Seven Minutes 'til Midnight

by Sunniva Dee

  I could wait for him in his room. He’s not there yet—he would have called me if he was. One more look at my sweaty self in the pocket mirror, and I decide to shower here. The hotel soap is delicious on me anyway, Troy thinks.

  Goosebumps rise on my arms as I recall the sensation of him sniffing along my nape and into my cleavage. I close my eyes, smirking to myself like someone lovesick. I guess I’ll be stealing a few of these cherry-and-almond-scented bottles when we leave.

  In the shower, my thoughts stray to our bed. For eight days, we’ve done this, shared a room without really sharing it, going to bed early, hugging, touching, but never touching enough. In the beginning, I tried to keep my nightshirt on, but it’s hard when gentle hands and cinnamon kisses help you out of it.

  I’ve been good, though. Good about keeping myself under control. Good about leaving Troy groaning with hot, masculine frustration. His need for me is so big sometimes it turns me into a string of desire. I tell him I take care of myself when he’s not around. He tells me there’s not much he’d like more than to take care of me himself. That’s when I say he can take care of himself instead, and he responds that that’s not nearly as fun.

  God, the feeling when his embrace tightens and his voice finds my throat in a hot, exasperated groan. My desire turns to lava, and I’m so close I could almost come without his touch.

  The sweetness of kissing his forehead, of turning my back to him and not shying away when he nestles against me, the bare length of him settling against my backside.

  The impatience of my heart when it doesn’t calm down, when it sprints, sprints until sunrise teases the curtains and I’ve only napped in moments because I want him so much.

  The happiness of waking up on his chest, of being the first one lifting my head, supporting it in my palm, and staring at him with all my bottled-up obsession. Of letting my reins go, quietly, silently unleashing myself and simply drinking him in.

  Cherry-blossom-and-almond soap gives me slick release in the shower, and I’m still wearing a dreamy smile as I wipe the fog off the mirror and dry up. Troy said to wear something nice, and I’m hoping what we’re doing involves dinner. But “nice” means dress, and maybe I’ll follow Zoe’s suggestion of wearing the new gold lamé dress. When did Troy last see me in something other than my long skirts and bodices?

  The dress has thin straps over my shoulders and the neckline plunges lower in the back than in the front. Without being tight, it accentuates the shape of my boobs, and by swinging outward instead of inward, it insinuates the curves of my waist and hips instead of flaunting them.

  My dreamy smirk spreads into a smile as I rock my body to a beat in my head. Before I know it, I find myself singing a few lines of an old Clown Irruption song. I’m not a smile-in-the-mirror kind of girl. I’ve been too practical, too focused on survival. But here I am, grinning at myself because of a dress, and because, as I back away from the mirror, I see my legs beneath the dress.

  This dress is short. And when I say short, I mean short-short. It reaches my upper thighs, and because of the width of the skirt, it sways with my shifts, threatening to show more than a man ever expects outside of the bedroom.

  I study myself as I bend forward. Swinging my butt toward the mirror, I test how deep I can go without showing black lace beneath it. I’m excited to see that it’s farther than I think.

  My favorite platform pumps are a similar shade of gold. High and subtly square at the front, they give me legs for miles, a one-and-a-half-inch boost when I step into them. I’m still in the mirror checking out my own legs when someone knocks on my door.

  “Psst. Aishe? Are you there?” A female voice, and she’s whispering loudly against the surface of the door.

  “One sec,” I call out and hop out of my pumps before opening.

  “Hey. Can I come in?”

  I frown. My Halloween doppelganger is at my door, and she’s using the eyes she generally keeps for Troy on me. Wide and innocent, she makes them plead with me. Before I can reply, she even forms praying hands between us.

  “What for?” I mutter but retreat anyway. “I was getting ready for dinner.”

  Her gaze runs over my dress, taking inventory for her next shopping trip, I bet. I step into my pumps, liking the thought of legs for miles. Has nothing to do with the inches I now have on her.

  “Listen, something happened, and I just needed to tell you before it’s all over the news and stuff.” She blows out a breath like she’s been running.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh God. I mean, I know you have a thing for Troy and all. I didn’t want you to have to lose face in front of the others, but basically, Troy and I sort of had one of our moments while shopping just now. And then, one thing led to another, and before we knew it the paparazzi came out of the woodwork. Like, out of nowhere! It was totally weird.”

  “You had a what, now?”

  “A moment, you know—I’m so sorry you had to find out this way how it is. Troy and I try to keep things under wraps because of the band, the tape, and what-have-you. So many reasons. Also, I don’t want to be that girl. I’m no Yoko Ono. Ha!”

  I shake my head, staring. She’s kidding, right?

  A knock on the door. It’s a triple rap in a beat only a drummer would make.

  Hailey visibly recoils. “Don’t open! He’ll be pissed I told you. He’s such, su-u-uch a nice guy, he’ll probably try to explain it in some weird way to not hurt your feelings, and he’ll be mad I was honest. I believe in honesty!” She hisses the last part out. “Don’t you?”

  I don’t even answer. It only takes seconds for my incredulity to morph into indignation. Ready as hell, I stride to the door.

  AISHE

  “Wait!” Hailey wheezes. “Okay, I’ll just hide in the closet until he’s gone. I mean, you wouldn’t have wanted to be kept in the dark, right?” I hear her scramble behind me. “Just don’t tell him I’m here.” She’s knocking over the ironing board in the closet.

  I open the door to the accompaniment of strange scratching sounds.

  “Hey, moixcha,” Troy whispers, voice silkier than chocolate. “Are you ready to— Ho-o-ly mother of pearl.” He gives me a onceover so scorching that if it weren’t for Hailey’s “moment”, we’d be on my bed in seconds.

  “Hey,” I clip. “Come in, Troy. I have visitors.”

  “Oh yeah?” He looks around the room and sees no one. Until his gaze stills on the set of fingers still trying to claw the closet door closed. “What’s happening in here?”

  I cross my arms. Jerk my head toward the closet. “Go see for yourself. A hint: it’s someone you ‘just had a moment with.’”

  Troy’s eyebrows lower in an alarmed frown. Matched with a slight arching of those safari-greens, I’m anything but relieved.

  He walks past me, letting his hand trail over my hip on the way. Seconds later, he pries her enclosure open. “Hailey? What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “Nothing! Nothing, I swear. I was just coming by to borrow shoes for the Moon-Tower dinner tonight. Aishe told me I could borrow… those.” She points at the ones I’m wearing. The ones that perfectly match my dress, aka the shoes I’d be least likely to lend to anyone at the moment.

  “Right, Aishe?” She actually looks hopeful, like all she needs is to help me out with a more or less believable story and I’ll run with it. I guess that explains what I’ve been suspecting for a while, now; the girl has no social antennae.

  When I don’t reply, her gun-metal eyes take on the cowardly consistency of clay. Still inside the closet, still with her hands on the door, she makes them plead with me, the one person she’s done everything to make feel uncomfortable since she met me. Is she high?

  “So you’re hoping to find the shoes Aishe is wearing in the closet?” Troy asks.

  “Oh no, I’m just getting her other shoes
in here. For her, like, so she doesn’t have to— I mean, so she doesn’t have to—”

  “—climb all the way into the closet, shut the door, and find her own shoes?” Troy helps. I almost laugh at that.

  “Just come out, Hailey,” I say. “And Troy, she came to tell me about ‘your moment’ today, because she didn’t want me to ‘find out on my own.’” I make air quotes throughout the whole sentence for effect.

  “No, Troy, don’t believe her! Let me explain.”

  “Explain what, Hailey?” Troy shouts. “What the fuck have you done?”

  “Nothing! I haven’t done anything. I just told Aishe what happened today, about the paparazzi and how they took our picture and all that. It could pop up at any time on the news, right, and people always think I’m her anyway, so I was just being helpful. I wasn’t sure if you’d even remember to tell her.”

  “How the hell could I not remember? Troll is getting his arm splinted over it!”

  I suck in a breath. “He broke his arm?”

  “He fractured his hand by shielding the guy from my punch. I’d have broken the guy’s jaw, and he’d have sued the shit out of me if it weren’t for Troll.”

  “Oh my God. Where is Troll now?” I ask.

  Troy shrugs, suddenly exhausted. “The E.R. was packed, so I got a private physician sent to his room. Bo and Nadia are there now, keeping him company.”

  Hailey has been quiet during his explanation.

  “You should go, Hailey,” Troy says on a sigh. “I’d like to talk with Aishe alone.”

  “Oh but darling, don’t you think it’ll be helpful that I stay since I was there and all? I don’t mind going over it with you guys! I’d be happy to.”

  Troy’s stare is never angry. Except right now, his eyes change, and in seconds, they’re lasering kryptonite into her.

  “All right. Geez, I get it.” She turns on her heel, a small thundercloud over her head as she patters into the hallway. She slams the door behind her but leaves it shut for only a moment before pulling it open again. “Troy?”

  “What?” The god of wrath next to me is having a hard time reining in his fury.

  “I can come by and pick you up if you want, when we’re leaving for the Moon Tower. I’m in the room right above yours, so I can wake you up if you want to nap first or whatever. It’s no big deal.”

  “Hailey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do not come by my room.”

  TROY

  She’s so fucking gorgeous it’s painful. Her eyes handcuff me and pull me toward her, wider, darker, as she tries to read me before the door even closes behind Hailey.

  Hair long and shiny in rivulets of red and black down her back. I want to reach for her, for that little dress, those long, long legs and soft curves. I need her skin against the pads of my fingers, and if she doesn’t give it to me soon, I think I might explode.

  “Troy,” she begins, those eyes studying me, flickering over each of my features in an effort to read me. “I have no right to anything when it comes to you, since we’re just cuddle buddies—”

  “Please don’t make what we have small,” I say. “It isn’t. It’s just different.”

  She blinks slowly, and I see what she’s doing; she’s erasing my words and moving on with her thoughts. “Hailey’s a nutcase. She said a lot of crazy stuff before you came, but there’s no way she made it all up.” Aishe’s chest deflates in a quiet exhale. “Can I ask you a few questions, Troy?”

  “Sure, but I can tell you what happened right now. It’s damn simple.”

  “I’ve heard Hailey’s side of it already. Do you mind if we do this my way?”

  Her politeness jars me, but I manage a nod. She nods back, a quick, short, businesslike move performed by the most amazing woman on the planet.

  “From what I understood, I’m involved in this simply because she looks like me, so I’d love to learn the basics first. Where were you?”

  Such a simple question. Such a simple answer.

  “7-Eleven.”

  “You, Troll, and Hailey?”

  “Bo, Nadia, and Selena were there too.”

  “And a haggle of paparazzi?”

  I shake my head, narrowing my eyes as I do. “No, that’s the thing. We were the only Americans in that place, and yet, as soon as she began feeding me candy, people started popping out of the woodwork.”

  “Another easy question: why was she feeding you candy?”

  A tremor stirs my solar plexus. It’s a giddy feeling, a light bubble of a sensation put into motion by the hate in her eyes as she glares at me. Only it’s not hate. It’s possessiveness, it’s ardent, and if I’m right I should be rocking my body to some slow, suggestive, silent beat of victory about now.

  I suppress my joy. Use the wisdom I’ve accumulated in a household full of sisters to answer her truthfully and without the slightest glimmer of Shit Yeah! in my voice. “Because she’s crazy and she wore me down. She wouldn’t stop whining about some orange marshmallow shit I needed to try.”

  “And why didn’t you just buy one yourself?” The way she huffily re-accommodates her folded arms makes her so sexy I can hardly stand it.

  “What do you want me to say? She’s a kid, Aishe, a spoiled only child. The last thing I needed was a temper-fucking-tantrum in a 7-Eleven.”

  “Yeah? Well, how can I trust you to go anywhere if you’re just going to let people feed you stuff? You don’t know what they’ll give you. You could literally get sick!”

  We both hold our breaths after that. Me, because I’m dying. I so want to laugh out loud. Is she saying what I think she’s saying that she can’t let me loose on the streets because I’m just indiscriminately going to let people cram shit down my throat? I send her a cautious side-gaze.

  Oh she’s hoping so hard that I won’t find this funny. The look on her face is unreal, and I can’t take it a second longer. I crack up. Lean over my knees, stomach contracting with hilarity.

  “Troy!” She’s mad. There’s laughter in the mix too, but she gets rid of that real quick. “You need to be serious.”

  “Right! I’m sorry.” I’m literally crying, here. “You know what? You’re fucking priceless.” I straighten, setting my hands on my hips, and focus on her as I blink away my amusement.

  Sucking air in through my nose, I lift my hand to my forehead, saluting her, soldier-style. “From now on, I promise to never let anyone feed me again. Not without a taster, anyway.”

  “Stop it!” She coaxes her smile away. She’s so good at that.

  “And also? I wish you’d been the one feeding me. Actually, on second thought, that’d be my exception. If my moxchia feeds me, I’ll be swallowing without question. Your poison is my nectar.”

  “Troy! Arggh, be serious.”

  My priestess of fury and blazing passion. She rules the rights and the wrongs, my mistress of tender forgiveness. Now, her edges soften into absolution, into curves I absorb with my hands and hair I dip my nose into. I tell her the truth, and as I do, I wonder if she sees how simple it is. “Whatever you want, Aishe.”

  AISHE

  Tonight feels like I’m living in a dream, with the thin red silk banners dancing on the breeze and the paper lanterns dotting the sky above us.

  Eyes the smoothness of honey watch me. Everything I do makes his gaze shimmer. Everything I say makes him smile. What is this thing, when you’re just you and you seem to be perfect to someone? It can’t be the Drago Fuoc. It can’t be bruxiante when all I feel is good.

  We’re at a small, five-star restaurant on the rooftop of our hotel. I didn’t even know it was here. It wasn’t on their website, and it’s not mentioned among their amenities. Not on the list of their dining options in the elevator either.

  “This is so beautiful,” I breathe, leaning into the wicker of my backrest. Intricately
lain grey tile creates a flowery pattern beneath our feet. It spreads outward until it meets the greenery tenting the adjoining booths.

  I take another sip of my orange pinot grigio. Cool and crisp on my tongue, it softens the night further, like balm easing the shock of the afternoon. “How did you even find this place?”

  Troy is stunning in a white shirt that’s halfway buttoned down. Sleeves to his elbows, he’s unconsciously showing off overworked drummer’s muscle.

  It hits me how his dreadlocks, black at the roots, fading through mahogany into a golden wheat at the tips, reflect his personality.

  Colorful in a slow, simmering way, his responses are always genuine. Ever-changing. Never boring. Sometimes, he’s cagey, and sometimes, he’s unexpected. But never does he come off as violent or abrupt.

  Okay, this is veneration. Completely fricking obsessive. This is the Drago Fuoc, just of a nicer kind.

  Of a nicer kind?

  That’s not what it’s called, Aishe.

  Call it by its name.

  As smooth as the night, his answer to my question frees my thoughts. “You gotta know someone who knows someone who knows someone. Like with the Freemasons, this is a secret club. It was here before the Regent Ritz chain even moved into this building. Take a look around; you’ll see there are almost no foreigners in this place.”

  I swipe over the nearby booths and nod. Secluded like we are between green vines and meticulously shaped bonsai, Japanese couples and businessmen sit in quiet conversation over sake, tea, and plum wine. Some cradle the big crystal globes we’re holding with what looks like red wine in them.

  “Wow. Hmm, so let me get this straight: the green door with a golden sign on it instead of a name, and you flirt-whispering with the door lady was…?” I trail off on an upward tilt.

  “Was not flirting. I was giving her the secret password so she’d let us in.”