"Sir, madam. Welcome. The name?"
"Jonathan Cartwright the Third, and guest."
"Might I see some identification, sir? For security purposes, of course." The host extends a wrinkled hand, and you hand him a card, take it back. "Very well, Mr. Cartwright, madam. This way, please." A gesture to a third and final set of doors, manned yet again by two uniformed doormen.
As they open the doors, a low hum greets you and me--I do not say us, Jonathan, because there is no us. Merely two individuals sharing the same space for a short time.
I must remind myself of this.
A low hum of voices, quiet murmurs, polite laughter. A string quartet and a pianist play classical music in some corner, a microphone stand off to one side against the wall, waiting for a special musical guest, I imagine. The crowd is clustered in groups of four and six, sometimes as many as eight in a circle, all in tuxedos and gowns, expensive watches glittering, diamonds glinting. Eyes shift, heads swivel, subtly scanning for familiar faces.
I know precisely three people here, and they are all making this entrance with me.
No one remarks on our arrival. They notice, see that we are clearly not famous, and their eyes skip over us. Return to conversations and beverages. We are two steps into the room when a young woman in a tasteful but short black dress with an apron at her waist approaches us, tray in hand, bearing flutes of champagne. You take a flute, hand it to me, take another for yourself.
Len has vanished. Thomas looms behind us, close, but not suffocatingly so. A precisely measured distance, I think.
"To you, Madame X. And to being outside that condo."
I blink at your unexpected toast. "Yes. As you say." I clink my flute against yours.
"Don't like my toast, X?" You sip, your eyes twinkling with humor.
"It was . . . not what I was expecting you to toast to."
"What were you expecting, then?"
I take a demure sip. It is sweet, bubbly, with a crisp bite. I like it, but not as much as the wine I had with--I shake my head, refusing to let my mind wander from this experience. Refusing to let thoughts of Caleb Indigo sully my enjoyment. If it is enjoyment I'm feeling; it is a foreign emotion, a flutter in my belly, a quickening of the pulse, shortness of breath, anticipation of . . . something.
"X?"
I shake my head. "Yes?"
"You with me, babe? I asked you what you were expecting me to make a toast to."
I blink. Breathe. Summon my wits. Smile up at you, feigning easy humor I don't quite feel. "My dress?"
You laugh. "Ah. Your dress. Yes, well . . . that's worth a toast, too, I'd say."
Your eyes are warm, friendly. I sometimes do not recognize you as the arrogant, idle, oafish brat you once were, only a few weeks ago. Even from the last time I saw you, you've gained bearing, confidence. You've found yourself, I think. I set you in motion, but you did the rest.
You lift your flute to mine. "To the sexiest dress in the room."
I smile, toast, drink.
We are still only a few steps into the ballroom.
"Jonathan. Who is your ravishing guest?" An older man, silver hair with a bit of black at the temples. Your eyes, a different nose and chin. "Introduce me, son."
"Dad . . . Jonathan Edward Cartwright the Second, I mean--may I introduce to you Madame X."
In the confines of my home, where I conduct business, with the painting on the wall to lend credence, my name is apropos, a thing of mystery and power. Here . . . it just seems awkward.
I shove down all thoughts, summon my cloak of indifference, my armor of cool dignity. "Mr. Cartwright. Well met."
"A pleasure to meet you, Madame X." Your father's eyes do not communicate pleasure, however. There is hostility. An air of ruthless calculation. "You've done a wonderful job with my son. I must admit, I was skeptical of the program, even though I signed him up for it. But you've done wonders. More than I expected, that's for damn sure. "
You shift from foot to foot, uncomfortable. "Dad, I don't think this is the time or place to--"
"Shut up, Jonathan--your betters are speaking." Your father dismisses you, brusquely, casually, brutally.
You do your best not to flinch, but your expression, which perhaps only I can read so easily, communicates a deep, familiar pain. I see where you learned your mannerisms, and what long-ingrained habits you daily fight to become the man you are becoming.
I feel my claws extend. "I must agree with Jonathan, Mr. Cartwright. This is very much not the time or place to discuss such things. This is a social event, after all, and there are . . . shall I say . . . certain clauses dictating knowledge of who I am and what I do. Clauses that by their nature preclude open discussion in a public setting such as this."
"I see. Well." Eyes narrow in open hostility now. "I suppose I have you to thank for my son's abrupt desire to strike out on his own?"
"You do." I smile and keep my tone friendly, sugar sweet as I pour poison. "He was suffering. His natural talents and skills were being wasted. You were wasting your own son's potential. Intentionally, it seems to me. Any chance at real happiness or success for your son was being throttled by your obvious disdain. I did not intentionally guide him away from you or your company, nor did I advise him on any business matters in any way. That's not my job. My job was to show him how to be his own person, and that, now that I've met you, clearly meant helping him overcome the massive handicap of being your son. Jonathan will do amazing things, now that he's out from under your thumb, Mr. Cartwright. Much to your loss, as well, I should think."
You choke on champagne. "X, I see some friends of mine over there. Let's go say hi, huh?"
I allow you to pull me away from your father, who is fuming, red in the face, forehead vein throbbing dangerously. Perhaps the senior Cartwright will suffer a heart attack. I find myself not entirely displeased by the prospect.
You haul me across the room toward a small knot of younger men, all about your age, each one with a woman clinging to a tuxedoed arm, glamorous-looking models dripping in diamonds, all shallow smiles and fake breasts. Before we reach the cluster of your friends, however, you pull me to the side, to the bar along one wall. You order two beers, tossing back your champagne as you wait. I sip mine, and wait.
You have something to say, and so I allow you time to formulate your words. That you're thinking before you speak is encouraging.
"No one has ever stood up for me before, X. No one. Not ever, not in anything. And no one talks to Dad that way."
"About time, then."
You muster a weak smile, then accept the glass of pilsner, downing half of it before turning back to me. "Yeah, I guess so. The point I'm trying to make here is . . . thanks. I've never mattered to that bastard. I never will."
"You only have to matter to yourself."
"Yeah, I get that. But I think it's just basic human nature to want to matter to your own fucking father."
"I suppose so," I say. "But self-preservation is also an essential factor of human nature."
"Aren't you worried you made an enemy of him?"
I shake my head. "Not at all. There's nothing he can do to harm me. If it made trouble for Caleb, then so be it. Trouble for Caleb is Caleb's business, not mine." I wrap my fingers around your arm. "Let's go say hi to your friends."
You snort. "Those assholes? They aren't my friends. They're just some dickheads I know. Guys like I used to be. Rich, self-centered, conceited, and totally useless. Not one of them has ever done a real day's work in their entire lives. And those bitches on their arms? Just like them. Rich bitches who do nothing but shop on Fifth Avenue and get Botoxed and snort coke and go on never-ending vacations to the Hamptons or fucking Turks and Caicos, all of it on their parents' dime. Not one of them has ever done a single thing for themselves. And I was just like them."
"And now?"
"I always wanted to take over for Dad. I wanted in. I wanted to . . . to be a part of what he was doing. He's a horrible person and shitty fath
er, but he's a hell of a businessman. So I was never like those guys in that from the time I was a sophomore in high school I was working in the mail room or in the copy room, working my ass off nights and weekends, paying my dues. Dad never gave me a single break for being his son. He ordered everyone to treat me exactly like any other candidate for every position I angled for. And some people, because I was a Cartwright, treated me even worse. But I played the game. I sucked it up and did my best. I've worked every single day of my life since tenth grade. I've got my own money. I bought my Maserati with my own cash. I bought my condo with my own cash. I got a business loan on my own and raised start-up capital for my business, all without using a single one of Dad's connections. But none of that matters." You finish one beer and start on the next. I'm on my fourth sip of champagne. "I was supposed to keep working for him, keep being pushed aside and passed over and treated like shit. And now that I'm in business for myself, he hates me even more."
"So it sounds as if you were never actually like them?"
"I acted like them, though. Like an asshole. Entitled. Spoiled. I've never been anything but rich. I do what I want, when I want. Yeah, I earn my own income, but I still ran through women like they were nothing. One after another, just for the hell of it. Treated everyone around me like shit."
"What changed?" I am very curious.
"You." You don't look at me as you say this.
My heart sinks. Twists. "Me? Jonathan, I did nothing but what I was paid to do."
"I want you, X. But I can't have you, and I know that. It burns my ass, you know that? We're not even friends. I don't even get that much. But you . . . you're not like anyone I've ever met. You . . . matter. You need no one, you need nothing. You don't take shit, not from anyone. I don't know what it was . . . what it is about you that made me see everything differently. I honestly don't know. I just . . . since meeting you, I guess I just want to be someone that matters."
"You matter, Jonathan." I dare another sip, a longer one, a mouthful of tart, crisp bubbles washing over my tongue, rushing through my brain. "And . . . we are friends."
"But only friends." It isn't a question, but there is a faint, vague, boyish note of hope.
It hurts to crush it.
"Yes, Jonathan. Only friends. It is all that is possible."
"Why?" You turn, pivot to rest a hip against the bar, face me.
I stand with my back to the bar's edge, flute held in both hands, watching the crowd flux and shift. "I cannot answer that, Jonathan. It just . . . is."
"Can't you change it?"
I let out a breath. "No. I cannot."
"Do you want to?" Your breath is on my ear. You are too close. Too close. I hate it when you do this. You are my friend, Jonathan. And that is something monumental to me, but you cannot see it.
I wish I could make you see what your friendship means to me. But I do not know how.
"It wouldn't matter if I did." I whisper this, because it's something I should not say. But I do, recklessly.
Thomas is far enough away that he cannot overhear our conversation. I don't think. But he still makes me nervous. He's there to keep me safe, and to keep me close. I cannot help wondering what he would do if I were to try to leave, here and now. Bring me back, probably. But . . . where would I go? The world is an expensive place.
A dangerous one, too.
"Why not, X? Why wouldn't it matter?" Your voice is so close I can feel the vibrations.
Something snaps inside me. "Damn it, Jonathan! Stop asking questions I can't answer!" I toss back the rest of the champagne, half a flute's worth, swallow it, feel it rush through me, burn my throat on the way down, hit heavy in my stomach.
I flee. Through the crowd, head ducked, angling for the small discreet doorway hiding the restrooms. Thomas is behind me, following silently at a distance.
I push open the nearest restroom door, lungs seized, eyes burning, chest aching, heart thumping heavily, seeing through a blur. Stall door, slammed open, slammed closed. Lean back against the cold metal door, fight for calmness. Fight for breath.
I do not desire you, not physically. But there is something there, some spark of need. You incite doubt in me. Make me wonder at my own life, at my ordered existence. Make me question who I am.
And those questions bring on panic attacks.
I sniffle. Blink hard.
NO.
I cannot let loose this flood of emotion. I am in control. I am in control--breathe, breathe--I can't do this, not here, not now. Not because of Jonathan Cartwright the Third. You know nothing of me. You want me because you can't have me, and that is all it is. And whatever kinship I may feel for you in return is based on less than that. You represent my most obvious success. That's all it is.
I like my life.
I am content.
I do not need more.
I do not want to know what else may exist, out there, for me.
I am safe under Caleb Indigo's protection.
So why am I fighting tears?
I hear the door open, close. A faucet runs.
Silence, but the knowledge that someone else is out there, fixing her makeup, probably, steels me. I cannot be weak. Will not be. I viciously push down my emotions. Shut them off. Bury them. Hold my head high, and exit the stall.
Freeze.
I am in the men's room.
When I exit the stall, look up, see the man, I am struck dumb. A man stands facing me, a cell phone in his hands.
I am left breathless.
There is beauty, and then there is perfection. I have known many beautiful men. Some rugged, some pretty. Some merely handsome. None of them have ever compared to Caleb Indigo, however, in terms of sheer masculine appeal.
Until now.
This man?
He is the splendor of heaven made flesh.
TEN
Hey there. Looks like one of us has the wrong bathroom, I think." His voice is low and warm and amused and kind, bathing me in sensation.
I cannot move, cannot breathe. He is looking at me, seeing me with eyes so blue they make my heart stutter in my chest, eyes that defy description.
There are countless shades of blue:
Azure. Periwinkle. Baby blue. Navy blue. Ultramarine. Celestial. Sky. Sapphire. Electric. So many others in variation.
And then there is indigo.
Oh, how ironic.
His eyes, they are indigo.
I try to speak, but my mouth only opens and closes without producing sound. Something in me is broken, off-kilter.
"You okay? You look upset." A quick step, and I am assaulted by the scent of cinnamon gum, laced with hints of alcohol and cigarettes. But the cinnamon, it is in me, in my nose, on my taste buds.
His hand touches my elbow; another brushes past my cheek, not quite touching my skin, sweeping errant hair away from my eyes.
"I'm fine." I manage a cracked whisper.
He laughs. "I wasn't born yesterday, honey. Try again."
My eyes prick. "I'm sorry to disturb you." I force my body into motion, push past him.
He grabs me by the bicep, spins me back around, and I'm pulled up against his hard warm broad chest. "You haven't disturbed me. The opposite, if anything. Take a minute. No need to rush off."
"I have to go."
"All the better reason to stay, then." Holy gods above, that voice.
Warmth, like afternoon sunlight through a window on closed eyelids, warming skin. The warmth of early morning, before true consciousness has taken over, when all of existence is narrowed down to the cocoon of blankets.
I don't understand what he means, but his hands are gently, politely, firmly on my shoulders, my cheek is against his chest--not at all politely, not at all appropriately. And I do not want to move. Not ever. I am at a height that my ear is over his heart, and I hear it . . .
Bumpbump--bumpbump--bumpbump.
Slow and steady and reassuring.
"What's your name?" he asks, a single fingertip tracing an
intimate line from my temple around the curve of my ear, down to the base of my jaw.
A simple thing, asking one's name. So easy for everyone else. Something I never considered until today--how impossible a normal interaction such as this could be, away from what I know.
I panic. Push away. Stumble. I am caught, held up. "Hey, hey, it's okay. I'm sorry, it's okay."
I shake my head. "I have to go."
"Just tell me your name."
I won't lie. "I can't."
A snort of amused disbelief. "What, it's a secret?"
"I shouldn't be here." I manage another step away.
"No kidding. It's a men's bathroom, and you are most definitely not a man." His hand wraps around my wrist, easily engulfing it and keeping me in place.
A tug, and I'm back up against the tectonic wall of his chest. His fingertip, the one that traced behind my ear, across the delicate drum of my temple, it touches my chin. I must look, though I know I should not--I must look into his eyes, so nearly purple, so arresting in their strange shade of blue. So knowing, so warm, seeing me somehow as if the book of my soul is bare to him, laid open.
"Listen, Cinderella. All I want is your name. Tell me that much, and I can do the rest."
"The rest?" I know--intellectually, cerebrally--that I should pull away, leave, get out of here before anything compromising happens. But I can't. I am a creature in the deep, deep sea, hooked on a line, drawn up to the light. "The rest of what?"
I swallow hard. Everything in me is in a boil, weltering and coruscating and dizzied and mixed up and lost and wild.
"The rest of you and me."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes you do, Cinderella. You feel it. I know you do." He frowns, and even this expression is dizzyingly gorgeous. "I shouldn't be here either. Not at this party, not in this bathroom, and certainly not with someone like you. I don't belong here. And neither do you. But here I am, and here you are, and there's . . . something. Fuck if I have a word for it, but there's something going on between us."
"You're crazy. I have to go." I back away.
My hands shake. Something in the deepest shadows of my being rages against each inch of space I put between us, between him and me. Something in the fabric of my being demands that I stay, that I tell him who I am, that I give him what he demands of me.
But that's impossible.
"Yeah, I am crazy. Not gonna argue with you there. But that has nothing to do with you and me, honey."
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