocktails, manis, pedis—my treat. Oh! And we can check out her apartment reno and try on her new upcycling designs. There’s a dress screaming my name!”

  More things I can’t afford. “Does Leia know you’re inviting me?”

  Erika crossed her arms like a teacher disciplining a student. “Rye, I need my maids of honor to get along.”

  I shouldn’t have let Erika guilt me into this. Being a bridesmaid is sucking the life out of me—and my bank account. I can barely afford groceries let alone my dress…

  “Scowls will ruin my wedding photos—”

  “Talk to Leia, then.” Riley checked her whereabouts. Leia was at the back of the store slouched beside a black and white striped pillar, checking her phone. “She gives me the cold shoulder and I’m the one getting the lecture? It’s been four months and I’m still waiting for a thank you. I spent three weeks filming and editing that reel for her boss’s Fashion Week charity. I guess it created itself, right?”

  “I know, I know. It’s just…”

  “Easier to tell me to play nice? Eri, I know you want to stay in her good graces—”

  “I can’t miss the Met Gala!”

  “You act like it’s life or death.”

  “It is—” Erika caught herself. “Well…socially.” She added two more boxes to the haul in Riley’s arms.

  She stared at the lavish stash teetering in her arms. One careless nudge and her paycheck would be splattered across the floor. “Uh, want a basket?”

  Pausing at a mirror, Erika flashed a gleaming smile, a perk of Scott’s endorsement deal with a teeth-whitening brand. “I’m one degree of separation from landing on the most coveted guest list. The Met Gala is THE big get, and with Leia working part-time at the Costume Institute—”

  Riley rolled her eyes. “Kissing her butt so you can go to a celeb-filled party…”

  “It might sound silly to you, but it’s everything to me.”

  “I’d apologize to Leia if I’d done something wrong, but…” Riley curled her lip. “She acts like I slept with Tyler. Yuck—as if!”

  “Honestly, who hasn’t slept with Tyler? Have you heard the latest?” Erika pulled Riley into a Leia-free corner. “You know that Fashion Week model, the one with the twin sister who dates that douche from SNL? Apparently, she’s the latest.”

  “Ugh, I don’t get the attraction.” Riley frowned. “He’s so cocky—like he’s God’s gift, boasting about his blue line prowess at your Christmas party. Remember when I rattled off his embarrassing plus-minus stats? That shut him up.”

  “Yeah, he looked like a puck hit him in the groin,” Erika snickered.

  “The Pittsburgh scandal would’ve done it for me. I can’t stand cheaters—I can’t stand him.”

  “And that’s the problem.” Erika exhaled heavily. “That’s why Leia is frosty. She knows you don’t like him—”

  “That’s the reason?!” Riley flinched at her loud retort and settled into a whisper. “But I’m on her side! All I said was that she deserved better.”

  “I know, but nobody’s allowed to diss Tyler, except her…”

  “She’s being naïve: once a cheater, always a cheater. Why won’t she leave him? He slept with his teammate’s wife, for fuck’s sake!”

  “Love makes you do crazy things, Rye. All she wants is
Tyler and his babies, and if she has to break her vows to make him jealous, so be it. Personally, I think someone’s going to get hurt. I told her as much and she freaked out at me, said I wasn’t supportive and froze me out for a week. You being weird could set her off again…”

  As much as Riley liked Erika, she didn’t like the melodrama that accompanied her pro hockey clique. Rumors of affairs, fickle friendships, the competition to have the best clothes, the biggest homes, and the most jaw-dropping parties was never ending and exhausting. Rich people’s problems—so foreign, so not her. The more she was exposed to it, the more Riley hated it, but with tomorrow looming, her fight was needed elsewhere…and Erika had kindly covered every night out since fall, so she owed her—literally. Hold your nose and just agree to it.

  “I can’t have you relegated to the penalty box.” Riley gently kicked a shopping basket toward Erika, careful not to shift her perfume pyramid. “Fine, I’ll be extra nice to Leia—and Tyler—for you.”

  “Babe, you’re the best!” Erika claimed her items, placing each one lovingly in the basket. “But speaking of the worst…guess what Mom called about this morning?” She didn’t allow Riley to answer. “Her dress. She hates it! I said, ‘Mom, it’s Gucci—deal with it!’ Then, she said a chocolate fountain mimicking the Stanley Cup was tacky…”

  Riley zoned out. Mother-daughter arguments, weddings, hockey husbands…every bit of it soured her empty stomach.

  Nine

  Riley was battling a serious case of the Mondays.

  Her ‘Directing the Camera’ workshop ran late, leaving her scrambling for the appointment in Brooklyn. She cursed the B train from Broadway-Lafayette for being so slow, the worn treads on her boots for hindering her progress on the slippery sidewalks, and God—if there was one—for being cruel and unfair.

  Stomach growling, she weaved around people rushing past, their fluffy conversations and laughter in wild contrast to the fear squeezing her heart. These people—they don’t know how lucky they are. Everyone’s lives just go on while mine is tearing apart at the seams…