by Geneva Lee
He trails kisses along the way from my shoulder to my neck. A jolt of lightning crashes through me when I feel the first nip of his teeth on my neck. He goes from sweet-and-soft to rough-and-demanding, and back again, until I have no idea what will come next.
He whispers in my ear, “Let’s find somewhere more comfortable.”
Our bodies break apart, and it takes a moment for my senses to return to normal. “Follow me.”
I could lead him to one of the bedrooms, but the couch in the next room is much closer.
We stumble through the darkness and I push him onto the couch before he ever realizes it’s there.
“I guess you know what you want, huh?”
The picture window overlooking the garden gives the sitting room a lot of natural moonlight, and I can see Sterling’s features again. His eyes are narrow, but it’s not because he’s straining to see in the darkness. He’s not even looking at me. I can feel the gulf between us widen.
But I won’t let it. Not again. He’s drunk. It’s not ideal, but I’m ready. And besides, he’s not too drunk to remember if the last few minutes are any indication. That’s what matters.
I climb into his lap and begin to kiss his forehead, his cheeks, his perfect mouth. He’s surprisingly slow to respond, so I place his hands on my ass and pull my top off. If he suddenly needs the paint-by-number approach I can oblige.
I kiss him again. Our bodies collide again. But there is no softness there, just hard tension.
“What’s with you?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
He stiffens further. “It’s nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“Sorry. I was thinking.”
“You were thinking?” I repeat. How can he be thinking right now? I’m barely breathing.
“I was wondering how long it would be until the next one,” he says, as if it explains everything.
“You’re going to need to give me more to go on.” I bend forward to kiss him again, but he stops me.
“What you were talking about earlier: the sharing.”
The sharing? What is he talking about?
“Do you get me all to yourself for a while? Or maybe you plan to take turns?” He spits the words out like a bad taste. In the greyscale of the moonlight, his eyes are cold and accusing. “I’m just trying to figure out what the rules are.”
My heart rate ratchets up again, but now it has nothing to do with his hands or his lips or his body. “What the fuck are you talking about, Sterling?”
The cursing turns him on like a switch. In a flash he spins me off of him and onto the couch. He leaps up, his face contorting in the moonlight and shifting to that of a stranger. Dangerous. Cold. A shiver runs through me. What have I done?
“I went to find you earlier. Here, in the pool house.”
I remember. I was talking with Ava and Darcy. They were trying to get me to dish about Sterling.
“You promised you’d share me,” he jogs my memory when I don’t respond. “I just want to know what that’s like. Do I sleep with you sometimes, but maybe if you’re busy I throw them a bone?”
“What the…” Bile rises in my throat. I’m not sure if it’s the idea of them touching him or the idea that he might be into it. Why else would he bring it up? I want to puke.
“You went along with it!” he rages. I try to interject, but he’s already off again. “I don’t get you people. Everything in your lives is just a toy waiting for you to get bored with it. Including me. Why not share me now? Didn’t they teach you that in school?”
“That’s not fair. You know I didn’t want any of this to happen. It was supposed to be just us.” I’m ashamed when my voice quavers. How could I have been stupid enough to let him get close enough to hurt me?
“Don’t be mad at me for finding out, Lucky. I’m smarter than you’re used to.” He turns to go, but stops at the kitchen door. “Admit it, I was supposed to be your birthday present. Because of course you are the type to get herself something. So let me spare you the trouble of re-gifting me.”
My heart crashes inward like a black hole. When I look up, he’s gone. Some days are diamonds.
But those days are never my birthday.
8
Sterling
I decide to major in philosophy.
It’s a worthless degree, but one I can do on my own time. No classes required. So far, I’m working on what I call the invisible man theorem, which basically means that if I act invisible, I will be invisible. I’m testing it using two different methods.
The first is by skipping class. It turns out that in college, unlike high school, no one gives a shit if you don’t show up to classes. No one. Not the professor. Not the administration. Not even your friends. I know, because I’m on my second week of testing the theory, and no one has even checked in, except Cyrus, who only stops by the room to grab shit a couple times a week. If I pretend I’m not there, he goes right along with it, only speaking when spoken to.
The other method of testing involves social invisibility, or the belief that if I show up at a party, say nothing to anyone, grab a bottle of booze, and take off, no one will even notice. But is this because I’m invisible or because people are shit-faced? I don’t know. But I’ll keep testing the theory until I can be certain.
There’s one more theory, but I haven’t given it a name yet. It’s basically that a son can’t ever escape becoming his father. I might not be the first to think of that one. I’d ask a professor, but I can’t be bothered to actually enroll in a philosophy class. Not if it means skewing the findings of my first theory, which I’m dedicating myself to completely, and have been since the night of Adair’s birthday party.
The door cracks open and Cyrus steps inside. His gaze sweeps over the room before landing on me.
“Hey,” I grunt, grabbing a t-shirt off the couch and pulling it over my head. Today, we’ll talk.
“I just needed to grab something,” he says, as if it’s some sort of revelation.
“Cool.” I pick up a few bottles to check their contents, but each of them is bone dry. Cyrus stands there, watching me.
“When was the last time you even went to class?” Cyrus asks. “I haven’t seen you in Econ in two weeks.”
“What do you care?” I drop onto my bed and stare at the ceiling. If he noticed I wasn’t in class, it undermines my working theory. He shouldn’t notice my absence, and he definitely shouldn’t care. I’m going to have to reconsider some things.
“No reason. I just thought you were on scholarship.” He waits for me to respond, when I don’t, he continues, “You okay, man?”
“Don’t worry about me,” I say flatly. “I’m living my best life.”
“I can see that.” He looks around our dorm room. “You want me to have my maid stop by?”
“Doesn’t bother me,” I say.
“I can see that, too.” He sighs, and it’s a sound I recognize. Disappointment.
I must have achieved a new standard of disappointing, if full-time party animal and part-time roommate Cyrus Eaton thinks I’m underachieving.
“Look, have you talked to…” he trails off as my phone begins to buzz on the coffee table. “Your phone is ringing.”
“I hear it.”
“Are you going to answer it?” he asks.
“Nah. It does that a lot. Nobody I want to talk to.” I shift away from him, considering a nap.
The phone stops ringing, but then I hear Cyrus say, “Hello? Yeah, hold on.”
I roll over and glare at him. So much for my nap.
“It’s Francie,” he says, holding it out to me.
It’s too late to pretend that I’m gone, and he knows it. Cyrus is putting me on the spot. So much for being the cool roommate who’s never here. Now he’s definitely sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.
I jump off my bed and swipe the phone from him. “Hey.”
“Sterling!” Francie’s voice is a curious mix of relief and annoyance. “I’ve bee
n calling you for a week.”
I can picture her standing in her small, outdated kitchen with its shabby, seventies wallpaper and notched cabinets. She’s probably leaning against the beige fridge, tapping her foot. I’d seen her do that a million times on the phone with whatever bill collector was on her ass that month. Now she’s busy tracking me down.
“Sorry. Been busy. Classes and stuff.”
Cyrus shakes his head at the lie and wanders into his side of our small closet. It’s about the only thing he comes around for: a fresh change of clothes. He spends the rest of his time bouncing between random beds and rooms at his family hotel. This place is just his oversized suitcase. I can’t remember the last time he actually slept here.
“I bet you’re busy,” she says. I think she hopes this will prompt more conversation.
“Yep.” I, on the other hand, prefer to keep our chat as short as possible.
“I’ve been thinking,” Francie says, and a warning bell goes off in my head.
In my experience, it’s never a good thing when a woman says she’s been thinking. “Yeah?”
“I’m going to drive down for Thanksgiving!” she says excitedly. There’s a pause. “Sterling? Did you hear me?”
I think I’m supposed to jump up and down, but the idea of Francie coming to Valmont opens a pit in my stomach. “Sure, whatever.”
“Unless you don’t want me to…”
Great. Now I’m hurting her feelings. I do my best to drum up some enthusiasm, but the result is a lackluster: “No, it’s cool.”
“Will your roommate be around?” she asks.
I glance over to the closet Cyrus is still rummaging around in. “Doubtful.”
“Then I can sleep on your couch. This is going to be fun. I can’t wait to see what you’ve been up to and meet your friends.”
She’s going to be pretty disappointed on both counts.
“Yeah, can’t wait.” We say goodbye. She promises to email me details later this week, and I hang up the phone. “Fuck.”
“Something wrong with your m…Francie?” Cyrus corrects himself. He pokes his head out from the closet, eyebrow raised.
“She’s coming for Thanksgiving,” I say flatly.
“And you aren’t happy about that.” He steps out and studies me. “I thought you were dreading leaving her alone.”
“I was, but that doesn’t mean I want my foster mom bunking with me for half a week.” I scope out the floor, my eyes landing on a bottle of cheap rum that’s still half-full. Jackpot. I grab it and unscrew the lid.
“She’s going to stay here?” Cyrus asks.
“Is that a problem?” My response comes out a bit more ferociously than I intended. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
I don’t know why he’d give a shit. He’s never here anyway.
“Not for me, but…” He glances around the room.
I follow his lead. My clothes are strewn around the floor, there’s a box with a half-eaten pizza next to the couch. I don’t even bother trying to count the empty bottles.
“Maybe she should stay in a hotel,” he suggests.
“This is going to come as a shock to you, but not all of us have a big vault of gold at our disposal,” I say.
If I know Francie, she’s using all her extra money to drive down here. Two one-thousand-mile trips in one year is too much of a strain to expect her to have anything left over for a luxury like a cheap motel. Why did I say yes when she asked if it was okay?
“You’re a bit of a dick,” Cyrus says.
I shrug. Who cares what he thinks? Being nice didn’t work out for me. It’s how I wound up here. Being a dick is easier, and it comes naturally. “So what?”
Cyrus rolls his eyes. “I own a hotel.”
There’s no way I’m asking him for help.
“Use my family’s suite. We’ll be out of town anyway.”
“Nope.”
“Why do you make it so hard for people to like you?” Cyrus asks. “Look, think about it. In the meantime, do you want to come to a party? It looks like you could use something to drink.”
I’m not sure if he’s mocking me or if he’s serious. I glance down at the nearly empty rum bottle. It hardly matters since he’s right. I might not be willing to accept his help when it comes to Francie, but I’ll take him up on free booze. It will save me the time of finding a party on my own, and any party Cyrus is going to is sure to have top shelf stuff.
“What time?”
“Around eight.” He runs his eyes up and down me. “That gives you time to take a shower.”
“What are you saying?” I ask.
“You stink, Ford.” He kicks a wadded t-shirt near his feet to mine. “And find something clean to wear.”
Tomorrow, I need to deal with Francie’s visit. I’ll get my shit together then. Tonight? I might as well escape.
Adair
Present Day
So maybe I’m obsessing. Chances are, the locked drawer has a few expired credit cards, maybe an old checkbook, and, if I’m lucky, a bottle of whiskey stashed in it — probably nothing more. But that’s the thing about growing up in a house built from smoke and mirrors: I’m always looking for the solution to the mystery, always trying to understand why.
Why my mother married my father? Why she stayed with a man that cheated and lied? Why he had to rule over all of us with an iron fist? Why? Why? Why? I’m always full of more questions, and there are never answers in sight. If there’s even a possibility that the answer to one of those questions is in that locked drawer, then I have to find it.
It helps that it’s a distraction from Sterling, too, because it turns out that I’m not very good at wallowing. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand the lingering, raw sensation of tears in my throat. I can’t stand the self-recrimination. I can’t stand not knowing which one of us to be more angry at: him or me. I just want to feel anything else, and right now, obsessive curiosity is winning out. Tying the robe tighter, I abandon my room service and grab my keycard. Stepping into the hall, I walk right into a man heading the opposite direction.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Hey, are…” He trails off as I continue past him with nothing more than the apology. I’m heading in the direction of the elevator before I get caught chatting with my new neighbor. I’m not looking to make friends at the Eaton. I step inside the elevator in time to see his back disappearing into a suite on the opposite side of the corridor.
Geoff isn’t at the concierge desk, so I grab a passing bellboy.
“Excuse me,” I stop him. “Is there any way I can get a screwdriver?”
“Is something broken?” he asks in confusion. I’m guessing your average hotel guest doesn’t ask for a screwdriver.
“I’m in suite six-fourteen, and my father left a drawer locked. He passed away. I’m just trying to sort through his things.”
Maybe it’s too much truth, because he seems to shrink an inch, like he wants to retreat to a safe hiding place. “I’m not certain I should” —
“Is there a problem, Anthony?” Mr. Randolph, the manager, steps in, adjusting the cuffs of his suit jacket. His eyes widen when he glances my direction. “Miss MacLaine. I didn’t know you were staying with us. Anthony, get whatever the lady asked for.”
“But she asked for” —
“Whatever she asked for,” he hisses through his teeth before plastering on a slippery smile and turning back to me. “I’m Mr. Randolph, you may call me”—
“I remember you, Mr. Randolph,” I cut him off before things get too friendly. You don’t forget a man who glued his face to your family’s ass at every opportunity. Randolph will find out I’m staying here, so I might as well get this over with. It will be good practice for telling people that my address is changing. “I’m moving into my family’s apartment. I hope that’s not a problem.”
“Not at all!” He looks genuinely pleased at this announcement. Given how his eyes skim down my body, I’m not sure that’s something
I should be happy about. “That’s delightful news. We’ll be pleased to have you, and I will be certain the staff understands who you are.”
I guess I won’t have any trouble getting a screwdriver in the future.
“What do you require?” He asks. “I’d be happy to ensure it arrives swiftly.”
There’s no way I’m using the word screw in front of Mr. Wandering Eyes. “There’s a drawer in my father’s desk. He left it locked and I’m trying to sort through his things before I move in.”
“We can call a locksmith,” he suggests.
“I prefer to do it myself.” I shake my head. Forget prefer. I need to do this now. I need answers. I need closure. It feels as though I’ve been standing still for the last five years, and I can’t do it a second longer. I need to free myself from the past, whether that means cutting ties with my brother, walking away from Sterling, or breaking open a stupid locked drawer.
Anthony returns with a Philip’s head screwdriver and hands it to me reluctantly. His eyes dart to his boss.
“A flathead would be better. I don’t want to damage the wood.” I pass it back to him and smile apologetically. Anthony forces one in return and leaves to find the correct tool.
“Perhaps Anthony can help you?” Mr. Randolph suggests. “I would hate for—”
“That’s unnecessary,” I back up a few steps, hoping he doesn’t follow me. “Thank you.”
“Once you’re settled, perhaps we could have dinner,” he suggests before I can make a clean getaway.
“Um, sure.” I have no idea why I agree, even superficially.
“To acquaint you you with our services,” he adds, reading the skepticism on my face. “As one of the Eaton’s oldest patrons, it’s the least we can do to welcome you.”
“That will be nice.” I force myself to say. Something occurs to me then. Mr. Randolph has always been the type to show up at the table when my family is dining at the hotel restaurant. He’s present for every function we’ve attended in the hotel ballroom. He’s got an over-inflated sense of self-importance and a serious obsession with being close to the wealthy elite of Nashville. That means he might remember why my father bought the apartment in the first place. “Do you know how long the apartment has been in my family?”