by Holly Hart
“Don’t see why we wouldn’t.” He’s really laying into that sushi. Talking around a mouthful of uni. “I mean, why fix what ain’t broke?”
“You don’t think it’s getting, I don’t know....” Embarrassing? Juvenile? “I mean, Stella caught on to us already. The more we keep doing this, the more it’ll stand out. And not in a good way.”
“Why would it? We’re not politicians or movie stars. Stella was a fluke. She’s, like...the society page from hell. But there’s only one of her.”
This is getting me nowhere. And Erik’s starting to look at me funny. I wave the waiter over. “Sorry—could I just get a sandwich? Roast beef on rye?”
Erik smirks. “Wondered how long that would take.”
My best friend.
31
Stella
“No. Leave ‘em on.”
I snap the strap back over my ankle. “Like these, do you?”
Jack’s encroaching on my space. Crowding me toward the bed. “I’ll like those heels digging into my back later.” His huge hands descend on my hips. “You’re so tiny and bitey. Why not fit you with spikes?”
“Already got ten of them.” I dig my nails into the back of his neck, just hard enough to tease. He shudders all over. His eyes are dark with lust already, his hair in disarray. He takes another step forward, and another, bumping roughly against me when I don’t give ground.
“Tell me what you want.”
“Your breath on my skin. Your hands in my hair. Your body pinning mine.” I flatten my hand to his chest, digging in hard. There’s almost no give to those pecs. “All this....”
“What else?”
“Your filthy mouth. Your face between my thighs.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I rake my fingers through his hair. “Eat me alive.”
He forces me back, one leg hooked behind mine to knock me off balance. My knees hit the edge of the bed and I go down hard, dragging him with me. Jack holds me in place, chest pressed to mine, one hand cupping my chin. I tilt my head back, and he growls against my exposed throat, nipping and kissing.
“Don’t stop.” My skirt’s around my waist already, and he makes short work of my panties, yanking them to my knees in one swift motion. His leg moves between mine, the coarse wool of his pants almost too much. I clamp my thighs together, trapping him where he is. I wrestle one arm free of my ruined shirt and fumble with his belt buckle. “Too many clothes.”
He bats my hand away and unhooks his belt himself. His fly’s already undone, and he pushes his pants and shorts out of the way. Ravenously, I drink in the sight of him.
“Let me—let me see you.”
Jack pushes himself up. He looks shameless, rumpled and panting, muscles rippling with every breath. His shirt’s hanging open, and smeared with my lipstick. His lips are swollen from kissing. I guide his hand to his erection and curl his fingers around it. He starts to stroke, eyes fluttering shut.
“Keep going.”
He groans out loud as I trail the backs of my nails up and down his inner thighs. His free hand clenches in the sheets. Before long, he’s hunched over me, gripping himself tightly, breath coming fast and hard.
“Your turn,” I breathe. “Tell me what you want.”
He fixes me with a hungry look. “Everything.”
I push him onto his back. Jack snatches me by the wrist and pulls me on top of him, reeling me in till I’m straddling his face.
“Sit.” He settles his hands on my thighs, letting the weight of his arms pull me down. And then he’s devouring me, tongue dancing and thrusting between my lips. He’s not delicate about it, the way he probes and sucks at my clit, flattening his tongue to my folds, like he could drink me down all day. I find myself moving with him, hips jerking in tiny, quick thrusts. He growls, and the vibration of his lips has me moaning out loud.
I bury my fingers in his hair, guiding him just where I want him, and soon I’m coasting on pleasure, heat surging through me with every flick and dart of his tongue. Climax comes fast and frequent, one soaring peak after another—who knew he’d be so good at that?
He doesn’t let me go till I’m collapsed on one elbow, forehead to the pillow, wrung dry and gasping for breath. I’m trembling as I roll over on my back, fingers and toes twitching as he crawls on top of me. His cock’s throbbing against me, hard and slick.
I almost scream when he thrusts inside, every nerve ending jangling at once, somewhere between ecstasy and overstimulation. I’m boneless, quivering; he has to lift my legs himself, and wrap them around his waist. I cross my ankles and let inertia hold me in position, heels digging into his back, just like he wanted.
His hand hunts for mine, and I clutch it hard. He lifts my other hand to his throat, leaning in till I’m choking him a little. His eyes roll back in his head as he starts to move, hips pistoning roughly. I’m dimly aware of calling his name, and I want to hear mine, too. Want to hear him cum. I slide my hand from his throat to the back of his neck and dig in again, harder this time, wresting a cry from him.
“That’s right. Let me hear you.”
He makes a sound somewhere between a shout and a roar. I’m pinned to the bed, breath startled out of me as he collapses on top of me, riding out his orgasm in a series of harsh, angry thrusts.
At some point, I find the strength to shove him off. He curls around me, pulling me to his chest.
“Don’t go yet.”
I relax into his embrace. Our hands are still entangled, and I give his a squeeze. He squeezes back, with a sigh of contentment.
“Don’t fall asleep,” I tell him when I feel his breathing start to even out. He grumbles something unintelligible. “Come on. I’m starving.” I really am. This was supposed to be lunch.
“Now? Really?” He flicks me on the back of my neck.
“Mm-hm. Been dreaming of churros. And a bowl of that green chile salsa—no chips necessary. Just lead me to the trough.”
Jack laughs. “What are you, pregnant or something?”
“Right.” Come to think of it, I am late, just a day or two. Must be a side effect of the pill. Messing with my cycle. “Seriously, though—we going to eat or what?”
“Don’t you want to shower first?”
Probably a good idea. “Separately, though. One look at you, all...hard and slippery, we’ll be at it again.”
I scurry back to my room double-time, sheet clutched to my chest, but I needn’t have bothered with modesty. Starkey’s not in the living room, and maybe not in his room, either. The light’s out under his door. Come to think of it, it’s been a few days since I’ve seen him. And he missed the last inspection. Jack poked his head in instead, shrugged, and gave me the thumbs-up.
Maybe Starkey’s sick. I pause outside his room on my way back out, hand raised to knock, but I can hear Jack already. Later—I’ll check on him later. If he’s not up and about.
“Nice day for a walk,” Jack says, linking hands with me as we step out onto the street.
“Still feels like summer.” As if to make a liar of me, a bright red leaf floats down from on high, coming to rest at my feet.
“But there’s that smell in the air. That fall smell.”
I know what he means: burnt leaves and mushrooms, the sweetness of blackberries ripening in the park. A memory stirs, and I laugh. “Y’know, I got in a huge fight with this guy, one time, over whether winter has a smell.”
“’Course it has a smell.”
“That’s what I said!” The WALK sign blinks on, and I step off the curb. “The stupidest part was—”
An engine roars, so close and so loud it feels like it’s coming from inside my head. I raise my hands instinctively, freezing in place. Jack shouts, but it’s too late. A black Lexus tears through the intersection, against the light. I cover my eyes to avoid the spectacle of my own death, but instead of mowing me down, the car swerves in front of me, screeching to a halt inches from my feet.
I register two things at once. First, someone screaming
—“Run! Run!” Second, Richard Nixon, grinning at me from the passenger seat of the Lexus.
I take an uncertain step back. The door flies open, knocking me on my ass hard enough that my teeth clack together. Pain blooms in my hip, in my side, down my leg, but that’s the least of my worries. A man in a Nixon mask is bearing down on me with murderous intent, crowbar in hand. I shriek and scuttle away, finding my feet by some miracle.
“Help! Jack!”
Nixon keeps coming. Jack shoves between us with a yell.
I turn to run, and my heel catches in a storm drain. My ankle turns and I go down again, screaming in dismay as a fresh bolt of agony rockets up my leg. There’s no coming back from this one. I throw up my hands to break the inevitable fall, but my knee smashes into the pavement anyway, scraping along the asphalt.
“Shit! Watch out!”
Something whizzes by my head. An army boot. There’s two of them—two masked men, one taking a trouncing from Jack, the other—fuck!
I roll away from him, but it’s not me he’s after. It’s my purse, shielded by my body when I fell; now cast off by the curb. He snatches it and takes off at a sprint.
“Jack!”
Jack glances over his shoulder. Nixon number one takes advantage of his distraction to throw him off. He piles back into the car, and they’re off, weaving through traffic to a chorus of honks and protests.
“That other one—” I can barely see him. He’s getting away, losing himself in the crowd. “—he stole my purse!”
“Ssh—don’t worry about it.” Jack’s kneeling beside me. “Don’t try to move. Did he hit you? Kick you?”
I shake my head. “No, just... I fell.” I yelp as he thumbs at my bloodied knee, brushing grit out of the wound. “Don’t do that!”
“Sorry.” He scowls at the cars skirting around us, blowing exhaust in our faces. “Let’s get you out of the street.”
“My ankle—not sure I can stand.” It’s already swollen and throbbing like an abscessed tooth. Broken, maybe. I lean on it experimentally. Something grinds, deep inside, and my vision goes gray.
Next thing I know, Jack’s scooping me into his arms. People are crowding around, now the danger’s passed. Wanting to help. Jack shouts and bulls through them. My bones rattle as he shoulders them aside. I close my eyes and grit my teeth, burying my face in his shirt.
“Just hang on.” He turns toward home, setting a brisk pace.
“My purse—he got away with my purse.” With my notes—all of them. In the wrong hands....
“Relax. It’s all right. We’ll get you a new one.”
I bite my lip hard. Need to stay alert, gather my thoughts. My notes—was there anything there?—anything dangerous? The Nagler thing—was that anything? I have to get Jack to talk, and it has to be now, soon, before—
There’s a commotion as Jack pushes into the lobby—the doorman offering to call 911; Jack blowing him off. I cling to the fabric of his jacket. It’s too much, the noise, the panic, the pain—with the adrenaline wearing off, it’s threatening to drag me under. I hear someone whimpering, and realize it’s me.
“Starkey? Starkey, get out here!” Jack’s laying me out on the couch. It’s soft and welcoming. But.... “Starkey! Move your ass!”
No—no! Not Starkey.... I paw at Jack’s arm, shaking my head.
“It’s all right. He’s got training. From the army. Raise up a second.” I lift my head and Jack slides a pillow under it. He brushes dirt off my shoulder and plucks a leaf from my sleeve. “You’re okay. It’s just bruises. Maybe a sprain.”
I look where he’s looking and wish I hadn’t. My leg’s mottled blue from the knee up. A sharp red line vanishes under my skirt—from the edge of the car door. I can feel it, now, a deep ache stretching all the way to my ribs. My hip, in particular, feels...crushed. Tender.
“Shit—shit, that’s....”
Starkey’s bending over me. He looks almost as bad as I do. There’s a sunrise across his jaw, and his lip’s split wide open. So he’s been....
I almost black out as he manipulates my leg. Jack’s holding my hand, stroking my hair, but it’s not enough. Not helping. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep quiet.
“Not broken.” Starkey settles my leg on a pile of cushions. “You’re going to need a lot of ice. And some Polysporin for that knee.” He examines me critically, taking note of my rapidly darkening bruises. “How high up do those bruises go?”
“Not sure... Hurts all the way to my ribs.”
Starkey glances at Jack, and back at me. He plucks at my shirt. “I need to move this aside. To examine you.”
I can’t watch. I close my eyes and pretend to be anywhere else as Starkey presses his palms to my hip, my abdomen, my ribs. It’s sore, but not excruciating. It’s the helplessness that gets me, the humiliation.
“Looks all right. But if you get any sickness or dizziness, any shortness of breath, you’ll need a hospital. Right away.”
“Right away....”
He snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Hey. Did you hit your head at all?”
Did I? I don’t think so. “No.”
“You sure?”
Fuck off. “Yeah. Did you hit yours?”
He scowls and straightens up. Something crackles in his neck. “I’ll get that ice. Soap and water for the knee. Anything else?” He really looks awful. His eyes are red and hollow, and he’s in pajamas in the middle of the day. I’m being an asshole.
“Sorry.” I blink and sniffle. “That was rude.”
Starkey looks away. “It’s fine. You’re....” He catches Jack’s eye and turns red. “Right. Ice. I’m going.”
“What was—ow!—what was all that about?” I gesture at my own face. “He get in a fight?”
Jack’s looking anywhere but at me. “He crossed a line.”
“He—” I can only think of one line Starkey’s crossed lately. “This is because of the Hamptons?” I’m not sure I want to know.
“I called him in to dress him down for covering for you.” Jack shoots me a sharp look. “Imagine my surprise when he practically fell over himself apologizing for assaulting you. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I wasn’t sure whether....” Whether he did it on your say-so. “I mean—”
“You thought I’d allow that?”
I turn my head away. I can’t take it, that look of wounded horror in his eyes. Not now. I’m aching all over, half-sick with pain, on the verge of a breakdown. I want to escape into sleep. Deal with this later.
Jack’s stroking the back of my hand, thumb tracing restless circles. “It’s all right. You don’t have to worry.” His lips brush my temple. “I know you don’t trust me. I don’t blame you. But I wouldn’t hurt you. Or let Starkey do it. I’d send him away, but—” He squeezes my hand, too hard. “No, fuck it. I will.”
“Don’t.”
“No?” He’s trying to get me to look at him, one finger under my chin. But I can’t. If I do, he’ll see the tears gathered at the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill. That I can’t take.
“He warned me about Magnus. Before the ball. I think he was trying to look out for me.”
“Starkey?”
I nod. “He—well, he tried to make it up to me. In his way.” It’s the morning after I’m thinking about, the way he stood at the counter, white-knuckled, talking about compromises. He seemed...trapped. Same way Jack did, at the ball—Whatever you think you know, it’s so much worse. Maybe Starkey’s been punished enough, and in ways I can’t imagine.
“I’ll keep him out of your hair, at least. And I’m sorry.”
I’m saved from having to respond to that by Starkey reappearing with the ice. He wraps the bag around my ankle and fixes it there with a bandage. “Keep it on twenty minutes, and off for an hour. Do you need me to—”
“I’ll do it.” I hear splashing. I brace myself, but it still stings like hell when Jack sets to cleaning my wound. It’s too much, and I squeeze my eyes shut, p
ressing my face to the cushion.
“I can get you an aspirin, or something stronger.”
“No.” I do want something, but I can’t let him see how shaken I am. Maybe a bath’ll help, once I’ve calmed down—hot water and quiet, time to think.
“You don’t have to, uh... You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt. Not for me.”
I swallow hard, thinking of that angry, twisted scar below his ribs.
“You can scream if you want, or squeeze my hand.”
I don’t do either, but I finally manage to look at him. It’s almost unbearable, his warmth, his open concern. Makes me want to comfort him, when it’s probably his past that’s got us into this mess. “I think it looks worse than it is.” My voice cracks, but somehow, my eyes stay dry.
The pain eases off just a little, as he rubs something cool and soothing into my knee. “You didn’t... There wasn’t anything in your purse? Anything that shouldn’t have been?”
Yes. “No.”
“If this was in any way, uh...my fault....” He hangs his head. “Whatever it takes, this ends here. No more. I’m... I’ve been done for a while. I just need some time—a couple of weeks, and.... I’m ending this.”
I wish I knew what he was talking about.
“Do you want me to go?”
I definitely don’t want to be alone. “Stay.”
Outside, a light rain starts to fall. It’s soothing, the way it patters against the windows. I let myself drift. Jack settles in beside me and starts playing with my hair. It’s nice. Familiar. I hardly even mind when a stray tear breaks loose and rolls down the side of my face, or when Jack quietly thumbs it away.
32
Jack
I stretch out on Stella’s bed. One of her birds is singing. The other’s tucked into the corner, head under its wing. Kind of like Stella. She’s barely left the couch since the mugging. The swelling’s gone down on her ankle, and her bruises have faded to a sickly green, but it’s like all the energy’s been drained out of her. I brought out her laptop earlier—thought she might appreciate something to do—but she pecked at the keys for a few minutes and went back to sleep.