by Julia Kent
“In more ways than one.”
“Mmmmm. Later. Hot bath first. Hot Shannon next.”
“Priorities.”
“Indeed.”
“We’re still not married, Declan.”
Opening one eyelid, he peers at me like an assassin taking aim.
“No, we’re not. But we will be. Soon.”
“What if Mom catches up to us?”
“When. Not if.”
“When, then. What about—”
His own foot creeps up my belly, tentative, then bold, toes tickling one nipple. “I do not want to talk about what ifs. I certainly do not want to talk about, or think about, your mother or my father. I have plenty of wine in me, my body is hot and loose and enjoys this bath, and in about ten minutes I plan to have our naked bodies on that very large bed out there, with you in positions that require an advanced degree in yoga.”
He moves over to my other breast. I grab his foot and massage it, digging my thumbs in deep. He groans and leans back. I look up and make a noise of excitement. I point.
“There’s a huge television mounted right there!”
He laughs. “Yes. Want to turn it to the fireplace channel?”
“The what?”
“The fireplace channel. The resort has a cable channel that is 24/7 nothing but a video of a fireplace.”
“Couldn’t spring for a real fireplace in the suite?” I joke.
His face goes serious. “Those are the presidential suites. They’re all taken right now. We picked the same week as eight enormous conventions to be here. I couldn’t even bump anyone on short notice, but if you really want a fireplace in the bathroom, I’ll make sure we move tomorrow—”
A laugh of incredulity pours out of me. “Are you crazy? This is great. Perfect.”
His wet hand snakes over to a wall remote I hadn’t noticed. Once the television is on, he flips a few channels, and—
A giant, very familiar auburn head fills the wall.
“AUGH!” Dec screams.
“MOM!” I shout.
He starts to change the channel but I stop him. Instead, he reaches for three tiny bottles of wine.
I don’t stop that.
Some reporter I’ve never seen before is interviewing my mother, still at the Farmington Country Club. They’re inside, guests are milling about, and the cake’s been relocated to a table where it rests like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, if the Leaning Tower of Pisa were mauled by hungry tigers named Jeffrey and Tyler.
Mom is still livid.
“Where’s Geraldo Rivera? I was told I’d be interviewed by Geraldo Rivera! This is more important than even him.”
The poor reporter tries to calm Mom down. I snort. Good luck, buddy.
Mom’s on a tear. “What about Oprah! When a woman’s daughter is kidnapped by a billionaire and the President of the United States, her story deserves Oprah Freaking Winfrey! What? She’s not available, either? What about that nice blonde lesbian who does that funny talk show. What’s her name—Elizabeth Hasselbeck?”
Click.
We stare at the now-black television, Declan’s hand on the remote.
“I don’t need the fake fireplace,” I say weakly.
Declan’s not listening, because he’s chugging back yet more wine. He finishes a bottle, tosses the empty into the toilet with an evocative kerplunk that makes me nostalgic for how we met two years ago, and gives me a plaintive, but determined, look.
“Shannon?”
“Yes, honey?”
“Would you do me the great honor of not being my wife tonight?”
“What?”
“I have a very short window of time as a single man, and I’d like to spend it having sex with the most gorgeous woman in the world before I’m tied down by a nagging ball and chain.”
“God, you sound like your father.”
He’s fooled me, his sloth-like exterior a sham. Standing up like Godzilla emerging from the waters outside of Tokyo, he dips down, pulls me, dripping, out of the tub, and manages to stay sure-footed to the bed, where we become an entangled mess of wet, slippery skin.
“Declan!” I squeal, pink-skinned and soaked, shivering and flushed, his palms lubricated by the soapy, watery mess he’s created.
He covers me completely with his hot body, mouth finding parts of me that take my racing thoughts and spin them faster, until everything is a blur and the only thing I can hold onto for the ride is my pleasure.
By the time we’re done we’re under soggy sheets, wet heads on wet pillows, the sound of Declan’s rare snore guiding me to my own slumber, our day complete in its calamity, with so many questions unanswered.
And so many more not yet asked.
Chapter Seven
I can feel her presence here in Vegas before the phone even rings. They say that evil has its own vibration, a low frequency that masquerades as normal in order to hide among us, a chameleon of extraordinary power, with the gift of destruction.
If it had a name, it would be Marie Jacoby.
Sigh. Not really. But for goodness’ sake, she’s evil personified when it comes to being a Momzilla.
Someone fetched us a basic care package of underwear and sweats, and also brought Declan a replacement phone last night, a shiny bauble plugged in and charging on the bedside table. Instead of buzzing, it glows, like ET’s heartlight, and it’s creepy. Really creepy. I pick it up like it’s a live heart and toss it at him.
He startles, snatching it up and smashing it to his ear out of muscle memory, years of middle-of-the-night calls from Asian properties embedded into him.
“ ’lo?” he says, eyes closed and slothlike, his body curled up against my body, except I’m not there. He’s spooning air. His hair has dried in the night and is smashed against his sleeping side, the crown poking straight up. He looks like a cartoon character. I reach up for my own hair and hit snarls within seconds.
His eyes fly wide open as I hear the mwah mwah mwah of the person on the other end of the call. “WHAT?”
See? Knew it. Evil.
“She’s where? Already? And did the staff let her in? They did. In the lobby? Who’s with her? A television camera crew?” Declan doesn’t do disheveled and frantic, so I’m enjoying the show.
His patented Crazy Mother-in-Law Sigh comes out as he reasserts control. “Kick the camera crew out. Out. I don’t care what they say. This is private property. No. I said no. Did it sound like I said yes? Absolutely not. You heard me. Let them. They can go to hell if they think they can dictate what I can and cannot do with my company’s private property.”
Click.
My tummy starts to tingle. And...he’s back. I love when he becomes a controlling, authoritative asshole who protects me and makes things happen. His domineering side isn’t so great when it’s projected directly at me, but it’s great popcorn-eating fun to watch him in action with others.
Especially Momzillas.
His eyes are bloodshot, the green irises glowing even brighter as the sun hits them, the pupils pinpointing. “That was a call about your—”
“I figured. She’s here. Along with a camera crew?”
Khaleesi’s here on her dragon, only surprise!—instead it’s Mom and Geraldo Rivera.
Oh, God. He wasn’t really with her, was he?
“The camera crew’s not here anymore. I had the news people removed.” I don’t ask about Geraldo Rivera, because my brain cells are currently occupied in their imitation of a tuning fork being hammered against a table saw.
He stands up and stretches, on tiptoes, his fingertips touching the ceiling. It is a riveting display of sinew and bone, of skin and muscle stretched with coordinated symphony across the same basic parts we all have.
Only his taste better.
“I ordered security to kick out the cable channel. Marie gets a hotel room as far away from us as possible, and under no circumstances is she to know our exact room number.”
I snort. “She’ll find us within two hours. You k
now how bloodhounds can track escaped convicts?” I don’t even have to finish that thought.
“Like hell she will!” Emphatic and pissed, he turns away, the view of his carved ass making up for the giant pain in my temples. I hear him in the bathroom, then a flush, then running water. He comes out wearing boxer briefs and a frown that makes him look like Chuckles, my cat.
Tap tap tap.
“She’s here!” I scream, ducking behind a Morris chair upholstered in a Picasso print, cowering like Elphaba is here to steal my soul.
She already stole my wedding, so my concern is not that far out of bounds.
“She is not here,” he says, answering the door in his underwear. He does that. I don’t get it. The man has a body that matches up against David Beckham or David Gandy or any other hot underwear model (are they all named David? Is that a requirement to be paid to parade around at photo shoots wearing tightie whities)?
But the way he casually walks around his apartment or hotel rooms unclothed in front of staff is a quirk I haven’t gotten used to quite yet.
In walks a man who is so sophisticated he smells like Italy. I have never been to Italy, but I imagine that if I ever go there, it will smell just like the man who wheels in an entire rack of clothing consisting of nothing but men’s suits, dress shirts, and five pairs of wingtip shoes.
Followed by another man who smells like Italy and Old Spice, wheeling in a set of clothing so colorful it could be a box of jelly beans.
“Fabulous.” Declan frowns. “It looks like there are no women’s shoes here.”
Marcello scowls at his assistant, rapid-fire Italian sounding like Star Wars sound effects.
He turns to Declan and gives a stiff bow. “We will be back momentarily with a delightful array of choices for Mrs. McCormick.”
“Thank you, Marcello.” Declan’s voice is friendly and amused.
Marcello bows to me and leaves, taking his assistant with him.
“You ordered clothes?” I snap. The role of Captain Obvious will now transfer from Declan’s brother, Andrew, to me, by virtue of osmosis. And bloodhounds.
“You don’t have to like them. Would it help if I lied and said I had my staff go to a church rummage sale and buy them, and that the rummage sale proceeds will go to buy goats for remote villages in Africa?”
“You would actually do that?”
“No. But would it help?”
I flip through the clothes on the rack. I vaguely remember Mom nattering on about how bright colors are popular this year. I see a lot of clothing with Chanel labels. The underwear is familiar: La Perla, of course. Victoria’s Secret would be more my style, but...
“You sent Marcello to La Perla?”
“He was quite pleased with that task.”
“He’s straight?”
“How would I know, and why would you ask that?”
“Because he’s Italian and he works in fashion. I’m surprised he’s—”
“Shannon.” There’s a tone of disappointment and warning in his voice. “That borders on stereotyping. You sound like Marie.”
Ouch.
My expression must be pretty bad, because he crosses the room and apologizes immediately. “I’m sorry. That was low.”
“Yes. It was.”
“How about we start over?”
Tap tap tap.
“Khaleesi!” I scream.
His Crazy Mother-in-Law Sigh comes out. I’m starting to think it’s not just for Mom.
A room service waiter, complete with a white jacket and bow tie, wheels a cart loaded with covered dishes and the Golden Snitch into the suite.
Er, I mean, a coffee pot. Thank God.
Before the poor waiter can even adjust the table to turn it into a full circle and open the wings, I grab the coffee pot, a cup, and the pitcher of cream and am mainlining like we’re in the caffeinated version of Boogie Nights.
A quick glance at Mr. Walks Around in His Underwear in Front of Staff and maybe we are.
Declan signs something and the discreet waiter retreats, leaving us with a white-tablecloth-topped round cart covered with platters of bacon, mixed berry bowls, handmade whipped cream, coffee, and my undying love.
I fling the silver cover off the bacon and chow down. Bacon in one hand, coffee in the other.
Breakfast of Champions. Wheaties can suck it.
Declan grabs a bowl of berries and the little pitcher that is stuffed with whipped cream. Using his fork to scoop the cream, he spears a combo of strawberries and blueberries and digs in. We eat in silence, both of us starving. Ten minutes later, I’ve eaten four pieces of maple-smoked bacon, half a bowl of berries, an entire dish of whipped cream, two cups of coffee, and just as I think maybe—just maybe—I can relax and we can figure out our next step, we hear:
Tap tap tap.
I laugh at Declan, who frowns slightly, and jump up to answer it. “Must be my shoes, right?” I ask, sated by the lovely breakfast, comforted by the rack of clothes. I have the basics. And we successfully escaped. “Did you order me the four-inch heels or the five-inch heels?” I joke as I open the door.
And come face to face with Satan.
Only this time, I don’t have Chuckles to throw at her.
But I do slam the door.
“It’s her,” I hiss, heart racing and flailing at the same time.
“Khaleesi?” he jokes.
“Worse. Mom.”
“Same thing.” He arches one eyebrow. “I’ll handle this.” Declan doesn’t give me a choice, pointing to the bed where I walk over and sit obediently, waiting for his next move.
He sits down at the room service tray and grabs a fork, digging in to the final bowl of berries.
There might as well be a Muzak soundtrack behind him.
“What are you doing?” If my hiss goes any higher it will initiate first contact with alien life.
“Performing psychological torture.”
“On who? Mom, or me?”
Tap tap tap.
Her knock is surprisingly moderate, neither timid nor demanding. Maybe I was mistaken when I opened the door. Perhaps that’s not actually my mother out there, but is just a fashion assistant who looks like my mother. I close my eyes and bring forth the image.
Nope. Fashion assistants don’t have red, glowing eyes.
Hmmm. Maybe that was actually Chuckles out there.
Tap tap tap.
“I know you’re in there, Shannon and Declan.”
I look at Declan, who might as well be humming “The Girl from Ipanema” and putting on sandals over his black calf socks—he’s moving that slowly.
“Why aren’t you doing anything?” I beg him.
“I am.”
“Eating your daily allotment of fiber and vitamin C does not count as doing something about the massive crisis with my mother!”
“Ah, but it does. This is the fine art of negotiation, Shannon.”
“What the hell do organic blueberries in New Zealand fresh cream have to do with negotiation?”
“Is she in our suite?”
I frown. “No.”
“Is Geraldo Rivera covering this on national television from the hallway?”
“No.”
“Have I been arrested by a federal agency for kidnapping you?”
“No.”
“Then we’re winning.” He takes a bite of black raspberry and munches, peacefully, as if Mom isn’t tapping again on the door.
“You’re killing me.”
“You’re making yourself suffer. I am eating a lovely, healthy breakfast.”
“Great. You’re loaded up with anti-oxidants and I have enough cortisol floating through my bloodstream to kill a pig.”
“And that’s the difference between us, honey. As far as I’m concerned, emotion has nothing to do with your mother being on the other side of that door. This is all about tactics and strategy. We have a conflict. She thinks she’s going to get us to do what she wants. She will fail. It’s that simple.”
I’m about to marry a cyborg. Or the billionaire version of Sheldon Cooper from Big Bang Theory.
“How can you divorce emotion from, from—” Mom is knocking again on the door—“this?!?”
“How can you not? All my emotion is saved for you.” With that, he wipes his mouth on his cloth napkin, plants a kiss on the top of my head, and in only his boxer briefs—which are molded to his body like a latex suit—strides across the room and opens the door with a gesture of magnanimity and welcome that makes me shatter.
Mom is standing in the hall, eyes crazy, hair a combed-out half-mess. She’s wearing her mother-of-the-bride dress, the tartan sash crooked and filthy, and she’s alone.
“Marie! So good to see you!” Declan leans forward and gives her a peck on the cheek, as if there’s nothing bizarre about her having chased us down from Massachusetts, and as if he always stands on the threshold of a Las Vegas luxury hotel suite in his underwear and gives her a kiss.
“What?” Mom’s gasp makes all the tiny pieces of myself that are sprinkled around the edges of the known universe start to quiver.
“Have you had breakfast? Would you like to join us? The chef’s crop of wild Maine blueberries is particularly fine this morning.”
“What?” Mom bleats. Declan steps back and sweeps his arm aside, welcoming her in like he’s showing her a prize on Wheel of Fortune and she could win it.
If she gets the answer just right.
“How’s Jason? He enjoying Vegas?” Declan’s words are so calm and casual that I begin to shake, the dissonance too much. I know what he’s doing. I’ve seen him do it before, and worse—I’ve been at the receiving end of this. It’s brilliant, really. Disarm your opponent with a neutrality, a banality that makes their own crazy come to a halt, like they’ve slammed into a stone wall and are coming to in a daze.
I hate being the target of it.
Normally, though, I love watching it in action.
This is too raw. Too painful. Too hard. Unlike Dec, I can’t divorce how I feel about a situation from how I act on it. I wish I could. Oh, how much easier life would be if I could. Limitations abound in all of us, and in this exact moment my emotions are overriding my logic, and I start to cry.
And rush across the room into my mother’s arms.
She clings to me like I’m that broken door on the Titanic and she’s Rose.