by Kitsy Clare
He moans—in his sleep? Or is he awake, enjoying my surrender? Almost in answer, he snuggles closer.
His skin is toned, invigorating, comforting. And, oh, so sizzling. Sweet Jesus, I could get used to this.
What would it be like to be his? We could make art together in his giant sugar castle—each of us having enough room for our own adjacent studio. We could fix long, luxurious lunches for each other, with linen napkins and homemade pineapple juice. We’d make love on mountains of sugar packets and shoot out candy-spun window targets for fun. We’d howl at the moon while perched on the Schneitryn Sugar sign, blinking huge neon S’s onto the East River waves.
I’m getting way ahead of reality. My back is on fire from his touch, and it’s spreading in between my thighs. I press them together. If he can set me so ablaze from his touch, then if he ever thrust his sex inside of me, people would hear my cries of pleasure all the way to Brooklyn Heights.
But he’s not mine. I need to stop this risky dream before I fall into a nightmare I can’t wake up from. I curl the covers tightly around me and tuck my hands firmly under them. No way will I let them stray to Caz’s side of the bed. This is for warmth, I tell myself, only so I don’t freeze in this blasted hurricane.
9 CHAPTER NINE
I’m disoriented. Why is my ceiling riddled with crusty black pipes? Why am I covered in strange, gnarly sweaters? Why are my arms around—?
“Caz! Holy crap!” I’m cuddled belly to belly with him, my arms flung brazenly over his naked chest. And his arms, rippling with muscles, are draped casually over my bare hips.
Lazily, he opens one eye. “Sleep okay?”
My hair’s a tangled mess. My restless sleep has hitched up my shirt to my bra. And Caz’s soulful brown eyes are fixed on me. Embarrassed, but more than a little turned on, I bolt upright and tug my shirt down. “Yeah, I slept pretty well, considering how cold it was.”
“I see that the floor didn’t agree with you. Did I warm you at all?” he murmurs low in his throat.
“Mm hm.” I can’t help but smile, and his return grin warms me to my core.
“Hey, I can see across the room!” I exclaim, turning to Caz’s wide windows, where glorious, albeit dim daylight is beaming in. “The sun’s actually poking through the storm clouds, and it’s not raining anymore.”
“A bit like our, um, relationship,” he says. “I wonder if the power’s back on.” He tries the bedside lamp. “No dice.” He sighs and lights the candle instead.
The full reality of yesterday creeps into consciousness: the banshee winds, the terrifying pitch blackness, my time spent cowering in the bottom of a sugar vault—how Caz found me and hauled me, Sir Galahad-style, out of there.
“Thanks for finding me or I’d be a Popsicle in the bottom of that vat by now.” I hug myself and shiver. “Brrr, it’s still plenty cold in here.”
“You as a Popsicle I could suck on, yum. Let’s see, what flavor would you be?” His words are dirty, provocative, a turn on.
“I’d be mixed berry,” I decide. “What about you?” I narrow my eyes at him. “I know, you’d be semisweet chocolate.”
He mock frowns. “Only semisweet? No fair, Sienna.” He takes my arm and lures me back down on his bed. “Let me show you my sweetest milk chocolate side.”
Oh my God. Did he just say that? Melting. He wraps the covers around the both of us, cups the back of my head, and gradually pulls me closer, keeping his keyed-up gaze on me the whole time. He’s as hazardous as that hurricane, and I’m a bird, swirling in his currents. His lips graze mine, teasing and restrained. Which increases my desire. He’s testing me again, seeing how long I can resist kissing him full on. I wait, our lips barely touching, testing him back.
I win. He can’t wait. He crushes me with his—yesss—milk-chocolatey lips. I take hungry licks at his tasty tongue, and he sucks mine in return. His strong craftsman’s hands stray to my hips. Massaging their curves, he moves them closer to his, until his erect hardness excites my belly, bringing me to a silky wetness.
Just when we’re inching in for another long kiss, my cell phone does its ringtone thing—a rousing Jay Z number—and startles all holy hell out of us.
In our neo-colonial candlelit state, I’d forgotten about technology—forgotten about anything but the exquisite feel of Caz’s body pressed to mine.
“Dammit!” I stumble out of bed and over to my messenger bag, reach for my cell, and flick it open.
“Sienna? You okay? Where are you?” It’s Harper!
“I’m....” Oh crap, dare I mention that I’ve been in the arms of her nemesis?
She sighs, loudly, pointedly. “You still over in Williamsburg?”
“Um, yeah.” I eye Caz, propped up on one elbow and looking at me quizzically, his long hair in an adorable torrent of coppery waves. “I got caught at the sugar factory during that hurricane. Did you have the Halloween party? Do you guys have power yet?”
“No. Most of Manhattan lost power. Brooklyn, too—it’s worse than Hurricane Sandy. And no Halloween party; I cancelled it last night. Didn’t you get my message?”
Harper must’ve called when I was trapped in that sugar vat. And by the time Caz and I finally made it back to his studio, we were too distracted to think of calling people. “Um, no.”
She goes on. “Thankfully, Dave’s car was in a midtown garage at the time. We know people whose garages got totally flooded out. I mean, who gets flood insurance for their car? It’s terrible. How is it over there?”
I’m thinking of how wonderful I feel and how I can’t tell her that. Not at all! “Being in this huge warehouse was intense with no lights, no heat, the windows clattering so hard I thought they’d shatter. And it’s cold as an icebox.”
“Sienna, do you want Dave and me to pick you up? We could go uptown, to his Aunt Lydia’s. She has power, so you could take a shower and stuff.”
“Sienna and Casper Mason,” I hear Dave insist somewhere in the background. So, he’s behind this. I remember what Harper said about Dave chomping at the bit to show Caz’s work at Studio Hightower, to hobnob with his ilk.
Having them pick me up isn’t a bad idea. I do need to get back to my apartment, save what’s in my fridge, water my plants. And I’d get a peek at Dave’s art dealer aunt’s place uptown. A rare opportunity because this woman is normally haughty and chilly—pretty much untouchable. I bet his Aunt Lydia’s brownstone is literally wallpapered with famous paintings. It would be like scoring a private tour in a secret museum. I look over at Caz, who is grinning madly, trying to crack me up.
“Hold on, Harper.” I slap my hand over the phone. “Harper and Dave are offering to pick us up, take us into Manhattan for a while.”
His face turns ivory white, and his goofy grin sours. “I’ll stay here.”
“But, Caz, a hot shower at Lydia Hightower’s…the art dealer? Wouldn’t that feel good?”
His voice is as cold as the concrete floor. “Not so much.”
I’m confused; he’s confusing me. Why has he changed so fast? “Are you sure? I’ve got to get back to Harper. I can’t leave her hanging,” I tell him.
“No! No cars. You heard me the first time.” The way his eyes widen makes me think he’s frightened of cars. But that’s too strange. Riding in a car in Manhattan is a supreme treat, a respite from the crowded, herky-jerky subways.
“Sienna?” I can hear Harper’s muffled voice through my palm. Once again, it brings me back to reality.
This thing, whatever it is, between me and Caz would never work in the real world. It would be unbalanced—he’s famous and I’m younger, poorer, an unknown. Besides, I haven’t totally broken it off yet with Erik, and I’m a monogamous girl. I need to get out of here. Maybe I’m that queen of swords in Caz’s Tarot reading but I read it all wrong. Maybe he’s the one who’s cast an evil spell on me, and I need to get away before I get all twisted and glamoured.
“Sienna?” Again, Harper’s calling to me through my muffled cell.
I take
my hand off it and hold it up to my ear. “Yes, come on by. I need to get back. In half an hour? I’ll be ready, waiting by the front entrance. Just me, not Caz.”
When I click my phone shut, I’m afraid to look over at him, afraid to see his crushed expression. And my fears are realized when I do. He’s got that old metal grating down, firmly padlocked. Which makes me want to hacksaw through it.
“Caz?” I stumble. “You can still change your mind.”
“You don’t get it, Sienna. No cars. No ride to Manhattan.” His face goes from freaked out to clench jawed.
Suddenly I’m mad. He’s guilt-tripping me, and who does he think he is? “How on earth do you get to Manhattan for business then?” I snap.
“Subway. It’s New York City. Only silly, frivolous people have cars here.”
“What about cabs?” I persist.
“Hate cabs. Bunch of crazy, dangerous drivers.” He’s sitting on the bed, his arms crossed like a sulky kid.
I walk toward him, my anger curiously deflated. “I had fun, Caz. I did.” I touch his hand, but he doesn’t move.
“Fun’s over,” he huffs.
I quirk up an eyebrow. “We can always have more.” What’s with me? A second ago, I was thinking we’d never work together. It’s his fault! He’s so adorable, even when he’s fuming, that I can’t make promises, even to myself.
When he rises and stalks off toward his studio, I know I haven’t softened him. “I have work to do,” he announces. “I have a big career.”
My mood slips right back into darkness, to stark, raw reality. Fuck your big career, I think, as I let myself out and wait on Front Street for Harper and Dave. The wind is still fierce, slapping my hair in my face, my scarf skyward. Debris from yesterday’s storm looks like fallout from a war zone—a knotty tree limb, the stop sign torn clear out of the asphalt. Any warmth Caz and I shared feels like a dream, torn like the jagged piece of store awning, caught and flapping on a tilting fire hydrant.
10 CHAPTER TEN
Harper comes without Dave. No big surprise. Dave must’ve been disappointed Caz opted out. Harper’s friendly and drives more carefully than usual. She needs to. Brooklyn looks like a disaster zone, with shuttered stores and trashcans rolling around in the street. A couple of times, she glances over at me with a friendly smile. I give her one back, relieved she’s silently trying to repair the damage done. But my deeper mind is stuck on Caz.
We head over the Williamsburg Bridge and onto the normally bustling Delancey Street. It’s like an alternate-reality war zone, with people staggering around, looking dazed, and all the storefronts firmly shuttered. No traffic lights, either.
“What did you guys do last night?” Harper finally asks what she’s obviously been wondering.
Not sure how much I want to tell her. It would start up our conflict again. She’d say I told you so. “We carved pumpkins, and I read his Tarot.”
“Do tell!” She turns up Bowery. It’s so odd driving around without stoplights—like a game of chicken, slowing down at each corner and waiting to see if there will be a car, and if so, which one will inch out into the intersection first. But we sure make fast time without waiting for lights.
“What was in his reading?” Harper asks.
I shrug. “I suggested a woman from his past twisted him all up and blocked his ability to make real art.”
She gasps. “You told him that? Girl, you have nerve!”
I grin. Serves him right. “He said he didn’t believe in the cards, but he sure seemed to take them seriously. He seemed truly disturbed.”
“Wow. What did I tell you? He’s hiding something,” she gloats, speeding through another intersection. “Have you snuck into that locked room yet?”
“No. He’s got the keys right out there on his desk, like he’s testing me.”
“No doubt. The creep.”
But he’s not a creep. He’s hurting about something, I just don’t know what. I feel suddenly protective of him, and so much feeling swells up in me that I ache. I’m not even excited about seeing Lydia Hightower’s fancy townhouse. I just want to be back in that sugar castle, in Caz’s arms.
***
Lydia Hightower’s place is mind-boggling. She must have about fifty million dollars’ worth of art in here, not to mention thousands more in fine antiques. I see a crop of classic abstract expressionists: a swirly Helen Frankenthaler, a Jackson Pollock splattering, and the matte black canvas of a Mark Rothko. Newer artists, too, like Andy Chu’s vivid explosions of color and Neo Hassan’s landscape collages fashioned from psychotropic pills that look like they’re set on alien planets.
Lydia has one of Erik’s paintings, too, over her dining room table. It’s a portrait of her, and he’s captured her condescending yet cultured essence so completely my heart is breaking. God, I’m so damn confused.
It hurts to feel so much for two men.
Lydia does her Beverly Hills Housewives air kiss on either cheek and asks me how I fared last night. I’m amazed at how gracious she’s being after my run in with her last spring, when I showed her my computer prints and then abruptly bailed on her critique. I know I acted like a crazy girl. Who bails on the freaking Queen Bee of Art Dealers? Especially after I told her I was bailing because I didn’t appreciate her favorite nephew, Dave, calling me his girlfriend when we didn’t even have a relationship. I mean, Dave’s great for Harper, but he was all wrong for me!
Even after that, when Lydia knew I was dating her artist, Erik, she offered to turn me on to a dealer named Rey on Fifty-Seventh Street. But nothing’s come of that yet. And it’s partially my fault. I can’t even think about that right now.
“How’s Caz?” Dave asks eagerly, from his perch on Lydia’s red-velvet lounge chair. “Why didn’t he come with? He’s totally welcome here.”
“He’s doing okay,” I answer noncommittally. Dave’s like a groupie when it comes to famous artists, and I’m in no mood for his pandering.
Apparently, Lydia senses my irritation and swoops in to save me. “You must be frozen solid. Shower?” she asks, and I nod gratefully.
Once in the bathroom, I bury my face in one of her towels. Even the terrycloth feels wealthy—thick, soft as a baby’s skin, and in a trendy shade of tropical ocean teal. I linger in the shower until my hands are prunes and the room is opaque with steam. Then I towel off, wave away the haze, and stare at myself in the mirror.
The long shower should’ve been relaxing, but I look sad, guilty, and frustrated. My brow’s furrowed and my lips are pressed together in a taut, disagreeable line. In a hot flush of awareness, I know what I need to do. I dress quickly in a pair of Harper’s yoga pants and a knit top she’s lent me, brush out my hair, and hurry out to where Harper and Dave are lounging, in Lydia’s solarium, brimming with meandering vines and sunny art prints.
“Harper, can I borrow your laptop for fifteen minutes or so?”
“Sure.”
“You have Skype?”
“Yeah. Go for it. You can talk in here.” She untwines herself from Dave’s arms and leads me into Lydia’s guest room. She and Dave must be crashing in here. I can tell by the overflowing suitcases and Harper’s many high heels, kicked off at odd angles. The obsessive neat freak in me cringes, but I can’t afford to be triggered by this mess. I’ve got more important challenges.
I take a seat at Lydia’s fancy mahogany desk and turn toward Harper, who’s standing to my right. Her face is bursting with questions. She holds back, though, and I’m sure that’s hard for her.
The moment she shuts the door behind me, I log on, my heart pounding uncomfortably fast, hoping yet dreading that Erik will be online. It must be quite late in Dubai or wherever the heck he is now.
I dial him on Skype and, after a few beats, he clicks on. There’s no backing out of this.
“Hey!” he says, half-animated and half-surprised, like I’ve distracted him from some important event.
“Is it an okay time to talk?” I ask, my heart up in my thro
at and practically choking me.
“Um, sure.” He looks nervously off to one side, unlike him. He’s usually so relaxed. “It’s just that usually we schedule a talk, and I just have a few minutes.”
“Do you need some privacy?” a female voice asks him. My belly cramps with jealousy.
“Oh, um, that would be good.” When Erik looks off to the side again I see that he’s in a gallery space. At least it looks that way. There’s a large painting rack behind him, neatly packed with oversized, labeled canvases wrapped in plastic. Was that Betsy, or a fellow artist, talking to him?
“What’s up?” he asks. “Are you okay? I heard there was a bad storm in Manhattan.”
“Yup. The power’s still out in part of the city.” My first impulse is to eke out sympathy. If Erik were here, we could’ve gotten each other through the storm. Instead, it was Caz who hung out with me, kept me grounded. That’s not why I’ve called, though. I need to cut to the chase. “I have to say something important.” I swallow.
Erik’s eyes fix on me, and he’s stopped smiling. Good, I’ve finally captured his full attention. “What is it?”
“I think we need to take a break from each other,” I blurt.
“I know it’s a drag that we can’t be together, so, um, we sort of are already,” he stumbles, “taking a break. But after a year....”
“No, I mean, I need to break it off with you tonight.”
“Oh.” Erik looks truly stricken, which twists me up in knots. “Are you sure, Sienna? I’m sorry I can’t be around as much as I’d like.” His tone is sad, and his sensitive face sags in distress. I’m suddenly confused.
Warm memories flood in: of us, arm-in-arm, in New York museums, discussing classic works; that first night he painted me in the school studio and put his bathrobe around me when I was so shy and he wanted me to feel safe; him surprising me with his glamorous Chelsea one-man show. It seems so far away, though—like Erik—all the way across the ocean, with total strangers.