by Aubrey Irons
“I’m trying to pull my ass not freezing off waiting for yours to get in the damn car.”
I hesitate, arms crossed over my chest as I eye him.
Screw it.
I tense as Bastian turns on the ignition.
“Bastian—”
“Calm your tits, I’m just putting the heat on.”
He pushes some buttons on the fancy, sleek dash, and heat instantly blows across my frozen face and hands from the vents in front of me. There’s a bloom of heat under me that has me shifting in my seat.
“Seat warmers,” he mutters.
I un-stiffen, letting myself sink into the rich, warm, black leather of the car seats.
“Thanks.”
Bon Iver starts playing quietly over the car stereo. Bastian doesn’t say anything. Neither do I. I guess it’s both of us deciding to ignore the fact that in eight years of knowing each other and living a stone’s throw from each other, this is the second time ever we’ve been in a car together. The first being about a year ago, when he drove me to Josh Stedman’s house the day I walked in on him screwing Kendra.
I push that particular memory away.
“We were celebrating.”
I turn to him. “What?”
“Today in the parking lot.” Bastian shrugs. “It’s not like we just decided to go have some drinks at goddamn eleven o’clock for no reason.”
“Right because that would be so crazy for you guys.”
His lips almost smile. Almost.
“Fine, I’ll bite. What were you celebrating?”
“Harvard.”
Of course. Of course one of the four princes who’s done shit all for school work for the whole of their high school career is going to Harvard.
“Wow, cool,” I say dryly. “So who’s—”
“All of us.”
I turn, staring at him and shaking my head.
This time, he does grin.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll learn so much there.”
“Oh now don’t be jealous, Texas. I’m sure NYU is just as good a school.”
I frown as I turn to him in the soft dimness of the car.
“How do you know that?”
“Your mail comes through my house, you know.”
“And you read it?”
“The thick envelope from New York University with the words ‘Welcome New Student’ printed on the side of it sort of gave it away.”
“Oh, right.” I look away.
“Pre-law?”
I glance back. “Also on the outside of an envelope?”
“No, that one I opened.”
I roll my eyes.
“And what’s wrong with wanting to be a lawyer?”
“Nothing, Ash is going to be one. But I thought you were going to be this big famous musician.”
I shake my head. “Hah, right.”
“Why not.”
“Because it’s a pipe dream? Because it’s a shot in a million?”
“Didn’t know you were such a pussy, Texas.”
“You know not all of us have a trust fund to fall back on, right?”
“Life’s all about taking chances, Ana.”
The car goes quiet at the sound of my name, each of us turning to look out our own side window until the tow truck shows up.
Present:
Strings tremble as fingers find familiar patterns. One chord bleeds into the next, finger walking up and down the neck of the guitar as the wordless melody hums from my lips. I stutter, I stop, I take a breath.
And then I start from the beginning.
The song is a work in progress and has been for months. Years, really. It was something I fooled around with when I was bored at first. Later, it was about Garret. I think. Probably not though. I guess it was more about a glorified, movie version of what Garret and I actually were, which wasn’t much when I think about it now. I came back to it a few times over the years since then, but it wasn’t until Chris moved out that I started to really tackle it again.
And it still doesn’t really fit. It still feels forced, like a puzzle piece from the “kittens playing with yarn” box that I’m trying to mash into place to finish the “hot air balloons over countryside” one.
I come to the end of what I’ve got, and start again. Words take shape and then disappear, phrases form and crumble.
I stop again. This time, I put the guitar down. I can’t for the life of me concentrate on writing when I’ve got this whole situation hanging over my head.
Bastian and I have avoided each other for the last two days, since the night of his bonfire where he dropped the bombshell. The night he grabbed me in his arms, pinned me against the side of the pool, and let those deep, piercing dark eyes of his burn right through me.
The offer itself is insane. And ridiculous, and morally repugnant. And possibly illegal. Contrary to what I tell Jack, I’m not, of course, actually a lawyer. But I don’t have to be to get the impression that lying about being engaged in order to collect an inheritance isn’t exactly on the level. It’s actually far, far below the level.
I flop back on my bed, rubbing my eyes with my hands before sliding them up into my hair.
Needless to say, it’s not just the whole “be my fake fiancée” thing that’s been on my mind since then.
Bastian, in the pool, holding me close while firelight flickers over his face.
Yeah, I’d be lying if I claimed that fantasy - or at least one a whole lot like it - hasn’t ever played out in my head before. Possibly late at night. Possibly alone, and drunk, and my mind going to places it really shouldn’t.
Kind of like right now.
I take a deep breath as I make myself get off the bed, shaking my hair out and pacing the room.
No, this is what he does - lure people close with that charm, only so he can swallow them whole for whatever purpose he needs them to fill. This is exactly what I watched Bastian do for years.
Jesus, he’s done it to me before and here I am walking right back into it like a complete idiot.
I decide to blame the house and the proximity, and the fact that I’m still processing my dad’s brush with disaster. I blame the rocky state of my career, and the fact that eight months ago, the man I lived with left without so much as a note while I wasn’t home.
Basically, I blame everything but myself.
…And I am totally okay with that.
I pick up my phone, making a face as I refresh my email yet again. A thirty percent off J. Crew promo. A bazillion notifications from the Facebook account I barely use. A Groupon offer for some trendy new restaurant back in LA.
Nothing from Jack, who still hasn’t emailed me back from the other day.
I drop the phone down as I blow the air through my lips.
The proximity is the worst of it, I decide. It’s being in the very house that was off limits to me those years before that’s messing with my head. It’s living in the forbidden that’s making the forbidden seem normal.
Fantasizing about your tormentor isn’t normal.
Being uncontrollably attracted to the man who wrecked you and taught you how cruel the world was when you were barely eighteen isn’t normal.
Reliving that night just so you can feel the illicit thrill that you’ve never felt since, and replaying it in your head as the heat between your legs grows wetter and wetter
Isn’t.
Freaking.
Normal.
Advertising and TV would have you believe that “normal” is “boring.” But you know what? After seventeen years of abnormal attraction to the biggest asshole I’ve ever known?
Normal sounds pretty fucking great right now.
So does a drink.
5 Years Ago:
I’m tense. I hate being tense.
My muscles are tight, my jaw hasn’t stopped clenching and grinding since I stepped in here, and I can’t seem to keep my eyes in one goddamn place, like I’m some sort of tweaker.
I fucking hate that I’
m here, in his apartment where I know she’s been, but this is necessary. Just like the rest, it’s the only option, however self-serving I know that is.
“So do we have a deal or not.”
I want to finish this. I want to tie up this loose end and get the fuck out of this fucking apartment. I glare around at the tiny place - the threadbare couch along one wall with a coffee table that clearly also doubles as a dining room table, the single window that faces a brick wall, the shitty, disgusting, grungy kitchen.
The bed against the far wall that’s not even made.
The anger flashes like fire in my veins, imagining her being here.
With him.
I picture them eating some sort of shitty takeout food on that couch, maybe trading a guitar back and forth and riffing off each. In my gut-twisting imagination, he makes a big deal of going to his kitchen the size of my fifth avenue penthouse’s coat closet and grabbing her a beer.
I imagine them sharing that bed after, and for a second I almost lose my shit completely.
Breathe.
I close my eyes for a second, thumb and forefinger pinching my nose as I let the breath out slowly.
“Garret.”
I open my eyes and narrow them at him - him, with his stupid fucking man-bun, his goddamn beanie, and the one-size-too-small T-shirt. I want to get this over with. I want to tie this one off and get the fuck out of here before I do something that’ll warrant a lawsuit.
“Do we have a deal.”
Garret - professional singer-writer-slash-barista Garret and alternately known as Ana’s current boyfriend - frowns, looking at the floor between us. In his own little world of pretending he’s John fucking Mayer at every open mic night in the city or frothing the perfect triple nonfat latte for some blushing NYU co-ed, Garret is probably a confident, charming guy.
But I’ve stepped into that world, and I’ve made it abundantly clear how little I think his world is. I’ve walked into Garret’s little life in full rich-asshole glory - purposely so. I drove down here to his garbage neighborhood in the Lower East Side in a $1.5 million Bugatti. I’m wearing a suit that costs about six months of his rent. I’m talking to him like he’s an employee.
And I’m offering him more money than he has and ever will see in his entire shitty, mediocre, clichéd, hipster life.
He takes a breath, pulling his beanie off and running his fingers through his long hair.
“I don’t know, man.”
“Yes, you do.”
I’m standing over him, holding the check out between two fingers.
“You do know. Take the money, Garret. Take the money, take the deal, and stop pretending this is a hard choice for you. It’s not Oscar season.”
His eyes flash something as he glares up at me, like he wants to fight me on this a little, even if we both know his mind was made up the second I named the price.
Good, let him think he’s fighting me. Just like Josh Stedman. Just like Jason. It just makes it all the more satisfying and me all the more vindicated when they break.
It’s proof they never deserved her.
Garret’s brows knit.
“Look, what’s your deal here, bruh?”
Bruh.
I grind my teeth.
“My deal is what I’ve offered.”
“No, I mean, what’s your deal?” He frowns in puzzlement, looking up at me in his stupid ripped jeans and too-tight T-shirt. “You love her or something?”
I tense even tighter, forcing my face to stay neutral as the words send something twisting through me.
“It doesn’t concern you. Take the offer.”
I don’t love Texas, this is just about control. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself. Repeatedly. It’s a mantra that plays through my head when I find myself specifically seeking out long-legged, B-cup redheads for single nights of fantasy. It’s what I tell myself when I lean my head back, close my eyes, and pretend it’s her throat I’m pumping my cum down, not a stranger who has a passing resemblance to her.
I don’t love Anastasia Bell because loving her - or anything - would make me more human than I might be capable of being.
I wave the check disdainfully in front of Garret’s face.
“Don’t think. Just take it.”
He does, of course.
They all do.
“I’ll know, Garret, if you go back on our deal. No calls. No showing up where she’s going to be. You end contact, tonight. Delete her number, forget her address. Nod if you understand.”
He does.
And he looks like he wants to look glum, but then, I’m betting he’s having a hard time with that emotion when he’s holding a check with that many zeroes in his hands.
I turn, buttoning my jacket again as I see myself the six steps to his front door. My hand’s on the knob when I see it - silver, sparkling, tacky, and familiar - laying on the table next to the door.
I glance back at Garret, who’s still staring at the check in his hands before I pluck Ana’s cowboy boot pendant necklace from his side table and drop it into my breast pocket. I tell myself it’s to be sure there’s no loose ends for her here - nothing for him to lure her back here with.
The truth is, I take it because it’s hers.
The door to Garret’s shitty, small, meaningless apartment and his small, meaningless life shuts behind me. Another chapter of hers that I finish. Another string that I pull.
I know what this is. I know what all of them have been, deep down.
If she’s not mine, she won’t be anyone’s.
Present:
I find her on her hands and knees, panting, straining, sweat trickling down the nape of her neck.
It’s not what you think.
In the fantasy version of this, it’d be my bed she’s kneeling on. In the fantasy, she’s wearing ludicrously expensive crotchless lingerie, and she’s got her fingers wrapped around my thick cock.
…Not a tulip bulb.
Out in the real world, and not my filthy fantasy, Ana’s on her hands and knees in the flowerbeds to the west of the house. She’s wearing dirty, ripped jean shorts and a cotton tank top, rather than the custom made black lace and diamond lingerie from Paris I’ve come up with in my head.
She is wearing a thong though, that I can see as she strains her arms out, her body stretching as she reaches for her garden trowel - cotton, white and pale blue stripes. Underwear sticking out the back of a girl’s pants isn’t usually something I find attractive. On Ana, it makes me want to shred it off with my fucking teeth and fuck her right here in the tulip beds.
“I like you in this position.”
She whirls, eyes wide as she yanks the headphone buds out of her ears.
Pink, with little clips that hook over the back of her ears. Apparently this girl still can’t just use the white Apple ones like literally everyone else.
She shields her eyes from the sun behind me and then scowls up at me as she realizes who it is. Her freckled cheeks are kissed rosy by the sun, a lock of her hair sticks to her forehead, and she’s got dirt on her neck. It’s a far cry from the opulent diamonds and lace, silk and satin fantasy.
My dick doesn’t seem to notice.
Because even dirty, sweaty, and scowling, Anastasia Bell makes me fucking hard.
Or it could be that she’s on her knees in front of me. It could be that I can see her nipples poking through the thin cotton of her tank top. It could be that seeing her like that, chest rising and falling with her labored breath, her long legs glistening with sweat, her sweet, pouty lips pursed tight like they’re daring me to pry them open with my tongue - it could be that all of those things make me want to slide my hand into her messy hair and guide that sweet mouth onto my cock.
“What do you want, Bastian.”
You, on your back, with your knees over my shoulders, begging me for more as you come all over my balls.
I frown at her and clear my throat.
“You do realize you don’t have to ke
ep gardening right? I thought we’d established that.”
“That you lied to me and threatened me with firing my father in order to get me to pull some sort of shady, probably illegal inheritance scam?” She smiles thinly. “Yeah, I think we got that straight.”
“It isn’t a scam, it’s my fucking mon—”
I stop, clenching my jaw and glaring right back at her.
“What are you doing out here?”
“Gardening.”
She turns away from me, and I’d maybe be a bit more pissed off about that if her doing so didn’t present that tight little denim-clad ass with the little blue and white striped thong still poking out the top.
An image of her in this exact position, with the panties and the shorts tangled at her knees as I crouch over her and sink every inch of myself inside of her comes to mind. I growl lowly, clearing it from my head.
Get your shit in line.
I decide to blame the fact that I haven’t had a drink yet today on my inability to keep myself focused. I blame the seven-month dry spell on not being able to take my eyes off her ass or my thoughts off of claiming her body in every conceivable way.
“I actually like gardening, you know,” she says it still facing away from me. “So, jokes on you I guess.”
“Whatever gets you wet.”
I have no idea why I insist on talking to her like this. I have no idea why I insist on reverting back to being this juvenile jerk-off around her when I’m usually quite charming with women.
Well, you know, more charming than this at least.
Ana turns and wrinkles her nose. “You don’t have to be disgusting all the time, you know.”
“I’m not. I just plan my moments around you.”
She ignores me, going back to her planting.
I clear my throat again, taking a seat on the old wrought-iron bench on the edge of the garden plot behind her, my eyes still on her ass.
“You’re planting now?”
She nods, her back to me.
“It’s late August.”
“Very perceptive, Bastian.”
I grin to myself at her need to needle me right back.
“I thought flowers got planted in the spring time. April showers bring May flowers, all that shit.”