by Aubrey Irons
“They’re just standard shit. One’s a contact for a caterer, so it looks like we’re planning a wedding.”
“What are we serving?”
He waves a dismissive hand. “Fuck if I care.”
“Sounds like a lovely reception.”
“Har har har.”
He slugs back his drink, stretching back to the shelves behind him and snagging the bottle.
“The other one is both of our medical records. You just need to initial those and then sign the last page confirming it’s all true.”
My mouth purses, and my eyes narrow at him.
“How do you have my medical records?”
He gives me a look, unblinking.
“Jesus, did you buy them or something?”
“Or something.”
I shake my head, eyes narrowed and mouth tight as I stand from my seat. I turn, taking a big sip of my drink and shaking my head again before I whirl back on him.
“You realize normal people don’t do this, right? You get that normal people don’t bribe their way into other people’s medical records?”
“Normal people are poor, and without the resources I have.”
“Do you understand that this is illegal?”
He shrugs.
“And morally wrong?”
“Eh.”
I shake my head, taking another big sip of bourbon and looking away as he keeps going.
“The third one there is a prenuptial, and trust me, that thing is air-tight.”
“And who said romance is dead?”
“They’re just papers, Ana.”
“What you’re doing isn’t legal, you know.”
He frowns, swirling the bourbon around his tumbler. “It’s a grey area. You also don’t need to concern yourself with it.”
“Uh, I think I do, actually, seeing as I could be implicated.”
“You can’t and won’t.”
I look away again, stepping toward the bookshelves next to the fireplace and leaning against them as silence drapes the room.
“So you really lose your inheritance if you’re not married by twenty-eight?”
“It’s complicated,” he growls over the rim of his glass.
“I’m listening.”
He chews on that, eyeing me.
“It’s just, I knew your parents, and—”
“Barely,” he growls. “You barely knew my parents.”
“That’s fair, but still. That’s a weird clause for an inheritance. Is that even legal?”
“It’s not a clause, it’s an ambiguity.”
I raise a brow.
“It’s a wording issue in the trust. If their lawyer was still alive I’d have him fucking flayed for the language he used.”
His brows knit angrily as he glares into his glass. Firelight flickers across the crystal and glints off the dark flame in his eyes.
“The whole wording is about me and ‘my family’ inheriting the remainder of the trust at the age of twenty-eight.”
“So?”
“So I don’t have a family.”
I give him a puzzled look, watching the cords of his neck stand out as he grinds his jaw.
“Franklin is making the case that since the language stipulates ‘me and my family’, it’s null without adhering to those bylines.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“On this, we can agree.”
“So this is where the fake fiancée thing comes into play.”
“Very perceptive.”
“Look, I’m signing up for this, but I really don’t see how—”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he growls sharply. “Let’s just get these papers signed.”
“Well, you brought it up.”
“Well, I’m done with it now,” he mutters.
And there’s that anger. There’s the animal inside, the beast. This is Bastian - this has always been Bastian. Just charming enough to lure someone close, before the teeth snap shut. I’ve watched this happen for years, always from a distance.
And now I’m the one walking right into the jaws.
I look away, bringing the glass to my lips. “Whatever.”
I jolt at his voice, cutting through the stillness of the room.
“Anastasia.”
Goddamnit.
How the fuck does that still have this effect on me?
I glance back at him, my eyes flicking quickly over the surprisingly neutral look on his face.
“Sorry.”
I snort. “That’s a new one.”
His look hardens before he seems to catch himself, softening.
“I—” He clears his throat, his brow knitting. “I do appreciate you doing this.”
“I’m doing it for the money.”
He shrugs. “Still. Thanks.”
“I’ve already agreed, you know. You don’t have to try and butter me up.”
He grins - a rare, genuine, non-smug smile. Just for a second, and then it’s gone.
Slowly, I make my way to my chair and reach for the pen and stack of documents. The signatures come easy, especially the last one with the prenup. As if there’s any single part of Bastian I’d want to hang onto when the time comes for us to part.
I slide the stack of papers back across the table when I’m done. He nods, raising the bottle.
“A toast?”
“To committing inheritance fraud?”
He scowls. “I told you—”
“Relax, Bastian. I’m just kidding.”
He raises a brow at me, his eyes switching across mine a whip.
“Sure, I’ll take one more.”
He pours for both of us and lifts his glass as he sinks back into his high-backed chair.
“So why haven’t I heard that guitar yet.”
I look up from my own glass at the subject change. I shrug.
“I haven’t heard your stuff. Shit, I haven’t heard you play since…”
I glare at him.
That’s another night I’d like to forget. The night Bastian didn’t hear me play.
“Where are you going with this.”
He chuckles darkly. “Not a trick, I promise. I’m just curious what your music is like. You should play your stuff for me sometime.”
“You don’t really want to listen to me.”
“And why not.”
“Because you don’t.”
“Prove me wrong.”
I roll my eyes, sipping the bourbon. “It’s not even your type of music, trust me.”
He smirks, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the side table next to his chair.
“The fuck do you think I listen to?”
He lights the cigarette with an ornate, silver lighter, his eyes still on me.
“I don’t know, death metal? The sounds of war playing lightly in the background?”
He laughs a deep, low, gravelly laugh. “Cute. Bet you can’t guess the last thing I listened to.”
“The theme music from ‘Jaws.’”
“You have a very low opinion of me don’t you.”
“Oh, dear, was I obvious?” I grin, the bourbon warming its way through me.
“So enlighten me then.”
“Joni Mitchell.”
I snort. “Bullshit.”
Bastian pulls his iPhone out of his pocket, waving it.
“I’m still calling bullshit.”
He shrugs, cigarette perched between his lips as he holds the phone up, face out towards me, and hovers his finger over the “play” button on the home screen.
“Care to wager.”
I chew on my lip, feeling the room getting warmer.
“What are we wagering.”
His lips curl into a hungry smile, his eyes flashing something fierce.
“Before you say something disgusting—”
“I want to hear you play.”
My brow furrows. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. Besides, taking whatever money you have lef
t would just be cruel.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine.”
He grins. “Better warm that voice up, Texas.”
“Bastian, the day you’re actually listening to Joni—”
His finger presses the button, and instantly, acoustic music strums from the speakers on the wall.
My jaw drops as “A Case of You” by Joni Mitchell, fills the room.
You have got to be shitting me.
Bastian’s face is neutral to my shocked one as he eases back into his chair and clasps his hands together.
I stare at him. “This is my favorite song.”
“I know.”
I swallow, shivering under that gaze.
“You get that the same way you got my medical records?”
“No, that I just know.”
“How?”
“Because you used to listen to it all the fucking time.”
I take a shaky breath, the gorgeous lines of the song I love filling the room.
“How do you know that, Bastian.”
“You did live on my property, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Trust me, I haven’t.”
I did play this all the time, on headphones. I played it when I was alone - mostly when I was sad, mostly when opposing thoughts of him went to war inside my head.
“Maybe I was listening more than you think,” he says quietly.
“What, spying on me?”
“There wasn’t much to spy on.”
My eyes narrow. “Meaning?”
“Meaning it’s not like you had an active late night social life.”
I blush heatedly, fingers toying with the crystal tumbler. For no discernible reason, I stand, still fidgeting with my glass as I move away from him, back toward the bookshelves along the wall - like being around him, with this song, is too much.
“Well, we can’t all be bringing home a new person every single—”
“I like that you didn’t,” he purrs.
The room goes quiet except for the song — soft, melancholy, gorgeous and haunting. It’s a song of love and hate — of past and future, of what was and what might be.
Of what won’t be.
My head swims — from the drink, the song, the memories.
…From sitting three feet from the man who used to fill my mind when I listened to this song almost a decade ago.
The track comes to an end, and the room is silent.
I look up, and Bastian’s looking right at me.
He’s not scowling. He’s not grinning smugly, or cruelly. He’s just looking right into me.
The glass shakes in my hand as I quickly put it down on the shelf behind me.
“I should go to bed.”
He nods. “You should.”
I stand and quickly move to the door, my hands balled into fists and stuffed into the front pocket of my hoodie.
“Ana.”
I stop short of the door, the breath hitching in my throat.
“Look at me.”
I shake my head, closing my eyes, and steeling myself.
“Anastasia.”
And I’m wet. There, alone with him in that dark, warm, slowly shrinking room with the haunting song playing through the stereo, I’m suddenly and undeniably soaking right through my panties.
“Look at me.”
His voice is deeper, more growling, and coming from right behind me this time.
I swallow, my breath stifling in my throat as I shake my head.
“No.”
“Why not.”
He knows why not.
He knows as well as I that if I turn around right now, he’s going to see it all over my face. He’s going to see the need, and the want, and years of self-denial written all over it.
He doesn’t care.
When his hand closes tight over my elbow, I jump, but it’s also like I’m not surprised. When he growls and turns me around, I want to resist, but I also want him to shatter the rest of my defenses. He pulls me close — so close that we’re almost touching and so close that I’m speechless and breathless as I look up into his dark, brooding, dominating dark eyes. His hand slides up, cupping my jaw possessively.
His thumb brushes across my bottom lip, and when he opens his mouth, his voice is all edges and steel.
“I know your favorite song because I know everything when it comes to you.”
He leans in past the last of my defenses, his lips crush against mine, and everything shatters.
The heat of the room, the thickness of the air, the song pulling at my emotions — all of it sends every part of me smashing into a thousand little pieces all over again.
Just like it did before.
And then, it’s over. Then it’s me pulling away, my hand going to my lips, and my eyes looking everywhere but Bastian.
“I have to go.”
I’m gone — first avoiding his eyes and forcing myself to casually walk out the door, and then running to my room the second it closes behind me.
I drop my forehead to the bedroom door, my breath coming fast, my pulse roaring in my ears. I lock the it with shaky fingers, backing away from it and eyeing it, again, half expecting him to come crashing through.
I can’t tell if I’m relieved or disappointed when he doesn’t.
I brush my teeth in a daze and crawl into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin and hugging my knees beneath them. The phone dings next to me, interrupting my thoughts with a new email sound. I sigh as I reach for it and swipe it open.
I swallow.
The new email is from Jack.
Hey, work’s been crazy. Sorry. Congrats on the new office! That view sounds killer. Looking forward to pictures. Sorry to hear about your boss. Maybe he just needs someone to tell him to his face what a dick he is.
Anyways, I’ve been thinking. At the risk of throwing a grenade into what is really a pretty good thing we’ve got going here - would it be so horrible if we met sometime?
Whoa.
I actually freeze, staring at that last line, glowing on my phone.
My doc says I’m doing a lot better, and it looks like I’ll have some new business in LA, so I might be out there more often. What do you think? We could pick a well-lit, public place, obviously — you know, so you don’t murder me. But I’ve been thinking that after, what, eight years or whatever it’s been, it might not be such a bad thing to put faces to names.
Love,
Jack.
I blink, re-reading the whole thing a few more times.
Jack wants to meet.
There’s a wincing feeling that comes with not mentioning that I’m practically in his backyard right now. But then, living out here on Long Island for the next few months sort of goes against my whole bullshit story about having a new job in LA. I also have no idea how I’d explain that I’m currently living in the opulent estate of an eccentric, brooding, asshole millionaire who may or may not be both the bane of my existence and also my horrible secret fantasy.
Even to a man with a fake name who I’ve never met, that’s a hard one to explain.
And then there’s also the guilt - the very weird, very confusing guilt that comes with thinking of Jack when Bastian just kissed me.
Jack who signs emails “Love, Jack”.
It’s the sort of guilt that throws into stark perspective our strangely platonic relationship where we don’t ever mention our love lives. Talking about Bastian to Jack feels like betrayal or cheating, as insane as that sounds.
But then, explaining Jack to Bastian sounds even less appealing - for worse and even more confusing reasons.
I re-read Jack’s email twice more, biting my lip until it’s sore before I turn my phone off and push it away. I can respond later. Between everything with my dad, and being back here, and negotiating the legal and morally gray area of this inheritance thing — oh, right, and the devil himself deciding to kiss me — the idea of meeting my email pen pal for the first time and explaining to him all the falsehoods about myself
I’ve kept up over the years can wait.
I turn off the lights and slip deeper under the covers as if they’ll keep away the whirlwind storm of feelings threatening to rain down on me. As if they’ll keep away the lingering, bruising, electrifying feeling of his lips on mine not ten minutes ago.
They won’t, and they don’t.
But it’s not until I’ve been tossing and turning for half an hour or so that the real guilt sets in. Not about lying to Jack. Not about agreeing to a possibly legally incriminating arrangement.
It’s the guilt that being kissed by the man I should hate sends something electrifying through me that nothing else in my life has ever come close to.
It’s the guilt that kissing Sebastian Crown makes me uncontrollably, undeniably, irrationally, and incredibly wet.
4 Years Ago:
The guitar hums in the stillness of the room, the note lingering like a whisper before it fades.
The whole place - by which I mean all forty of us - lurches to their feet, clapping and whistling as she smiles widely and does this cute little curtsy thing.
“Merci, merci.”
Her voice is smoky and sensual, like cigarettes and brandy and sex. She pushes her thick red hair back over her shoulder, her blue eyes sparkling as she bows again to the small crowd.
“Merci beaucoup, bon nuit!” she says in her Marion Cotillard voice. She smiles and waves as she turns to walk off the tiny stage when her eyes catch mine and linger for a moment before she looks away.
The crowd finishes their drinks, talking excitedly amongst themselves as they grab coats and hats and head out into the cold Parisian winter night. Some go over to where she’s standing by the bar, hugging her, snapping selfies, or even having her sign something.
I just sit and sip my drink, quietly.
Eventually, the place is empty - all except for her and I.
“Okay, I guess we’re doing this tonight then?” her accent and the attitude is so very French. Though, the attitude, I deserve.
I’ve come to her last five shows here, always sitting alone in the corner like a psycho and always the last to leave. At this point, she must have me pegged for either a serial killer or a serial killer and a necrophiliac.
She’s wrong, of course. I haven’t come watch Léa play five weeks in a row at the small cafe her uncle owns in the 14th arrondissement to murder her. I’ve come because she’s amazing, and it fucking kills me that someone this goddamn talented is playing for forty people at a time – two-thirds of whom she probably personally knows - at a dumpy little side-street cafe.