by Julia Kent
And an all-around predatory bitch.
She's a stereotype of a stereotype, so firmly entrenched in her rich little bubble that she can't see how others perceive her.
And if she could? She wouldn't care.
“Slumming,” she says, the slur at the end of the word an obvious clue that she's wasted. If I could rewind the clock to last fall, her current state would be a competitive advantage for me.
Now, though, it's just depressing.
“Mmmm,” I say, wondering when I picked up my mother's noncommittal verbal tic.
“And you? Is this where you work, now that no one will hire you? You're a cocktail waitress?”
“Why would you think that?”
Her eyes comb over me with a razor-sharp cattiness. She can be thoroughly drunk and still hold onto every iota of nastiness. “Because the white shirt, the black skirt, the abominable dye job. The de-throning you took for being Burke's scapegoat. You know. Word has it you lost everything, Hastings.”
Mullins' voice has risen just as the pianos end their song, so my sister and her friends are suddenly tuned in to us, Mallory's sweet face a study in naïve confusion, Fiona on guard, Raye mirroring Mallory.
But Perky?
She comes right on over, fists clenched, face flushed with some vodka and a whole hell of a lot of street smarts. A magnetic charge connects us instantly, a power I didn't know was in the universe. She can read Mullins in a split second and has become my backup.
Out of nowhere.
“Hi,” she says, thrusting her hand at Mullin's waist. “I don't believe we've met. Persephone Tsongas. And you are?”
Disgust radiates from Mullins, but she gives Perky a limp hand. “Mullins. Do I know you?”
“No. Just introducing myself to Hastings's friend.”
Mullins looks around. “Where is she?” she asks, descending into snide laughter.
As if they'd coordinated it, Raye, Fiona, and Mallory all raise their hands.
Perky spreads her palm out like she's Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune, showing off the missing letters. “We're all Hastings's friends, and we figured we'd meet you. Anyone who comes to a piano bar on a Friday night dressed like you could use a little compassion.” One eyebrow juts up on Perky's face like a rocket fired at enemy lines.
“Excuse me?”
“What do you do for a living, Mullins?” Perky persists. I take a single step back and let her run the show, suddenly less triggered by Mullins. The distance from my emotional reactions to my thinking brain is very, very short right now, but it's enough.
She snorts. “If you have to ask, you don't know what I do.”
“Gotcha. You're currently unemployed, then.”
“What? No! I run an investment bank.”
My turn to snort. “No, you don't.”
“I'm on the board of directors!”
“Really? Which one are you the chairman of? Maybe my fiancé has heard of it. He's involved with lots of bankers.”
Aha. Now I see where Perky is taking this. Why did I never like her before? Gratitude washes through me, making my skin ripple and my tongue tingle. The urge to cry horrifies me, and I chug my drink to tamp it down, ears perked to capture their conversation.
“Third State New Trust,” Mullins says. “How cute. Who does he work for? I'm sure your fiancé,” she says, drawing out the word with a snarky tone, “has heard of my investment bank.”
“He works for the government.”
“Paper pusher?”
“Something like that.”
I try not to laugh. I fail. I reach for Perky's shoulder and say, “Actually, Persephone, Parker is well acquainted with Third State New Trust. Remember the investigations into predatory lending practices that were all over the news last month?”
Mullins stiffens.
“Yes,” Perky says with mock thinking, pretending to stroke a beard she doesn't possess, unless she gets fabulous laser treatment.
“Parker's on the oversight committee for banking, isn't he?”
Mullins looks like she's about to puke.
“Parker?” she chokes out. “Who is this Parker you're talking about?”
Perky goes in for the kill. “My fiancé. Parker Campbell.” She taps Mullins' wrist gently with two fingers. “Perhaps you do know him after all? His 'cute' job seems to cross paths with your bank.”
“Your fiancé is Congressman Parker Campbell?”
“Mmmm,” Perky says, the understatement so pitch-perfect, I want to give her a standing ovation. A fist bump.
A squee hug.
Who the hell am I?
“And any friend of Hastings is a friend of mine,” Perky adds in a stone-cold dead voice that makes my opinion of her skyrocket.
“Good,” says a deep voice behind me, forcing everyone's eyes up, over my head, astonishment making Mullins' mouth drop.
I close my eyes. I know that voice. The onslaught of arousal makes my body respond to him, like it or not, just as the piano players begin the early notes of a love ballad.
“Ian,” I say softly.
“Ian McCrory!” Mullins gasps, mouth closing, lips stretching in a sultry performance. “So good to see you. Last time was San Francisco. Dinner at the Martinelli fundraiser.”
“Was it? I don't recall.”
Perky just blinks. We all respect a true champion when we're knocked out of first place.
“Hastings,” he says warmly, his entire demeanor shifting from cool dismissal to hot and heavy flirtation. His hands go to my shoulders and he bends to kiss my neck in that soft spot right under my earlobe. From the look on Mullins' face, I don't have to guess where his eyes are.
If he's establishing dominance, they're either on her, or–
The kiss he gives me takes all doubt out of my mental equation.
“WILL?” Mallory squeals as my future brother-in-law apparently crashes his future wife's bachelorette party. Not that I care, because Ian is crashing my mouth like he's a professional. Breaking every rule, charming his way in, and leaving the place happier than before.
Ah, that tongue. His hands. He's a roamer. You know the type. The lover whose hands go everywhere, all the time, tracking and touching, consuming and cataloguing, not for data's sake but because they can't get enough. Ian's style demands my full attention, that my body be completely present, because he is.
He's fully here.
And as he presses me even closer to him, his erection makes it clear how full, indeed, he is.
For me.
I've dreamt about kissing Ian for longer than I care to admit, and the taste of him is better than I ever imagined. He's charmingly aggressive, until I feel electricity shooting through every nerve system in my body, skin on fire and pulse pounding against my skin, trying to climb into his body and twist into him until we're so tangled, we're hopelessly together.
Forever.
One kiss. It takes one single kiss to do this to me.
“Hi,” he says, forehead against mine. Peripheral vision is a blessing and a curse as I see Mullins to my right, eyes narrowed, nostrils flared, mouth pursed.
Why hasn't she left yet?
“Hi,” I reply to Ian, reaching up for a lock of his hair, pretending he’s mine because hey, why not? Whatever made him kiss me has no basis in reality. Might as well play along with whatever game he's initiated. “What took you so long?”
“Prince Charming needed more prep time than expected,” he jokes, but his eyes are serious, hands on my back, still holding me to him tightly.
“PARKER!” Perky shouts, running full blast at him, launching herself into his arms, legs wrapping around the poor guy's waist. Any lesser man would fall back, but not him. He's a rock-solid wall and their kiss mirrors mine and Ian's.
Which makes me feel like part of the group even more.
Fletch is kissing Fiona, and Veronica and Raye commiserate.
Raye pouts. “We're the only ones without a partner.”
“Not true,” says Sanni, appearing behind
her, a sparkling woman with long, dark hair, dark eyes, and a red outfit that shines in the nightclub's lights.
“What are you doing here?”
“Will included me in the bachelor party.” They kiss, mutual excitement radiating from them.
“I thought you weren't going?”
Sanni shrugs. “The stripper wasn't half bad. She could have used more up top, though.”
“Hey!” Parker said, giving her a shoulder shove, though a gentle one. “I personally chose that stripper.”
Perky looked at her own rack. “Guess you wanted variety. And shhhhh! Congressmen never admit they pick strippers!”
“Only in closed session.”
Sanni, Raye, Parker, and Perky descend into giggles, while Mallory chides Will for crashing her party.
Chide being a relative term. Can you chide someone with your hand on their ass? If so, Mallory is doing it.
“I'll go get another bucket of drinks delivered,” Veronica says with a friendly grin, smiling at Mallory and Will as she leaves, the only one of us without a partner.
For once, I'm not the extra wheel.
A million questions race through me, all of them aimed at Ian. He's in the wedding party. I'd expect him to know Parker from working with government officials, but Will? How does he know Will? Why does he keep popping up everywhere in my life, unexpectedly?
Then disappearing when I want him most.
Now's not the time to ask, though. Not with his taste lingering on my buzzing lips.
And not with an audience made up of Mullins.
“Hastings, the car's ready,” Ian says, giving her a curt nod, the kind of acknowledgment that's worse than being ignored.
She reddens. Her hair flip is epic, but she stands her ground, grabbing my arm and trying to pull me away from Ian.
He doesn't budge.
“I see what you're doing here,” she hisses at me. “We're both stuck in this god-awful place. I'm here because of my cousin's fortieth birthday. You're here because...”
“Because she loves her sister and is celebrating her happy marriage to a great guy,” Ian finishes for me.
“Right,” I peep, just as Mal and Will walk over, all smiles and, in Mallory's case, a looseness that tells me she's having tipsy fun.
“You two?” She gives Ian a big smile. “I never would have pegged you two as a couple.”
“Pegging? We're not into that kind of kink, but thanks,” Ian says, pulling me away. He looks at Will, then Mallory. “May I ask your permission to... ”
White noise fills my ears, my vision disappearing as he says words that don't make sense in this context. Is he really asking for my–
“...drive Hastings home and spend some time with her? I need more than I've been getting lately.”
Mallory cuts me a look that is more than a bit filthy. “Of course. Go get as much of my sister as you want. Fill ’er up,” she adds with a giggle, shaking her empty cocktail glass. “And Will needs to fill me up, too.”
Ian grabs my hand and looks down at me, bright eyes intense. “Ready to go?”
I shoulder my purse. “Where are we going?”
“I don't know. But I want to go there with you.”
A quick kiss on the lips and we wave good-bye, leaving Mullins a bright shade of red and puckered up like a butthole.
“That was amazing. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For pretending like that. Mullins is a–”
The next word out of my mouth is cut off by his, this kiss even better than the first, his tongue running along my teeth, his hands pressing into my waist, my hips, like I'm riding him in bed and he's guiding me. If he keeps this up, I'll slide my thigh between his and move up against him until I come.
Or until we're arrested.
That thought jolts me out of the lust-filled cloud surrounding me, because I've been arrested one too many times already, thank you very much.
“You have no idea how long I've waited to do this,” he says, hands pressed hard against my back, my arms moving up until the strong outline of his shoulders gives me a place for my palms. We've made it as far as the edge of the room, still pretty close to Mallory's table, but far enough away that no one can hear, especially with the sound level in here. Ian's body is hot, warmth pouring off him like a furnace, every edge of him hard, big, radiating with power.
“Really?” is all I can think to say.
“Really.”
“You've been waiting for a long time to pretend to be my date?”
“No, Hastings. I've been a gentleman for far too long, watching that bastard have you when I couldn't.”
“What?”
“You deserved so much more than Burke. It was obvious from the moment I met you at that 3AExpo networking event years ago at. Beni Sandrino's island?”
“You remember the exact moment we first met?”
“I do. You wore an ivory cocktail dress that made your hair look like spun silk. Your eyes were filled with an intelligent charm that caught my attention before we even shook hands. The way you talked about private equity and climate change knocked it out of the ballpark. And your husband was a pile of human slime taking credit for half your ideas.”
“Ian.” His name comes out in a low hush, his words cutting me like a thousand murder hornets have descended on my skin. “What are you saying?”
“I'm saying that Burke fleeing the country and dumping the blame on you for what he did was an act of disgusting cowardice. But the fact that he's not your legal husband any longer means I can do this with impunity.”
Another kiss slams me, blending his delicious, conflicting words with the feel of his heat, his mouth, his tongue, his body against mine, giving me permission to let go, to let him in, to let myself be touched like I’m wanted. Needed.
Craved.
Years of pent-up frustration pour into that kiss, and not all of it Ian's. I've got plenty of it stored inside me, buried under layers of repressed emotion, stifled irritations, and grieving hope. Burke stole too many pieces of me that mattered.
Every kiss from Ian gives one back.
Suddenly our bodies are shoved to the left, Ian's hand on my hip, then ass, as his arm braces and we break the kiss. Something wet hits my elbow and I look up to find a half-drunk group of women stumbling, a pint glass of beer in a woman's hand now half as full as it was seconds ago.
“Sorry!” she gasps, but Ian pulls me to the main doors before I can answer, my arm wet but the rest of me dry.
Other than my thong, that is.
It feels so good to feel something, to throb, to ache with anticipation, to let myself crack open those emotions and feel them, see them, hear them, to know they have a place within me. Ian moves with determination, but no rush, and a blast of cool outside air makes me feel like I'm on top of the world.
And then the red Lamborghini pulls up.
I look at him. “You are such a cliché.”
He grins back. “But I'm a fun cliché.” He kisses my temple and murmurs, “And one hell of a ride.”
For someone who hasn't had sex well over a year, you'd think I'd jump at the offer.
Jump on him.
Instead, I'm jumping out of my skin.
He senses it, turning down the power, dialing back his come on.
“A ride in my car. Topless.”
I look at my white shirt.
Low, rumbling laughter makes me smile. “The car, Hastings. Not you. Although you're welcome to change the dress code at will.”
I smack his arm and climb in.
But don't climb on.
The car is built to be one with the road, sense every texture of the surface, my senses sharpening as Ian pulls away from the entrance and navigates through the large parking lot, the complex lights receding. I don't know where we're going and I don't care.
I'm with him.
Really with him.
The taste of his lips is on my tongue, the silky memory making my skin tingle. The
leather seat welcomes my body, molding to me, reading my signals and doing whatever's needed to carry me through space in luxury and sensual pleasure.
Ian's naked body could do the same in bed, I'm sure.
If that tongue is half as good elsewhere as it is in a kiss...
“Share of stock for your thoughts,” he shouts over the car's notoriously loud engine.
“I thought the phrase was 'penny for your thoughts.'”
“Inflation.”
“If it's a share of your company's stock, I'll tell you whatever secret you want, Ian.”
“Deal. How long have you wanted me, too?”
Seized with surprise, I let my heart gallop off.
And just breathe.
The car is a racehorse. I can feel its incredible power through the floor and the contours of the seat, the engine a contradictory high-pitched roar. It wants to go fast, faster than I've ever been taken anywhere in my life.
Ian has to be even stronger to hold it at bay.
Which he does.
Masterfully.
Ian doesn't ask again, accustomed to using long pauses to his advantage. Like martial arts, he lets the other person show their strengths and weaknesses, then uses those to gain the upper hand.
I want his upper hand on me.
“For a while,” I admit, my words slow, my breath shaky as I exhale, the volume hard to shove out, the truth pushing harder. “But I'm married, Ian. Was married. Thought I was married. I closed off that part of myself a long time ago.”
“What part?”
“The part that let myself be attracted to anyone other than my husband.”
He nods, the wind blowing his thick hair off his face, eyes forward, serious. “Which is no less than I would expect from you.” He changes lanes, accelerating, as if he's a pace car for my heart.
“What does that mean?”
“You are a deeply moral woman.”
We're at a stoplight now, waiting.
Laughter bubbles up from my lowest rib, rising along the ladder of bones and catching in my throat. “I’m what?”
“Moral. Ethical. You have a core self that takes your promises very seriously. I knew it the moment I met you, and damn it, that's one reason you were so irresistible. I was deeply attracted to you but had to hold back. And why watching you with Burke was so maddening.”