Last Light

by M. Pierce

  I leaned against the railing and let him go. His sandals went slapping down the stairs behind me, the sound fading rapidly. I watched him cross the lobby far below. Black hair that should be blond. Broad shoulders I used to grip as he rode me. Not my Matt anymore.

  Something less than Hannah proceeded to Pamela Wing’s office.

  I knocked and she called, “Come in.”

  I opened the door.

  “Well, Hannah,” Pam said, not rising from her desk. She shifted her glasses down her nose and gazed at me over the frame. “Good to finally see you.”

  My thoughts remained with Matt. How perfect that black shirt looked with his black hair. The subtle tawny tone to his skin. He’d gotten sun.

  “Ms. Wing, I—”

  Pam lifted a hand.

  “No explanation needed,” she said, “but you will never do this again. I, too, have a personal life, Hannah. We all do. Personal struggles do not entitle us to shirk responsibility.”

  I straightened my back. “I understand. Thank you.”

  “And Matthew Sky is my client,” she went on. “Will this be a conflict?”

  “No.” I shook my head hastily.

  “Did you know he was alive?” Pam’s shrewd eyes narrowed.

  “No.” Yes. But I couldn’t dispute the story Matt told the papers. He wanted to take the fall alone. “I only found out when he showed up at the condo. I … moved out.”

  I chewed my lip while Pam digested my lie.

  “Smart girl,” she said. “He’s absolutely insane. Absolutely.”

  “Are you going to drop him?”

  I held my breath.

  Pam’s brassy laughter filled the office.

  “Drop him? Please, Hannah. I think his little cult following tripled in light of this stunt. Americans love their deranged artists. I could almost kiss him, if I weren’t so furious.”

  I waited for Pam to say more. I wanted to hear why she was furious: because she missed Matt, because she’d grieved for him, because she loved him, in her way.

  Matt and Pam never said that, though. They refused to acknowledge any feelings for one another. She’s a shark, said Matt. He’s insane, said Pam. But together, they were almost like family, and I envied their closeness.

  “At any rate,” Pam said, “you have a lot of catching up to do.”

  I know a Pam Wing dismissal when I hear it. I nodded and moved toward my office, but Pam spoke again as I reached the door.

  “Ah, speaking of Matthew—he’s scheduled to appear on the Denver Buzz in May. May fourteenth. Gail made a special opening for him.”

  I tried to picture Matt surviving a major talk show, and I felt a fierce, reflexive protectiveness. Leave him alone.

  “Great,” I said. “That’ll be invaluable exposure for him.”

  “Yes, exactly. We chatted about it this morning. I’ve e-mailed you his talking points, and I need those on index cards by the end of the day. He’ll pick them up tomorrow.”

  “Sure. Of course.” I thought about Matt saying he had things to do, and I knew he was lying. Pretending he had a life outside of his writing. “I … still have a key to our mailbox at the condo, actually.” I made my voice indifferent. “I could drop them off tonight.”

  “Even better,” Pam said.

  *

  I left work at seven thirty.

  I could have spent another hour in my office—I was way behind—but I wanted to catch Matt when he came down to check the mail. An ambush. I needed to see him again.

  I drove to the complex and let myself into the lobby, which was quiet and smelled of linoleum. For twenty minutes, I dawdled by the wall of mailboxes. I jingled my keys and paced.

  Ideally, Matt would find me here, as if we met coincidentally the moment I entered the lobby. Better than Matt finding me opening his mailbox. If this was still his mailbox. What if he’d moved out? God, he probably moved out. Or maybe he’d already checked the mail.

  Maybe. What-if. So many possibilities.

  I wiggled the mailbox key into the lock on box seven.

  I tapped the packet of index cards against my thigh.

  The longer I waited for Matt, the more miserable I felt, because I couldn’t remember the simplest details of his routine. When he picked up the mail. When he ate dinner or worked out.

  And I wanted to know those things.

  I wanted to forgive him and be his little bird, but I’d alienated him completely with my lie about Seth. Then, to make matters worse, I went ahead and hooked up with Seth.

  God, what had I done?

  With a whimper, I wrenched open the mailbox.

  A small voice in the back of my head reminded me that tampering with mail is a federal crime. I almost laughed. It would serve me right, ending up in court for this.

  I flipped through Matt’s mail without removing it from the box. Okay, he still lived here. He had two bills, a book of coupons, the latest issue of Poetry magazine, and a padded manila envelope. I pinched the corner of the package and slid it out enough to read the return address.

  My eyes didn’t get past the sender name: Melanie vanden Dries.

  A chill rippled through me.

  What in the actual fuck?

  My propriety—and any concern for legality—vanished. I yanked the envelope from the mailbox and tore it open. Bubble padding snapped in the silence.

  The package contained a marble composition book and a letter.

  They’re keeping in touch. Matt and Melanie. Lovers. Of course. Of course!

  I shook open the letter with unsteady hands.

  Dear Mr. Sky,

  Thank you so much for the opportunity to review LAST LIGHT. Unfortunately, after carefully reviewing your material, I’ve determined that this particular project isn’t the right fit for me. I wish you all the best in your publishing endeavors.

  Sincerely,

  Melanie vanden Dries (:

  P.S. I bet you haven’t gotten a letter like this in a while. Keeping you humble, Mr. Sky.

  My brow furrowed.

  Again, I thought, What the fuck? Is this some kind of inside joke?

  I slumped onto the ground, clutching the notebook. I felt sure that what I was about to read would break my heart—and I was right, as it turns out.

  I flipped open the cover.

  On the first page, I recognized Matt’s unambiguous handwriting. Black ink. Slanting letters crammed together. The words pressed hard into the paper:

  December is the cruelest month to die in …

  Chapter 40

  MATT

  I ran right up to the complex, holding on to that heart-stopping sensation until the last moment. I unlocked the lobby door and jogged in. My sneakers squeaked on the linoleum.

  I almost missed her.

  She made no sound, only sat crumpled below the mailboxes.

  A torn yellow envelope lay across her lap, and on top of that, my notebook.

  I breathed deep and fast. Acid burned in my legs and sweat poured down my face. I barely heard my voice above my heart.

  “Hannah…”

  Red puffiness rimmed her eyes.

  As I got closer, I saw tear tracks on her cheeks.

  “For … the talk show,” she mumbled. She thrust a bundle of index cards up at me.

  “Ah.” I wiped my hand on my shirt, which was plastered to my torso. My basketball shorts were sweat soaked, too. “These must be … my talking points?”

  I scanned the scene, starting to understand. Hannah brought the notecards to my mailbox. She still had a key. Maybe she meant to return the key.

  She opened the box, saw Melanie’s envelope, and …

  “You read it,” I said. “My new book.”

  “Some of it. I skimmed the whole thing.”

  I watched her fight a wave of emotion—she was beautiful, strong and proud—and she lifted her head in a simple gesture of defiance.

  “Take the cards,” she whispered.

  I shook my head.

  “Y
ou bring them up. I’m covered in sweat.” I turned and headed to the stairs, listening for Hannah behind me. I can’t say what I felt—I don’t know. Was it anger, anticipation, gladness? Tonight, my little bird flew home.

  When I opened our door, she stood behind me.

  I flicked on a light in the kitchen.

  I’d put away Hannah’s good-bye note—thank God—and kept the place clean. I’d changed nothing in her absence, though the pantry contained chips and ramen instead of real food.

  I brushed my finger splint from the counter into a drawer. No point explaining about that.

  What now?

  Hannah placed my mail and the index cards on the island. I wanted to touch her—to lift her dress—and then I thought about Seth and felt ill.

  “I’m glad you read it,” I said. “Now you know.”

  “What do I know?” She lingered by the counter.

  That I love you, I thought, and that I didn’t sleep with Mel, and how everything slid out of control. But all I said was, “I need a shower. I won’t be long. Stay if you want.”

  I left her standing in the kitchen.

  And I knew she’d be gone when I got back.

  Chapter 41

  HANNAH

  Matt disappeared around the corner and soon I heard water jolting the old pipes. Jeez, he was dripping sweat. He never ran like that when we were together.

  I drifted through the kitchen and living room. I trailed my fingers over Matt’s marble notebook. Last Light. It was a sequel to Night Owl. More of our story. And what a story it was.

  Why didn’t he tell me about it?

  I spent a moment in front of the hallway mirror, blew my nose and dried my eyes, and then I settled on the couch. Laurence watched my benignly.

  If Matt’s story was true, and I believed it was, then he never slept with Mel. He also spared me the harrowing details of his fall and the mountain lion attack.

  And, though I hated to admit it, reading Matt’s version of events helped me understand why he put Night Owl online—just a little. I still thought it was wrong, but at least I understood.

  I stared into space until I heard the whine of our bedroom door.

  Oh …

  Matt was getting dressed.

  I could walk into that room right now and find him peeling off his towel, naked, clean …

  “You’re still here.”

  I started. Heat rushed to my cheeks when I laid eyes on him. Good Lord. His towel-dried hair spiked in every direction. His handsome face was somber, eyes glowing. Dark lounge pants and a T-shirt clung perfectly to his stunning body.

  For fuck’s sake—this was exactly why I shouldn’t be around him. He had this infuriating mind-melting effect on me.

  I stared at my knees.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Still here.” Still working up the courage to tell you that I lied about sleeping with Seth … and then gave him a hand job.

  Matt’s quiet chuckle sounded behind me. I glanced over my shoulder. He stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, shuffling through the index cards I’d prepared. His gaze flickered to me and I lowered my eyes. Fucking fuck. What the hell was going on here? Somehow, within the space of three weeks, I had reverted to Hannah Who Cannot Speak Much Less Think Around Matt Sky.

  And I was supposed to be angry with him.

  And he should really be angry with me.

  Instead, he seemed quietly grateful for my presence.

  “These are too much. Pam wants me to quote Thoreau?” He laughed. “It’s quite simple, Gail. ‘I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately.’”

  “Yeah, Pam is … kind of funny.”

  “Mm, kind of.”

  I listened to the flip, flip of the cards in Matt’s hands. The sound stopped, and he padded around the couch to stand before me.

  “Look at me, Hannah.”

  I gazed up at him. This close, I could see the deep emerald tone in his eyes and smell the subtle spice of his soap.

  “What did you think of my new book?” he prompted.

  “Um…” My fingers knotted on my lap. “It’s a lot to process right now. You probably have no idea how weird it is … to read about yourself in a book. In so much detail.”

  “No, I don’t.” A trace of amusement glimmered in Matt’s eyes—what the hell could he find humorous right now?—but he looked dead serious in the next moment. “I’m sorry I keep writing about you. I keep thinking about you. I’m obsessed with you.”

  I inhaled swiftly.

  I’m obsessed with you. Words that should frighten me. But Matt spoke with a calm honesty that undercut my fear.

  I gave a minute nod.

  “Okay,” I whispered.

  “Okay?”

  “Yeah … okay.”

  He touched my cheek. I tipped my face into the cradle of his hand.

  “Do you still find me attractive?” he said.

  “Matt…” My voice broke. His question chipped at my heart. And the look on his face—that disarming mixture of cockiness and vulnerability. I reached for him. “God, you know I do.”

  He climbed onto the couch, straddled my lap, and took my face between his hands.

  This was simple.

  We were good at this.

  And selfishly, I needed this—to remember the difference between intimacy for pleasure and intimacy for love.

  Matt, on the other hand, probably needed some affirmation of his desirability.

  He kissed me and I made a soft sound of pleasure.

  He tilted his head to seal our lips. His tongue moved in and out of my mouth, and soon he matched that suggestive rhythm with his body.

  He groaned when I sucked on his tongue.

  I held his hips as he rocked against me. I parted my legs, my dress riding up, so that Matt’s hardness found the soft spot he wanted. We ground together. I did all the little things that drove him crazy. I slipped my hands under his shirt and tweaked his nipples. I raked my nails through his hair, down the back of his neck. I dug my fingers into his tight ass.

  “Take it out,” he gasped against my mouth. Always so bossy.

  “You take it out.” I licked his jaw.

  He fumbled with the knot on his pants. While I sucked on his neck, he guided my hand to his cock. Rock hard. I pumped it a few times, moving the skin over his rigid erection.

  He tried to lift my dress, but I pushed away his hands.

  “Hannah, please.”

  “Not yet.” I leaned back into the couch. “I want to watch you. Let me watch…”

  Matt’s sadness was gone, replaced by frustration and confusion. I nudged him off my lap. I couldn’t have moved him if he didn’t want to move, but he yielded. Maybe he felt guilty about all the lies. Maybe he was too horny to complain.

  “On the floor,” I whispered. I watched him with wide eyes. Would he go along with my idle fantasy? Matt loved to see me desperate for him; I loved to see him desperate for me. We weren’t so different in our desires.

  Matt hesitated, glaring at me. I fluttered my eyelashes. Please?

  “Fine,” he said. He slid off the couch and knelt on the floor, his cock in his hand. My breath quickened as I looked at him. Perfect. Matt hadn’t even taken off his pants. His hair still smelled like shampoo. He looked disheveled and delicious, a fantasy incarnate.

  He stared at me as he jerked off. Sometimes his eyes strayed over my body—my legs in nylons, heels on my feet—and sometimes he glanced down at his cock, but most of the time he held my gaze. He didn’t say much. He was trying to keep it together, I could tell.

  He began to pant, his arm and hand moving faster. I licked my lips. If I had Matt’s boldness, I would have told him that this was so erotic for me. This. My lover in his raw need. My pussy swelled in my tight thong, the sensitive skin tingling.

  Matt’s lips parted. He twitched with pleasure.

  “Fuck.” He sighed.

  Cum oozed from his tip. I listened to the sound of his lust, the sound of him w
orking his own body furiously.

  “Don’t cover it,” I said. “I … I want to…” A wave of heat reddened my face. “I want to watch you come. On yourself…”

  Matt moaned. He was too lost to pleasure to glower at me now. He stripped off his T-shirt and sprawled on his back. I stood over him, staring down. My jaw dropped. Why was this so hot? I clenched my hands to keep from touching myself.

  Matt writhed on the floor. One hand caressed his sac while the other jerked up and down his shaft, twisting from base to head and back.

  “God, oh God,” he moaned, and I knew he was going to come. The first thick spurt of cum hit his chest, another spattered along his stomach, and finally it oozed down his cock to his fingers. He hissed and cursed and said God, fuck, fuck, his eyes closed.

  I swayed on my feet.

  My thong was soaked.

  Matt’s eyes drifted open. He relaxed against the hardwood, his chest heaving.

  “How wet,” he asked between ragged breaths, “are you—after that, Hannah? Are you happy?”

  I touched my cheek. I felt feverish with arousal.

  “Get down here,” he snarled. “Get out of your clothes. Come ride my face.”

  Matt crooked his finger and beckoned. I wriggled out of my nylons and thong and practically fell on top of him. Fuck. How could I feel brazen enough to ask Matt to jerk off on the floor, and in the same moment too paralyzed with embarrassment to put my sex on his face?

  “Dress … too,” he said, slowly catching his breath.

  I lifted off my dress and unclasped my bra. I tossed the garments aside, and then I hovered awkwardly over Matt as he stared at my tits.

  “Come here.” Lust strained his voice. His eyes were dusky. “Come on. I want this. Don’t hold back, Hannah. Do your best…”

  I trembled as I crawled up Matt’s body.

  I planted my knees on either side of his head and lowered the apex of my thighs to his lips. Fuck … this felt right and wrong and so hot. And I wanted it.

  I quietly appreciated yoga as I sank, my legs flexing easily to bring my sex to Matt’s mouth. The contact sent shivers through me. My damp body … his warm breath and lips. I moved cautiously—did he seriously want me to suffocate him?—but Matt seized my buttocks and forced my pussy against his mouth.