by Emily Snow
“If I had known you’d try to kick my ass when you saw me, I would’ve come home weeks ago,” he rasps in my ear, facial hair tickling my skin. He lowers my feet to the marble floor. “You know I’m into that sort of thing, V.”
Staggering, I drag my gaze up dark wash jeans, tattooed arms, and a gray System of a Down concert tee shirt to find a set of blue eyes—eyes like Bennett’s—narrowed at me. They’re set in a familiar face, surrounded by dark hair that’s so long and shaggy, it falls around his ears and neck.
“You scared the hell out of me, you stupid son of a bitch!” I laugh, almost knocking Cain over when I throw my arms around him.
“Guilty. Now, about you hitting me again. Give me your best shot—you know I’m into that sort of thing.”
“Ugh. Stop.” Still, I’m smiling like an idiot when I take a step back to get a good look at him. The last time I saw Cain Delaney in person was at my mother’s funeral last November, but I barely registered what was going on, much less who was around me. Before that, he was always so clean cut. Short hair, no tattoos, and a constant frown. This new appearance—the hair and ink and beard, that thing he’s doing with his lips that somewhat resembles a smile—is such a 180 that it takes me a second to say anything.
“You look…”
“I know, Monica and Erik will die of shame when they see their oldest mistake and his chin curtain.” He rubs his hand over his full, dark beard and smirks. “Can’t say I’m not looking forward to seeing the look on their faces. I’m planning on shaving, eventually, but I figured I’d surprise these shitheads before I check into my hotel and get some rest. Then it’s time for apartment hunting.”
“A hotel? Apartment hunting?” His bedroom is down the hall, right across from Bennett’s, and has remained empty since he graduated from Birchwood four years ago. Shooting up my eyebrows, I slide onto one of the barstools and stare at the concert dates on the back of his shirt as he strides to the side-by-side refrigerator. “You’re not moving back in here?”
“I’ll stick my cock in that blender over there before I deal with this chaos.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
He digs through the fridge, irritation plowing his forehead when he comes out holding an empty bottle of cranberry juice. “It is.”
Even growing up, Cain was the most organized Delaney brother. Everything from his toys to his books to his clothing were always impeccably arranged, a trait that always pleased my mom because she never had to clean up after him. Shaking his head at the bottle one last time, he slams it in the wastebasket beneath the counter.
"They're heathens."
“There’s the last of it if you’re still thirsty.” I flick my hand toward the glass of juice his brother poured for me earlier. There’s still a ruby splash left at the bottom. “Sorry, I think Bennett still has a bad habit of putting the empty container back in the fridge.”
“Apparently,” he drawls, glancing around the open layout. “So, where the fuck is the Parent-Pleaser?”
The Parent-Pleaser. I bite down on the inside of my cheek because it feels like we’re kids again, and Cain’s giving Bennett crap for having middle child syndrome. Which always, always caused a fight. “You know he hates that,” I say, sliding the glass back and forth between my hands.
“I’m a hateful person.” He bends over the center island and plucks the glass from me. He downs it swiftly, grinning over the edge at my sour expression. “At least I got to see you giving me the shit eye, and speaking of that, what are you—”
“For fuck’s sake, Veronica, you’re letting panhandlers in?” Cain and I swivel our gazes to the elevator, where Bennett is coming off toting a bag of takeout and a drink carrier. Depositing everything on the counter, he goes to give his brother a hug.
Cain responds by putting him in a headlock, which Bennett easily escapes.
“I’m taller than you now,” he informs his older brother with a wink, evading Cain’s playful jab at his right shoulder. He stands close to me, and I hold my breath when he fingers a lock of my wet hair. Cain doesn’t notice.
“You’re taller by an inch, and I can still snap you in two. Luckily, I make it a point not to beat up on pussies—unless there’s a woman attached to it.” He ignores my groan as he swipes the bag of food to him to examine the contents. “Two bagels and two cups of coffee. Does Mom know how unhospitable you are?”
No, nothing has changed at all. Cain still says that word—Mom—the same as Graham.
“They’re for me and her, not you, greedy bastard.” Bennett nods down at me, frowning when I shimmy off the barstool and grab my brown leather bag from the countertop. “Where are you going?”
His brother snorts. “I think the question is why are you going? I just got here.”
Two sets of ocean blue eyes bore into me as I drape the strap of my purse around my shoulder. “I need to get home to—”
“I told you before you don’t have to go. I don’t want you to go. Besides, she rarely even comes on this level, so you’re safe,” Bennett says, his voice dropping an octave. His eyes implore me to remain, and I struggle to keep my composure beneath the heat of his stare. “Please.”
“Please?” Cain arches a questioning eyebrow in my direction. He studies me for a brief moment, taking in my flushed cheeks and my fingers working nervously over my earlobe then jerks his head back. “No. Really, Veronica? Him?”
“No,” I blurt out at the same time Bennett growls, “Why the fuck not?”
“So, which is it?” Cain parks his ass onto one of the barstools and folds his arms over his broad chest. “No? Or why-the-fuck-not?”
“I—” I start, but then I stop myself. Reel a little from the heavy pressure that suddenly weighs me down. That euphoria from earlier—the sensation that came along with knowing this only belonged to us—seems to drift away, bit by bit, as they stare at me. Waiting for a response.
I drop my gaze to the floor. Scratch my brain for the right words: Yes. Yes, I’m his. Yes, I’m his, and I’m scared to death of this because I know I shouldn’t get attached. I finally settle on, “I’ll call you later,” and then I step onto the elevator.
I release a shuddering breath and lay my forehead to the wall.
I’ve never been so grateful to reach the front of the building, and I immediately go left, in the direction of the closest subway entrance. I only manage to walk half a block before I hear my name being called. Yelled. Cringing, I look over my shoulder. Bennett is stalking toward me, bronze features flushed and his jaw clenched so tight it looks like he might crack his perfect teeth.
His fingers reach me first. They’re gentle as they sink into my hip and draw me around to face him. “What the hell was that?” He grinds out each word through tight teeth.
“I don’t know.” I gulp, falling into his arms when someone rushing by bumps into my shoulder and pushes me forward. “I-I panicked.”
“Panic? You looked like he was asking if you wanted a side of herpes with your bagel.”
I suck in my cheeks and start to pull away from him, but he holds me firmly in place. “Don’t be crude,” I hiss.
“Don’t be … whatever the fuck you were back there.”
“I wasn’t ready to say anything. You knew that!”
“It’s Cain. He’ll tease you because he's a dick, but who’s he going to say something to?” He carves a hand through his hair before resting it on my shoulder. I curve into his touch, sighing when he rubs a strand of my hair between his fingertips, just like he did upstairs. “Are you embarrassed to be with me? Is that what this is?”
I shake my head incredulously. I’ve never been oblivious to what’s happening around me but standing here with him—on one of the busiest sidewalks in Manhattan—I get tunnel vision. “You know how Monica is,” is all I can say.
She’ll get into his head with backhanded comments and sneering looks and then silence. And who the hell knows what will happen after that.
“I know my mother well,
but she’s got to find out at some point. You realize that, don’t you?”
“No,” I say, “I don’t.”
“Why the hell wouldn’t you?” When I shrug slightly, he closes his eyes. His nostrils flare as he inhales and exhales. “I love you, Veronica, but sometimes you amaze the shit out of me and in the worst possible way.”
“Well, screw you—” But then my heart stops. My breath dies away to nothing. “What?”
“I love you.” When I blink, he laughs. Skims his fingers from my shoulder and frames my face in his hand. “It’s not obvious? I worship you, Veronica. I love you and don’t give two shits what Monica has to—”
“It’s been two weeks.”
He shakes his head. “Two days, two weeks, two years—what does it matter when you’ve always been one of the only things I’ve looked forward to over the last twelve years?”
No matter how much time passes, I know those are words I’ll never forget. Never. I float on those words, tell myself that everything will be all right, and then I’m up on my toes. Pressing my lips to his. I melt into him. Mouth. Body. Heart. I’m hardly aware that I’m saying it too, telling him I love him, until he draws back and lays his forehead to mine.
“I know. You said it in your sleep.” He grins. “That first night.”
If he hadn’t just said what he did, the embarrassment would strike me down. Right here. Right on the sidewalk. “I thought it was nothing too interesting,” I rasp.
“No, Veronica, it was everything."
CHAPTER 11
VERONICA
“Most girls strut in here wearing heels.” The petite redhead standing behind the lustrous white desk peruses me carefully when her assistant, Louisa, shows me into her office a few days later. She asks Louisa to grab a couple of waters, but never pulls her eyes away me. She taps her short nails on the edges of her desk, studying me, while I walk toward her. “You’re lucky you don’t need them.”
Smiling sheepishly, I stop a few inches from one of the green leather swivel chairs parked on the opposite side of her desk. “I don’t own a pair of heels.”
She shoots her eyebrow so high they brush the fringed ends of her bangs. “None?”
“I was already taller than most of the boys at school, so I never wore them”
“As I said before, you’re a lucky girl.” She offers me her hand, and after I shake it, she gestures to one of the green seats. “Please, sit down, Veronica. I’m Rachel, by the way.”
By the way. When I finally took her husband’s advice and stopped by their Park Avenue office yesterday, I heard her name at every turn. I’ve been working for Rachel for three years and can’t imagine going to another company… Rachel’s not here today but wait until you meet her… Rachel will love these headshots…
The headshots were courtesy of Bennett—snapshots taken in front of one of the ivory-painted walls in his bedroom Monday night. I’d followed the instructions listed on the agency’s website: Hair pulled away from my face in a low ponytail. No makeup. A plain black V-neck. Two photos smiling and two neutral. I had the images printed out yesterday, just before coming in to the agency. Now, they’re spread out on her desk.
She grabs one of me smiling and tilts her head to the side as she examines it. “When you didn’t include a body shot, I was worried you might be on the shorter side. I can usually tell from the pictures.”
I twist my lips. I didn’t realize I needed a body shot, too, or I would have found my pants and underwear—which were scattered somewhere on the marble floor in Bennett’s bedroom. My face lights up at the memory, and she must confuse it for embarrassment because she rushes to reassure me.
“Obviously, there’s nothing wrong with being short—I’m a happy representative of the Lollipop Guild—but we’re an editorial agency. Most of our clients look for girls over five-nine.”
“I’m almost five-eleven.”
She returns my photo to her desk and bobs her head, a satisfied grin bowing her lips. “And you’ve made my day because I knew we could do incredible things the moment I saw that face and those eyes.”
Her assistant shuffles in with two bottles of Mountain Valley and speaks to her boss for a moment, giving me time to take in the black and white photos of the agency’s clients that line the office walls. I recognize a few of them from the magazines Mom used to read in her spare time.
As soon as the other woman leaves, Rachel clasps her hands together on her desk. “Your walk needs a little work and you fidget with your ear when you’re nervous.” Realizing I’m doing that now, I pin my hand between my thighs. “You avoid eye contact, but you are stunning. In person and straight-out-of-the-camera.”
I used to have a teacher that did that—lead with the insult only to compliment the hell out of my work—and it drove me nuts. Made me avert my gaze on something else as I answered her. Because of what Rachel pointed out, though, I zero in on her. “Thanks?”
“You’re welcome.” She sweeps her bangs from her dark eyes and leans back in her chair, rapping her fingertip against her chin. “What are your career goals?”
“College money,” I say without hesitation. Somehow, I lucked out this year. I went to make a payment on my tuition Monday morning only to discover I’d received another grant. That put my balance at zero. Still, there’s next year and the two years after that. If I can make even a little extra money on the side, I’ll be thrilled.
“Which school?”
“Barnard,” I answer with a tiny smile. “I’m going for English.”
“Very nice.” She opens the top drawer of her desk and produces a glossy folder with the company’s branding and several of their models on it. Laying it on top of my photos, she presses her lips into a firm line. “I’d like to work with you, but I’m also a fan of ensuring our talent understands what they’re signing. There are a lot of assholes in this business.”
“They’re everywhere.”
Rachel chuckles. “Unfortunately.” She scoots the folder across the desk until I reach out and grab it. “My grandfather started this company in 1952. We have offices here, Los Angeles, Miami, Chicago, London, and Paris, so believe me when I say we know what we’re doing. There’s a copy of our agency agreement in here along with our credits. Read over it then have your lawyer, your father, the mailman—whoever else you need—to look over it, too.
“The mailman?” I laugh. “You’re thorough.”
“You bet your tall, cute ass I am. If you decide it’s not something you’re interested in, you won’t hurt my feelings.” She shrugs and offers me a half-smile. “Well, maybe a little, but think it over.”
“Modeling?” Dad asks a couple nights later when I broach the subject with him over dinner. “How does that fit in with school?”
I lift a shoulder. “Just a side job for extra money.”
He flips to the second page of the contract and scratches his fingers through his thick curls. “Are these people legit?”
It’s funny, that’s the same question Bennett asked when I first told him about Bamberger. Since Cain swore he knew a little something about contract law—it turns out he had a kinky bondage-based relationship with an attorney while he was in California—Bennett and I went to his new place in The Bronx last night. He’s yet to furnish it, so we sat on beanbag chairs while they poured over the document and drank tequila. It quickly turned into an annoying competition of who could handle the most, but they both came to the same tipsy conclusion:
Bamberger Model Management and Rachel are not only one hundred percent legitimate, she’s also a powerhouse in this city along with all the other locations she mentioned.
To Dad, I nod. “They represent Carlotta Younis and Sarah Riggs.” He gives me a blank look, so I add, “They’ve both been on the cover of that magazine Mom used to get, Belle.”
“Ah.” He slides the contract across the narrow table where it comes close to landing in spilled marinara sauce. Grabbing the document, I stuff it back inside the folder and set it b
eside me in the booth. “Whatever you decide to do, I’ll support you. You know that.”
“I know.” And it’s that look in his eyes, the trust, that draws my next words to the surface. “I’ve been seeing Bennett Delaney.”
He’s about to take a bite of his veal parmigiana, but the fork freezes centimeters from his mouth. “You see him when you go to visit Graham or—I don’t know—randomly out in public or…”
I can’t read his expression. Usually, it’s so easy to tell what he’s thinking or going to say next, but right now, his face is an emotionless mask. “We’re dating.”
He lowers his fork to his plate. His brow plows together, and I hold my breath. “Does he treat you with respect?” Because I can’t find my words, I bob my head. He rubs his hand over his face and continues, “He’s not involving you in … whatever it is they do over there?”
“Dad, they’re not drug lords or running a prostitution ring. Becoming the next Heidi Fleiss would give Monica a headache.” I almost laugh, but his unsmiling face puts an end to that. “He makes me … happy.”
“Happy.” He closes his eyes and moves his head up and down. “Your mom never wanted you to get involved with any of them, not like that. In fact, she was adamant you didn’t date those boys.” I start to protest because Mom never told me anything like that, but he cuts me off. “I sure as hell didn’t want you to end up with one. I’m not happy, Veronica, but if you are…”
He trails off and my chest feels lighter when he opens his eyes. “I am,” I promise.
“How does he fit in with school?”
“He’s going to Harvard next spring.” God, why does it burn my lungs when I say that? “I’ll stay here, at Barnard. Like I planned.”
Dad digests this information then grabs his fork again and shovels the veal on the tip of it into his mouth. He chews slowly, his gaze focused on something behind me. When he finishes, he takes a drink of his water. He ends up downing the whole glass.
Setting it down on the edge of the table, he grunts. “Then I guess it’s like the modeling, I’ll support you, Veronica, no matter what. Just don’t lose your head.”