by Helena Maeve
My stomach dropped like a stone. “What?”
“You have a new message. From Harry Pruitt…”
Because she was my closest—and only—friend, and because I loved her dearly, I occasionally forgot that Melanie had a nosy streak. Without anyone else to confide in, over the years we’d taken to sharing our deepest, darkest secrets. I knew about her mother bouncing back from one disastrous marriage to another. Mel knew all the grisly details of my very particular situation.
I’d told her I had a brother, but not that we kept in touch. It had never seemed important.
But Ashley was watching me, too, his gaze unreadable.
“Lawrence,” I explained. “It’s Lawrence. My, um, half-brother? We met up when I was in Topeka.” I’d left that part out when I’d called Ashley from jail. It hadn’t been a deliberate omission. I’d had other things to worry about at the time.
Mel whistled. “What’s he like? This is the first time you met in person, right?”
“We’ve met before. At the trial.” Some relative of his was dumb enough to bring a two year old to court. I remembered his cake and turtles pajamas like it was yesterday.
I checked his latest message.
Ashley crunched down on a wedge of toast. “He doing okay with all this?”
“Seems like it. I’m more worried about his father,” I confessed. “The guy’s a time bomb waiting to explode.” I gave them the CliffsNotes version of our last encounter. “Guess Mom had a type—abusive assholes all the way.”
Neither Mel nor Ashley laughed. It was a pretty poor joke.
After breakfast, I took a shower in Melanie’s lavish family bathroom. Not even the most luxurious hotels I’d stayed in had a walk-in shower encased in black marble and steam-proof glass. The shiny showerhead streamed with a steady jet of hot water, tempting me to linger. I resisted. I didn’t have time to waste.
Melanie was kind enough to lend me some of her clothes. “I can’t wear ’em anyway. I’m the size of a freaking whale,” she said, luring me to her walk-in closet.
I helped myself to a black blouse with the solemn promise not to spill anything on it. Her wardrobe was more austere than mine—somber, mournful shades interspersed with the odd splash of powder pink—but we were roughly of a size, even if my breasts were mosquito bites compared to hers. I made a mental note to launder some of the things I’d brought with me to the States. Until I was able to go home, I would have to make do with what I had.
Ashley was in the same boat, but he still had some cash left, so he disappeared quickly to the nearest department store to buy a shirt or two and a couple of pairs of underwear. When the doorbell rang at nine-fifteen, I rushed to answer, thinking it was him.
I was wrong.
The man swaying back and forth on the other side of the threshold was as nondescript as it gets. He was a head shorter than me, with hooded eyes and a wide, thin-lipped mouth. Nestled in the curly black hair that framed the oval of his face was a pair of reading glasses. It took me a moment to realize that this was Marc, the lawyer.
Melanie’s would-be baby daddy.
Never, in a million years, would I have figured that this was her type.
“You must be Laure,” he said. “It’s nice to meet you.” His whole face lit up when he smiled. It was like he was a different person.
Right. Now I get it.
We shook hands. “Melanie will be right out. I think she’s still getting dressed…” I felt awkward welcoming a stranger into Mel’s apartment, but it would’ve been even worse to keep Marc on the threshold until someone more sensible than me showed up.
“She was quite evasive about your situation when we spoke on the phone yesterday,” Marc explained. “That’s understandable. I take it you’ve had some problems with the press?”
“You could say that.” Evasiveness was a skill Mel and I had perfected together.
Marc didn’t seem to mind. He sat down and leaned his elbows on his knees. “If you’d like me to represent you, anything you tell me will be privileged information. And I’ll do everything in my power to help.”
He seemed like a nice guy—professional, but not cold. I wondered why Melanie was dithering so much. If it were me, I would’ve snapped him right up and tried to make things work.
It wasn’t, though, up to me, and one look at Mel when she entered the room told me all I needed to know.
“Oh, you’ve already met,” she said, stiltedly. “Where’s Ashley?”
“Out,” I replied. “He’ll be back in a minute.”
“Your husband?” asked Marc.
“Partner.” I reminded myself not to get too familiar with the term. “Say I do want you to represent me… Can you make sure the press leave me alone?”
Marc beamed with confidence. “That’s the idea.”
* * * *
I’d heard it said that you can get used to anything—prison camps in Vietnam, gulags in Siberia, a gluten-free diet—and the cliché was right. A week in and the tedious repetition of darting past reporters on my way in and out of the building was already becoming rote. I peeled off my scarf and ran a hand through my hair to stir some life into the straightened bob as I climbed the stairs.
My neighbors had taken to scoffing at me when I passed. I had a feeling it was only a matter of time before someone called my landlord to complain. I kept hoping the furor downstairs would die down before I lost the apartment.
I pulled down the shades as soon as I was inside the apartment. It was dark out and the odds of some idiot flashing a camera at my windows were therefore all the greater. Pictures of me on the subway, Vines of me crossing the street were all over the web. I wasn’t eager to see a boob shot plastered all over Facebook if I could help it at all.
“You coming over tonight?” I asked when Ashley answered my call.
We were both working late these days, both out of a desire to make up for our absence and because it kept us busy. I told myself that there was no hidden, nefarious third option—just like there was no reason why I preferred to call Ashley rather than trudge down the hall and speak to him in person.
“I’m still typing,” he sighed into the phone.
“Oh, okay. Stop by later if you feel like it,” I said, trying to hide any and all trace of disappointment.
I’d made a pact with myself not to cling. If Ashley decided our relationship wasn’t worth the invasion of privacy, I’d put on my big girl pants and deal with it.
I triple-checked the locks on the front door before I ventured into the shower. I’d started going with less makeup, baggier clothes. It wasn’t professionally savvy by any stretch of imagination, but sometimes it helped with the anonymity. If I didn’t attract attention, then maybe I wouldn’t attract camera flashes, either.
Marc had tried his best. Despite Melanie’s arguments to the contrary, I knew he’d done everything he could to bend the law to my advantage. But the French constitution only applied to France and mine was a ghoulish story with a transatlantic dimension. Across the pond, the hacks were still beating the dead horse.
They’ll stop soon. It’s just a slow news week. It’ll pass.
I scrubbed myself under a lukewarm spray and changed into a shapeless sleep shirt. I was down to frozen pizza and canned beans—neither of which marked much of a change to my diet. The difference was that now I sat down to eat in front of the TV with a curl of anxiety in my belly. The twenty-four hours news networks paid little interest to America’s domestic kerfuffles, but once in a while they latched on. I’d learned to dread those rare occurrences.
I didn’t have to wait long to be proven right. I turned up the volume on the TV as the microwave timer went off.
“—autopsy has identified that the human remains found in Topeka, Kansas, and suspected to have some sort of connection to the Kane Seven, as being those of Donna Barnes,” the pretty, blonde anchor rattled off in a nasal voice. She put just the right amount of pathos into the report to sound like she gave a damn. “Tracey Wo
odrow Kane was apprehended in late 1993 and charged with the kidnapping, sequestration and murder of seven women, aged seventeen to twenty-seven, among them his wife…”
I cut the pizza into wedges, my stomach rumbling noisily at the scent of crisp pepperoni and melted mozzarella. The crust singed my fingertips, but a little pain was par for the course.
“Donna Barnes was seventeen at the time of her disappearance. Tracey Kane had refused to divulge the location of her remains in the wake of his sentencing, claiming he had acted in a moment of temporary insanity,” the anchor went on.
My father’s mugshot flashed on screen beside a photograph of a smiling, oblivious Donna. I resented the comparison. Donna deserved better than to be associated with that blue-eyed, bearded monster.
I could have changed the channel. I didn’t. Though Eileen Macintosh had been striving to take the credit in so-called exclusive interviews ever since the excavation, there was something vindicating about being proven right. My pleasure only soured when Kane was given airtime to say how glad he was that Donna could finally be put to rest.
The man had no shame, but I had to hand it to him. He knew how to add his own spin on the story—he was relieved, he’d been praying for this day for twenty years. No doubt there would be viewers who would buy into the reformed bad boy bullshit.
A knock on the door tore me from my stupor. I wiped greasy fingers on a paper napkin on my way into the hall and peeked through the peephole.
Ashley swayed on the balls of his feet on the other side. He looked unusually ill at ease when I opened the door, like he didn’t really want to be there but he’d come because he thought he should.
“You’re still watching the news while you work,” I drawled by way of greeting.
He had the good grace to look cowed. “May I come in?”
I opened the door a little wider and gestured him inside. “I made pizza, if you want. Not from scratch or anything, but it looks good…”
“How’re you holding up?”
Deflection was never going to work if Ashley refused to play along. I scowled at him, but it didn’t last. “I’m fine. It’s fine… Seriously, you don’t want pizza? All those chemicals and carcinogens taste amazing.”
Ashley shook his head, but I could tell that he wasn’t really listening. His attention was elsewhere—on the flat screen and CNN’s tireless reporting.
“You’d think after twenty years they’d have run out of things to say,” I drawled. “They must have suspected.”
“But now they have confirmation.”
“Good for them. Maybe now they can leave us the fuck alone.” I regretted using the plural as soon as the words were out of my mouth.
Ashley fixed me with a wary gaze. “You know that’s not going to happen. They just announced an exclusive interview with Josh Barnes in half an hour.”
“Live?”
He nodded. “Don’t know why he’d agree to it, but for the network it’s a gold mine.” Barnes had the hero’s story to tell—a twenty-year-long combat to find his daughter, his complicated relationship with her murderer. Getting in touch with me, the missing puzzle piece that tipped Kane’s hand. All that juicy primetime gossip.
“He should skip the interview and go straight to Hollywood,” I murmured, bitterness sticking in my throat like chewing gum. A better person would’ve appreciated that Barnes was in a difficult position. All I felt was anger—why did he get to be the hero while my privacy was forfeit?
Ashley brushed his knuckles against my flank. “You okay?”
I wasn’t, but I didn’t want him to know, so I nodded. He knew better than to believe me by now.
Somehow I found myself in his warm arms, my nose tucked into the crook of his neck as he ran a gentle palm down my spine. “It’ll be okay. I promise. It’ll work out.”
“How?” I bit out, my voice muffled in the soft cotton of his Henley.
“Magic,” Ashley said. I made to pull away, but he didn’t let me. “Just go with it.”
I was so tired, fatigue etched deep into my bones, than I didn’t have the strength to protest. “Stay with me?” I hated the pleading twinge in my voice, but I couldn’t chase it away.
Ashley stiffened. It was my turn to tighten my hold for fear that he would refuse.
“Are you sure?”
I nodded. My bed was cold without him. I hated waking up alone, drenched in sweat and hoarse from shouting in my sleep. Even if he told me constantly that I could call whenever I needed, no matter the hour, I knew I wouldn’t. I had nothing to fear and my paranoia embarrassed me.
Ashley brushed my cheek with his lips. “Okay.”
It was as easy as breathing. I tilted my head to the side, he pulled back fractionally, and our lips slotted together like they were supposed to all along. I tasted bourbon on his breath. He probably tasted pizza on mine. Neither of us seemed to care as we held each other as tight as we could stand.
We staggered into the bedroom, leaving a trail of destruction behind. I bumped into a table and sent my handbag tumbling to the floor, contents scattering. Ashley groped for the light switch and upset a pile of folded laundry on the edge of my dresser. By the time we fetched up against the bed, I had his trousers undone and my hand around his dick, though, which I counted as a win. He laughed against my mouth when I curled my fingers around him.
“I’ve missed this,” he gasped. “We’ve barely seen each other all week—”
“Because you’re always working,” I pointed out, giving him a shallow stroke.
“I was giving you space—”
“Fuck space,” I growled and flipped us over with a grunt. I knew I only got that far with Ashley’s help, but I had no desire to stop. I ached for him. I craved the friction that built between us when we made love.
I tugged his jeans and underwear down his hips, delighted when his cock sprang out hard and flushed pink. Pre-cum pearled at the tip as I shuffled down the bed to take him into my mouth. I had some vague idea of Ashley swearing bloody murder above me, but I didn’t pull off to check. The bitter-salty tang of his skin was better than any drug. I let it fuel my excitement and swirled my tongue around the tip of his erection.
Ashley rewarded me with a tight grip on my hair, hips juddering with effort in my grasp. I had to pull back then, I had no other choice. “Since when are you shy with me?”
“I don’t—”
“Fuck my mouth,” I demanded. “You always take charge. Please…” I need it. Don’t let me down now.
Trying to keep it together meant I never relaxed. I was on from the moment I left my apartment to the moment I came back, ten hours later, dead tired. I had to be aware of smartphones and casual onlookers who weren’t so casual, tabloid hacks and creepy crime aficionados who thought they understood me. It was killing me.
Ashley clenched his fingers in my hair, pulling me off completely. “Kneel.”
I didn’t hesitate to comply, but it took me a moment to understand that he didn’t mean on the bed. I couldn’t slide to the floor fast enough. The carpet scraped my shins as I folded my legs under me at the edge of the mattress. Ashley cupped my chin in a brutal hand, pressing his thumb into the hinge of my jaw. “This what you want?”
It was nearly impossible to nod against his hold. I did it anyway, pride kindling in my chest. I was ready when he pulled me onto his cock, but I still choked as I swallowed him down. Ashley was thick and he gave me no time at all to get accustomed to his girth. My gag reflex threatened to engage when the tip of his erection pressed into the back of my throat. I bucked into his hands before I could smother the instinct.
“Is that all?” Ashley growled, letting me pull off.
I coughed, my eyes watering, and shook my head. No, it wasn’t all. I could do better, I’d prove it to him. Fuck, I’d show him I wasn’t weak or incapable. I’d make him moan.
I raked my teeth along the underside of his shaft—an accident—and Ashley dragged me back so fast I thought I’d end up smacking my he
ad against the flat-pack dresser. “You little bitch.” He grabbed me by the throat, something we’d never done before, and brought his face close to mine. “What was that about, huh? Are you trying to screw up?”
The steel in his voice didn’t frighten me the way it should have. I could hear what he wasn’t saying, what he was really asking. Is it too much? Do you need to stop? I knew Ashley well enough by now to guess there was more at stake here than a lousy blow job.
I shook my head. “M’sorry.”
“Sorry?” he repeated. “Not yet. But you will be.”
He gave me time to prepare myself this time, even if it was in the guise of pinching my nipple through my sleep shirt until I cried out. I was ready for his cock, my throat relaxed as I swallowed him down. No teeth, this time. No rearing like a buck when he slid in nearly to the root.
“Fuck,” Ashley panted. “Fuck, that’s it… Take it all.”
For you, anything. I was glad I had my mouth full and couldn’t choke out the mawkish, no-good cliché.
He pulled me back by the hair, setting a pace that only he controlled, and knocked my hands away when I made to stroke his thighs. I didn’t know what to do with myself, but I didn’t feel any pressure to figure it out. The weight of him on my tongue was a pleasant distraction. I just had to focus on breathing in quick bursts when my throat was free, on not resisting when he pulled me down.
I winced when he tugged hard on my hair, forcing me back as he erupted into orgasm. Thick, creamy ropes lashed my lips and chin, sluicing down my neck. It was humiliating. My cheeks burned.
It was exhilarating.
Ashley let me rest a moment with my head on his thigh before he helped me onto the mattress. I crawled up on wobbly knees, rubbing my cum-streaked face into sheets that would have to be washed tomorrow. I locked away the thought. I was floating somewhere off the ground, untethered by the banalities of day-to-day life. And Ashley was there with me, murmuring praise I wasn’t sure I’d earned but totally, devoutly believed.
“You want to come?” he asked, his sudden tenderness at odds with the past moments’ brutality.