Backlash (The Rivals Book 2)

by Geneva Lee

  A quick glance in the mirror confirms that the tuxedo fits and looks much nicer than my cheap suit. I join Cyrus in the hall and we hop in his Jaguar for the ride to Windfall. I’m sure he noticed I’m not wearing the bowtie, but he doesn’t say anything. Clearly, sharing clothing was as traumatic for him as it was for me.

  When we’re halfway there I call Adair, but she doesn’t answer. I immediately call again, but it makes no difference.

  “Shit,” I mutter, pulling down the sun visor so I can access the mirror.

  “I got you,” Cyrus says without sparing me a glance. He punches up something on the vehicle’s screen, and the phone starts ringing through the car’s speakers.

  “Hey, you there yet? I’m on my way,” Poppy’s voice says, bright as ever.

  “Nearly. Listen, I’ve got Sterling with me. He needs someone who can tie a bowtie.” Cyrus can’t completely suppress a grin, but I’ll forgive him if it means I don’t have to be the only asshole missing one.

  “I’m your girl.” She sounds absolutely thrilled at the prospect, as though she’s been waiting her whole life to be asked. “I just pulled in. Find me in the parking lot.”

  Cyrus and I ride in silence another few minutes before we pull through security at Windfall and into a large parking lot hidden behind one of Windfall’s ubiquitous, manicured hedge rows. He parks next to Poppy, who replaces him in the front seat. She’s wearing a pink satin dress overlaid with a white fur shoulder wrap, and it’s easily the most expensive-looking thing I’ve ever seen someone wear.

  Cyrus was right about my needing to change. A strange mixture of gratitude and resentment floods me, and it takes a second to realize Poppy said something.

  “What? Sorry, I was distracted. You look lovely, Poppy.”

  I can tell from her reaction that whatever I said wasn’t a response to her question, but she blushes at the compliment, anyway. “Lean over here, darling.”

  She slides her hands around my collar and begins tucking the tie into place. “Bowties are much easier than neck ties,” she explains as her industrious hands make subtle adjustments that would probably be lost on me even if I could see them

  “Is a bowtie not a kind of neck tie?” I wonder.

  “Don’t be silly.” Poppy’s grin widens, before her face suddenly sinks into a frown. “Damn.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s too small for your neck,” she says, holding up a finger and placing her phone next to her ear. “It’ll never work.”

  “Felix? It’s Poppy. Yes, I’m looking for Adair. Yes, it’s an emergency.” She pauses for a long time, and I can hear sports highlights start playing on Cyrus’s phone in the back seat.

  I can’t help but note that there are actually black-tie emergencies. I’m so out of my element.

  “Poppy?” I hear Adair’s voice say through the phone.

  “Adair, listen. I’ve got Sterling here in your parking lot, and we need the largest black bowtie you can find. Stat.”

  “Got it,” she says before I hear her thanking Felix.

  The back door opens, and then the front door. “Come on, Poppy. We don’t need to be here for this. I want to stand by a fire with some Windfall nog. God, it’s fucking cold.”

  She beams at him adoringly, taking his proffered hand and using it to pull herself out of the car. I guess that’s working out. I can’t help wondering for how long. Their heads bob off around the hedge, and about five minutes later Adair practically dives inside the car, shivering from cold.

  “Lucky, why didn’t you wear a coat?” Surely she has something warm and furry, like Poppy.

  “No time,” she says, straightening up and adding her foggy breath to my own.

  “I had to take this off one of the staff,” she explains, looking harried. She reaches around my neck and begins fiddling with the tie.

  “You took it off a human being?” Did I hear that right?

  “I was told it was an emergency.”

  “About that,” I begin.

  She rolls her eyes. “I know it’s ridiculous.”

  This is why we work.

  “You look ravishing,” I say, admiring her emerald-green velvet dress. Its spectacular, plunging neckline shows a delicious amount of cleavage. My cock twitches also admiring it. The rest of her dress is more conservative, having no slit and covering everything above her ankles. It does, however, show off the curves of her hips.

  “Thanks,” she gives me a brief smile which dissolves back into concentration as she puts the finishing touches on the tie. “There. You look very debonair. Very sexy.”

  “Good. It’s Cyrus’s tux,” I admit.

  “I figured it was something like that,” she says, and I notice her blinking away the hint of watery tears.

  “How are you doing? You seem incredibly stressed.” I take her hand in mine and squeeze it gently.

  “Oh, it’s my father. It’s the first Christmas since…” she trails off as her throat closes up. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  Stupid, Sterling.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “No!” She forces the word out. “It’s nothing to do with you. My father, he wants everything to continue like she’s still here, but he doesn’t want to take any time doing the stuff Mom used to do for this party. A couple hours ago he shoved a bunch of stuff in front of Ginny and me, and we’ve been going a million miles an hour ever since.”

  “Gotcha.” It sounds like a cop out, but I don’t know what else to say.

  “Let’s go in,” she says, her teeth beginning to chatter.

  We hop out, and I toss my tux jacket around her shoulders. She leads me into a side entrance, which opens on the busy Windfall kitchens. We continue on through three more rooms before emerging into a long, narrow hallway with minimal decoration.

  “It’s just through those doors,” she says, pointing to the end of the hallway. She slides out of my jacket and hands it back to me, then gently presses me against the wall so a servant—so quiet I hadn’t realized he was there—bearing a large silver platter of canapés can get by. “I have a couple more things I need to manage. I’ll be out as soon as humanly possible.”

  Then she tucks her hands under the lapels of my tux and pulls me down for a kiss, tossing me a wink before heading back towards the kitchen.

  I follow her directions. I hadn’t gone this way on the day of her mother’s funeral. Considering Windfall is the size of a castle, that’s not surprising. I don’t know just what I expect to find when I push through the door at the end of the hall, but it’s not to walk into a scene from The Great Gatsby. The atrium at Windfall is the most impressive room I’ve ever been in. Two-story, carved stone pillars support a domed roof of wooden arches, which stretch a further story into the cloudless, starry sky. The apex of the room is a wooden cupola set with gold-stained glass, and containing a well-concealed bank of lights that bounce off the mirror finish of the glass, filling the space with artificial, twinkling starlight. I’m pretty sure there is more walnut burl here than in every Jag, Rolls and Bentley ever made. Large planters the size of dinner tables hold exotic trees that twist carefully around the room like bonsai trees. Red and green festoons hang throughout, and on the floor there is a large family crest cut from shades of exotic marble, just in case anyone forgot whose house it is.

  I don’t see Cyrus or Poppy—or anyone I recognize. I make my way around the room slowly, trying to avoid conversation, and check the darker corners for someone to talk to. Eventually I reach a tiered platform set in front of the outer glass wall of the atrium. Wondering what it could be, I stop to take a closer look, which turns out to be a mistake.

  “Choir risers,” a man’s voice calls from just over my shoulder.

  He’s about five years older than me, with a pinched, disapproving face that contradicts the fatuous smile he has tried to plaster there.

  “Ah.” I say, trying to sound the right mixture of polite and disinterested.

  “Mal
colm MacLaine.” He offers his hand.

  I take it firmly, but not crushingly. It probably wouldn’t be a good idea to alienate my girlfriend’s family. “Sterling Ford.”

  I watch his eyes flit back and forth, like he’s reading from some file of notable persons, and, failing to find me there, shrugs. He studies the cut of my tuxedo, then sniffs loudly and frowns slightly. That would be the mothballs. “What business are you in, Ford?”

  “I’m a student,” I say evenly, glancing at him while he speaks, but otherwise continuing to scan the room.

  “Business?” he asks before quickly taking another stab. “No, law. You look like a lawyer.”

  “No.” I think he just insulted me, but I can’t be sure. “Undeclared major. I just started at Valmont.”

  “Of course,” he says, taking one more look at my clothes and giving another small sniff. “Enjoy the party.” He catches the attention of someone else in our radius and makes a show of going to greet his old friend.

  It takes maybe ten more minutes to complete my circuit of the crowded atrium, and I’m forced to repeat the same conversation I just had with a few gaffers who greet me warmly, like the son of a friend, before realizing I’m no one important and moving on. I’m just about to take out my phone and ask Cyrus where he snuck off to when I hear a rage-filled voice carrying down the corridor I used to enter the room. Another servant bearing canapés opens the door, and I hear Adair’s voice respond, too soft to make out.

  “If I wanted your fucking opinion, I’d have asked for it. I don’t care what your mother did, I’m not filling these people’s gullets with Cristal. Waste of money!”

  It can only be Adair’s father. What an asshole. I fight the urge to knock his head off by imagining how it would end up landing me in jail, never to see Adair again. I don’t hear her response, but it mollifies him a little.

  “I said, ‘make sure it’s to your mother’s standard,’ not fucking bankrupt this family. Go fix it and then get to the atrium and starting making sure people feel welcome.”

  I don’t hear any response from Adair, but instead footfalls coming toward me. I turn my back to the door and study a painting on the nearby wall, wanting to avoid seeming like I’ve been eavesdropping. It’s an irrelevant gesture, though, because Angus MacLaine explodes out the door in his wheelchair in a hazy, whiskey-scented cloud. I notice the naked hatred in his eyes as he looks at the people in the room. His gaze passes my way, but he gives no indication he registers my presence.

  “Malcolm!” he roars to no one in particular, and Adair’s brother appears, hustling over with a worried look on his face. He bends down to the chair.

  Angus whispers something to his son I can’t make out, but I overhear Malcolm’s reply. “I’m sure Ginny’s looking into it.”

  “She’s a stupid cow!” hisses Angus, and a few heads nearby turn in surprise, though of course no one says anything.

  “There you are,” Adair’s voice calls softly. I turn to find Adair, a look of relief on her perfect face, and for a moment I’m lost for words. I had no idea her family was so abusive. She always said they were terrible, but I imagined cold and stoic, not pure venom. I wonder if Angus is normally like this, or if it’s just harder for him because his wife is gone—not that it would excuse his behavior.

  “Here I am, Lucky,” I pull her to me, wrap my arm around her, well above her butt, and give her a hug. She could use one, even from someone as bad at it as I am.

  “I’m so glad I found you,” she says, reaching up for a kiss which I gladly give her.

  “Adair!” hisses her father’s voice behind us, and he wheels over to us, his cheeks and nose red from the spidery web of blown blood vessels all drunks eventually get. “What did I tell you to—”

  The service corridor doors burst open, and a long file of servers holding trays of champagne streams out.

  “’Bout time you did something for a change,” grumbles Angus.

  Adair’s hand finds mine, her nails biting into my palm from the effort of not screaming.

  “My friends! Find a glass of champagne and let us have a toast!” Angus calls loudly, bringing the bustling room to a sudden hush.

  People snap up the champagne in moments, and Angus rolls in front of the choir platform. He raises his hands above his head like a carnival barker, champagne flute in hand. “Another year come and gone. Another Christmas party here at Windfall.”

  A number of people in the crowd clap politely and off in the corner someone with a drunk’s swaying gait actually whistles sharply, which puts a self-satisfied smile on Angus’s face.

  “For Windfall and for God!” He swigs deeply from his champagne flute as nearly everyone in the room follows his example.

  “Wow,” I say as a server passes us. I refuse a glass of champagne, but Adair takes one.

  “Now, I’ve got a little entertainment in store for you all tonight. The Collegium Chorale of Valmont University will be performing a selection of Christmas carols for your enjoyment. Merry Christmas!” he shouts before clapping sharply twice. The doors a few feet from Adair and me swing open again, and a line of college students in tuxes and sequined dresses makes its way to the stage.

  In a flash, Adair grabs my hand and pulls me against the throng of people headed toward the performance. As the first carol—O Come All Ye Faithful—starts, we manage to slip out of the atrium and into a long corridor less well decorated than the one we entered through.

  “Another service corridor?” I guess.

  “Yes,” Adair says, pushing me against a storage cabinet and pulling me down for a kiss.

  “Aren’t you worried someone will say something to your father if we get hot and heavy in the hallway?” I’m not sure I’ll ever understand the rules of Adair’s world. If she keeps kissing my neck, I’m not sure I care.

  “They like me better than him,” she says, covering my mouth with a hungry kiss. Her hands reach around to grab my ass and I’m not sure how much longer I can resist taking her, party be damned.

  I scan the corridor as she pulls at my bowtie, desperate to expose more of a target for her lips.

  “Let’s find somewhere more private,” I say, and pull her towards a small swing door near the atrium entrance. Inside, I find a narrow stairwell leading both down and up. From below I hear the sounds of clanking glassware—no doubt the servants in the cellar are hard at work getting everyone drunk enough to enjoy the stuffy party. I lead us up, landing after landing, until I begin to feel the cold walls suck the heat from our bodies.

  “I think this leads outside,” she says, trying the knob.

  She doesn’t know?

  A blast of cold air whistles loudly through the opening, and I hear the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs below us, although it’s impossible to tell if the person is coming all the way up. Adair pulls us through the door and onto a small, flat section of roof overlooking the atrium below. The door catches the wind and begins to slam shut, but I’m able to grab the knob in time.

  It’s lucky I did, as I notice the door is designed to stay locked from the outside. I don’t relish the thought of yelling down to the party below for someone to let us in. I spot a piece of broken roof tile near the door and prop it open so we can get back in.

  When I turn back to Adair, I can see how cold she is, so I take off my jacket and throw it around her shoulders again. “That better, Lucky?”

  “A little.” She says, teeth chattering. A wicked grin lights her face. “I’m afraid it will take all your skill to keep me warm.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I reply, drawing her close to me.

  Below us, the carol ends to a round of applause. Golden light spills from the hundreds of glass panes that form the walls of the atrium, bathing the grounds in a warm glow. It’s so much darker outside than inside that I know there’s no chance of anyone below seeing us.

  “I’m getting cold,” Adair says with a pout, and I feel her hands unclasp my suit pants.

  My need takes ove
r as I spin Adair around, pulling up the hem of her skirt and bending her over the half-wall overlooking the party below. The sight of her perfect ass greets me, and I can feel myself grow hard.

  “Jesus, Lucky. No panties?”

  It takes a second for the implications to fully register. She planned this all along.

  I’ve never seen a woman wear a garter before. Very sexy. A garter and no panties, though? It’s the promise of heaven itself.

  She shoots me a feline grin. “Do you have a condom?”

  My cock bursts out of my boxers, pointing the way. It takes a few seconds for my rapidly freezing hands to pull the condom from my wallet and get it on. I quickly slide into position, and when I bump into her sex, her body flinches and her mouth emits a moan that’s almost a purr. Her body shivers in the cold, quivers in anticipation. When I make my first thrust, her body immediately stops shaking, and suddenly we’re both warm enough.

  I thrust into her, pinning her against the low wall.

  “I’m going to have you screaming by the time we’re done,” I promise as I crash into her again and again. “The police will come. Everyone will know.”

  “Worth—Uhhh—it,” she sobs around my thrusts.

  My words are a self-fulfilling prophecy. She grows louder with every thrust until I really do begin to worry the people below will hear us. The carol changes from We Wish You A Merry Christmas, to a soft, quiet rendition of Silent Night. I match pace with the song.

  “No, don’t slow down,” she demands.

  I reach around to the front of her hips and my fingertips find her clit.

  “Ohhhhhhh.” The syllable rips through the air, discordant with the music below.

  I pull back, and her next sound is full of deflated longing. I spin her around and lift her off the ground, placing her hips above mine. Her arms fumble with the fabric of her dress, attempting to get it out of the way. She leans back too far, and I struggle to keep her from falling. I stumble towards the broad wall next to the door, and we crash into it, too cold—and too hot—to care.

  Her hips are beyond her ability to control them. They dart downwards again and again, trying to find their home. When at last she crashes down onto me, her moans become shrill gasps. She pushes my lips towards her cleavage, which looks as perfect as new-fallen snow.