Make Me: The Black Lilith Series #3

by Hazel Jacobs

  “Well, that’s what I’m here for.”

  She wishes that she could lean over and run her hand over his chest. She wishes that she could whisper into his ear that making his parents like her isn’t the only thing she’s there for, and then maybe bite his ear and slide across so that she’s throwing a leg over his lap. She would kiss him then, all tongue and wanting, and he would wrap his arms around her and hold her close.

  But something about his body language holds her back. His shoulders are slightly hunched and he’s looking around the room like he’s trying to reacquaint himself with the boy who used to sleep here. It makes Harper wonder what his room looks like now. What the room that he sleeps in at the brownstone has that this one doesn’t.

  She moves around to sit on her knees behind him. He cranes his neck to see her, and she turns his chin so he’s looking forward instead. Then she starts to rub his back.

  Slate’s reaction is immediate and just what she wanted. He slumps, he groans, he lets his head fall forward. She kneads his shoulders and enjoys the way that the firm muscle yields to her fingers.

  All those months of massage therapy courses are paying off in unexpected ways.

  “It’s just the weekend,” she tells him. “We’re going to get through this.”

  “I know,” he mutters. “I shouldn’t be worrying about anything. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” she replies. She lets herself lean forward just a bit so that her hair trails along his back, but that’s as close as she allows herself to get. “Family is always stressful.” She’s never had a problem with her family, but she knows that she’s in the minority.

  “Yeah,” Slate says, almost scoffing. “It’s gonna get… it’s gonna get a bit more intense over the next few days. Dad’ll be an asshole. We have a deal, but he’ll still be an asshole.” She doesn’t ask what the deal was. Maybe later. She rubs down his spine and hits the cluster of nerves in his lower back which makes him take a sharp breath. “Mom’ll overcompensate for him. Grayson will talk about his pension plan like it’s the most interesting thing in the world, and everyone I’m related to will do their best to pretend that I don’t beat drums for a living.”

  Harper rubs circles in his shoulder blades, forcing them to unclench and pushing the knots away as they appear. It feels like Slate has been thinking about this for a while. This is probably not the first time he’s voiced these thoughts, though. In fact, his voice seems almost bored, like he’s speaking facts which have been known for so long that they’re old news. Like he doesn’t want to get his hopes up that things will be different.

  “You’re not going in alone,” Harper tells him. “Relax. We’ve got this.”

  She keeps rubbing his shoulders and back, waiting for the moment when his chin starts to lift up and his breathing evens out. The room smells like laundry detergent, but now that Harper is this close to him she can smell his cologne properly—chocolate and leather. She lets herself soak it up and wonders if the room will feel more like Slate’s once it starts to smell like him.

  As Slate’s back relaxes, Harper decides that it’s time to try to make him laugh.

  She leans forward and puts her chin on his shoulder. “You know, I hear quickies are a great stress reliever.”

  It works. Slate lets his head fall back so that it rests on Harper’s other shoulder and he laughs right from his belly. His neck is right next to her lips. It would be so easy to kiss him. She’s just making up her mind to do it when he pulls away and holds out a hand.

  His whole body straightens and there’s a cheerful grin on his face again. “Come on, gorgeous. We both smell like airplane. Let’s get clean and head downstairs.”

  Harper takes his hand and lets him pull her off of the bed and guide her toward the en-suite.

  Slate’s parents are remarkably formal over lunch. They serve a roast—something Harper’s own family would never have considered in hot weather—and eat with the good silverware. Harper has a sneaking suspicion that she’s the reason for the good silverware.

  The table is too big. There are eight seats. Martha had mentioned hosting dinner parties, and Harper hopes that the dinner parties happen frequently because otherwise, the table would be depressingly large for a family of three. Two, really, considering Slate doesn’t live with his parents anymore.

  Slate looks completely different. Harper had barely recognized him when he returned from the en-suite. He washed his hair in the shower leaving it almost fluffy, and he sits at the table now wearing a white, button-down shirt and slacks that fit him well, but after seeing him in his jeans and leather jacket feel like he’s wearing a costume. He sits in a posture that makes Harper think he would be slouching if he thought that he could get away with it. His mother and father are sitting straight-backed, chewing their tiny mouthfuls carefully and making polite conversation with Harper.

  “So what made you decide to be a personal trainer?” Martha asks after she’s swallowed her mouthful and patted her lips with the napkin.

  Slate fiddles with the sleeve of his shirt and runs a distracted hand through his hair, grimacing a little at the feeling of the shampoo. Harper nudges his knee with her own and hopes that he takes some comfort in it.

  “When I was younger, I was really chubby,” Harper says honestly. Peter and Martha both pause at that, and Slate’s lips quirk up. “I had Type 2 diabetes and a couple of other health problems. My parents hired a trainer and he really helped me out, so now I want to help other people too.”

  Martha nods slowly. “That’s interesting,” she says, which Harper has come to realize is the statement Martha uses when she doesn’t know what else to say.

  “It’s inspiring,” Peter adds, though he sounds bored when he says it. “Good for you, improving yourself.”

  “I can’t take all the credit,” Harper replies. “Like I said, my trainer helped me a lot.”

  Peter cuts a quick look to Slate. “Maybe you can help my son improve himself as well.”

  Slate smiles. It’s not a grimace. Harper knows it must be fake, but it’s such a damn good impersonation of a genuine smile that if she hadn’t known that he wasn’t happy about his father’s jibes, she would think it was all a joke. That it’s the light-hearted ribbing in which Harper is used to in her own family.

  “You can’t improve on perfection,” Harper says, elbowing Slate and giving him a wide smile.

  Slate grins back. There’s a crease to his eyes which could be genuine or not. Harper hopes that she’ll be able to learn the difference over the course of this weekend.

  “Now, now…” he says, “…don’t give me too much credit, babe.”

  “I never give too much credit,” Harper replies. “But now that I think about it, you could stand to work a bit more on your upper body.”

  “Lies.”

  Martha smiles at the pair of them. She keeps looking from Slate to her husband like she’s trying to make a decision about something, but in the end she seems to decide that it’s better to just stay quiet.

  Peter purses his lips. “So how did you two meet?” he asks.

  Harper nudges Slate’s knee again, more obviously this time, and winks at him. “You tell it, babe. You tell it much better.”

  So Slate launches into the story that they’d worked out on the plane. That he’d met her at the gym, and that she’d wiped the floor with him. He plays up the attraction at first sight thing, getting really excited and animated as he explains how he saw her across the room and thought that he died and went to heaven. Harper feels herself blushing as he talks. Even if it’s all bullshit, she can’t help but enjoy the way he describes her. If she’d been his girlfriend legitimately she would be a bit embarrassed that he’s getting this excited about explaining her to his parents. It would make her think that he’s buttering them up because he’s hoping that she’ll be around for a while.

  But she’s not going to be around for a while. Just the weekend. Though maybe when this is over he might still need her ser
vices again. Maybe he’ll have other family functions to go to. Maybe he’ll need someone to pretend to be his girlfriend again. It will be something for her to look forward to in between her other, less chivalrous clients. If she can persuade Slate to take her to bed, then she’ll be able to look forward to it even more.

  “… and then she tells me that if I do another rep, she’ll go on a date with me,” Slate continues. “And of course I can’t do it because she already destroyed me. But she agreed to the date anyway.”

  “It was pity,” says Harper.

  “I like to think it was my charm,” Slate adds.

  Peter rolls his eyes. “I think I agree with the lady,” he says. “It’s about time a nice girl took pity on you. Give you something to do besides play with those drums of yours.”

  Slate’s smile doesn’t waver but his fingers clench a bit tighter on his fork.

  “Oh, Slate… tell your parents about that charity gala,” Harper says quickly, pretending to suddenly remember it. She’d Googled the band while Slate was putting on his costume and gathered a bunch of facts just in case she was asked. Turns out, she’ll be using them for some different purposes. “The one you played at last month? Black Lilith…” she adds, speaking directly to Martha, but knowing that Peter is listening just as intently, “…is working with the Dorothy Croft Trust for Young Musicians. They did a great show for the gala.”

  Martha nods encouragingly at her son, who looks at Harper with an edge of surprise in his eyes.

  “A trust for young musicians?” Peter asks. “Shouldn’t we be helping them get a job instead of playing instruments all day?”

  “They’re not mutually exclusive,” Harper replies. She’s smiling so sweetly that she thinks she might be giving herself a cavity. Peter can’t possibly think that she’s being annoying or smart-alecky right now. “Look at your son… a great drummer, and now he’s an entrepreneur working with charities. Maybe some of the kids that Dorothy Croft works with will follow in his footsteps?”

  Martha nods quickly, sticking her fork in her mouth and chewing slowly so she won’t be expected to contribute. Peter, after a moment, follows his wife’s lead and puts something in his mouth, but he nods along begrudgingly, agreeing with Harper without words.

  Slate launches into a story of the night of the gala. He doesn’t mention that Danielle, the woman who stole from the band, had been there that night. Maybe his parents don’t even know about what happened there. But Slate talks about some of the young musicians he met on the night. He makes sure to explain that many of them were taking AP classes in things like science and mathematics and that their intelligence is what makes them so strong musically. About halfway through the story, Slate reaches over to squeeze Harper’s hand.

  Lunch is over quickly, and Harper insists on helping to wash up the dishes. Peter and Martha protest until Slate intervenes, turning Harper toward the sparkling kitchen and calling over his shoulder for his parents to go outside and relax out the backyard, while he and Harper get the place cleaned up.

  The kitchen is state of the art, yet vintage, which Harper thinks shouldn’t surprise her at this point. The place looks like it should be on the front page of a Home magazine—the perfect mixture of sweet little country cottage and the best-of-the-best in technology. Sinks, faucets, and knives are all brand new, but there are mason jars complete with spices along the wall and a vase full of flowers on the bench. There’s an iPad mounted on the wall and a row of herbs growing out of ceramic pots on the windowsill.

  When the door closes behind them, Slate pulls Harper into a hug.

  “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!”

  He picks her up and spins her around, and Harper lifts her heels back and hugs him around the shoulders. She laughs. It’s exhilarating to feel him lift her so easily.

  When Slate settles her back down, he pulls back and rests his hands on her shoulders, beaming at her. “You beautiful, perfect woman… you nailed it in there.”

  “I just told them the truth.”

  “You think I’ve never told them the truth before?” he asks. “You’re a miracle worker… I’m so fucking glad I found you.”

  You get what you pay for.

  The thought intrudes into an otherwise lovely moment. Harper shoves it away—there is a time and place to remind herself that she’s an escort, and it’s not when Slate is looking at her like she’s the best thing that’s happened to him all day.

  This is the moment to kiss him. Harper leans forward and pouts her lips, her eyelids half-drooping, and Slate immediately jerks away. Harper feels like a bucket of cold water has been thrown over her as he holds her at arm’s length.

  “Hold on—”

  “Sorry—”

  “No, it’s not—”

  “I know you’re not—”

  “It’s not that I don’t…” There’s a pause when the two of them seem to realize what a stupid situation they’ve found themselves in. Slate still has her by the shoulders with his elbows locked, his hip jutted out a bit so that there’s no chance that they can touch anywhere below the waist. His head is pulled back as well, as though he’s trying to put distance between their lips at the same time that he’s holding her shoulders.

  Slate and Harper’s eyes meet, and they both snort in unison.

  “Don’t take me seriously,” Harper says. “I just… wanted to push my luck a little bit, I guess.”

  It’s a good mix of self-deprecating and cheerful and goes a bit of a way toward hiding the shadow of mortification lurking in the back of her mind. She knows when she thinks of this later she’s going to be furious with herself. Thankfully, looking at Slate’s warm, dark chocolate eyes make the embarrassment a little easier to bear.

  He smiles at her. An understanding, commiserating smile. “I’m obviously a very sexy guy, but you’re going to have to push through it, babe.”

  Harper shoves him in the chest, laughing when he fake stumbles back and rubs his chest like he’s been punched.

  “Jeez, Harper… control your strength. You’re a personal trainer not Lady Hulk.”

  They turn as one and make their way to the kitchen sink, where a pile of dishes is waiting for them. Harper goes immediately for the towel to dry. Slate smirks at her and reaches for the dish soap.

  “Was that true, by the way? That you were a chubby little princess?”

  “I was a chubby little princess,” Harper tells him, nodding solemnly as he washes the first plate and hands it to her for drying. “A very pretty, very chubby, princess.”

  “I’m sure you were adorable.”

  “I was,” Harper says. They stand side-by-side at the kitchen sink, letting the air of domesticity soak them. “If it weren’t for the fact that I was looking down the barrel of an early death, I would have stayed that way all my life.”

  “Well, in that case, I’m glad you lost the weight,” he says. “Maybe you can help me improve myself.”

  “Give you something to do besides playing your instruments all day?”

  Cooper starts barking in the backyard. Harper’s missed the sound of a solitary dog barking. The dogs in Manhattan tend to drown each other out and howl like monsters. Too many dogs in one place. But in the country it’s a lot easier to hear the tone of a bark, and enjoy the sound without wondering if you’re going to be hearing it for hours.

  He snorts and dips the bowl he’s washing in clean water before handing it to her. “Exactly,” he replies. He bumps her hips with his. It’s unbearably sweet.

  They fall into silence as they finish washing the dishes, dry them, and then Slate shows her where to put them.

  “Rosa must be off today,” he mutters as he puts away the last of the glasses.

  “Rosa?”

  “The help.” His nose wrinkles. “She’s a nice lady. Probably deserves a better job than cleaning up after rich white people.”

  “You’re a rich white people,” Harper says.

  “I’m a rich white people,” he repeats, noddi
ng along with her and taking over the terrible grammar without hesitating. “But I clean my own damn dishes. Or I throw away the pizza box like a boss.”

  Harper laughs at him. “You know sodium’s bad for you, right?”

  Slate gives her a pitying look. “Sodium isn’t even in the top ten of the worst shit I do to my body.”

  Harper sighs and gives his biceps a longing look. “We should take pictures now so you have something to remember your beautiful body after it’s gone to hell.”

  “I’ll set up a tripod later… we can do those weird naked black and white art shots.”

  The door to the kitchen opens and both Harper and Slate turn to see Martha standing framed in the doorway. She smiles fondly at them both.

  “Grayson and Kayla are here,” she says.

  Slate straightens up a bit, his shoulders rising as though he wishes that his head could retreat like a tortoise in its shell. “That’s great, Mom.”

  “They’re excited to see you, darling. Come and say hello.”

  “Just a sec,” he replies. His mother disappears and Slate sighs, dramatically throwing his head back like he’s in a movie. “Goddamn, this is gonna suck.”

  Harper reaches over and straightens his collar. “We’ll get through this,” she reminds him.

  “We’ll get through this,” he agrees. He reaches for her and his hand falters about an inch away from her shoulder. He sighs again, and this time it’s not dramatic. It feels more real. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

  She feels a smile spreading over her lips. She’s about to say that it’s what she’s being paid for, but she doesn’t want to ruin the moment. “So am I,” she says instead.

  Grayson wears almost the same clothes as Slate does, but they actually seem to suit him.

  “Here’s the rockstar!” he says, marching forward and pulling Slate’s hand into a deeply uncomfortable-looking handshake. The sleeves of his button-up shirt are rolled down and secure around his wrists, and his hair is styled in a well-oiled quaff that seems designed to give the impression that he didn’t do anything to it. “It’s been forever.”