by Logan Fox
Now give me an emerald, or a sapphire, or a ruby. Yeah, I don’t like red dresses, but that doesn’t mean I won’t wear a red rock on my hand.
Diamonds are emotionless. You can’t look at an emerald without thinking about trees, or envy, or spinach.
“Let’s try this again.”
I look up at the sound of Hunter’s voice and realize that — despite my opinions on the matter — I’ve been studying the diamond on my finger like it’s a new freckle I’ve just discovered.
Instinctively, I grab my glass. It sloshes against my lips before I open them for a sip.
Gah — this shit’s getting more bitter as the evening progresses. And, I’m betting, the cost per glass is increasing exponentially. I weather it with a grim little smile for Hunter, but in my mind I’m begging for a glass of scotch or something.
And I’m not alone — I catch Kane from the corner of my eye grimacing at his wine as if he wishes it would turn to water to let him wash out the taste.
Obviously, Alexa and Josh are seasoned rich-ass drinkers — they don’t make a fuss about their glasses of red and instead wait on Hunter with bated breath.
Shit, Hunter!
I turn my attention back to him and sit a little straighter as soon as I’ve managed to focus on him.
He has his wine glass by his side, gripping it by the rim. His head is to the side, a ghostly smile on his mouth
The hair on my arms tries to stand on end, but I’m probably too tipsy for that to happen.
“You’ve crawled into my heart like a cicada,” Hunter says.
Alexa sounds like she’s choking, and I wish she fucking would because I’ve never heard Hunter talking like this, all hushed and shit.
His eyes glimmer as if he’s holding back tears.
What. The. Fuck?
I didn’t sign up for soppy, sentimental Hunter. Where’s my caveman? My beast? The man that bends me over whatever surface is available when I piss him off, tears off whatever I’m wearing, and fucks me whether I’m wet for him or not?
Where’s my monster?
“You don’t know this, Alexa, but Clover was a patient of mine at the Institute.”
Heat touches my cheeks as Hunter’s sister spins to look at me with an O for a mouth. She has TABOO written all over her face, the fucking hussy hypocrite. Like I don’t know the guy she’s with is like a decade and a half older than her?
Sister turns back to brother. “Is that how you met?”
God, does she not have a setting other than screech?
I take a swallow of wine, hoping it will somehow take everything down a notch. Fuck, by now, I should be snoring on a couch somewhere. Maybe expensive wine doesn’t put me to sleep because it’s more refined or some shit.
Actually, if anything, I’m starting to feel more alert.
Then again, I’ve just gotten engaged to none other than Hunter fucking Hill.
I down the rest of the glass. Hunter’s eyes track it as I put it down, and then my hand as I swipe it across my mouth.
My cheeks feel flushed, and no fucking wonder; everyone looks a little tipsy.
“Actually…”
My eyes snap up to Hunter.
Don’t you fucking dare.
He smiles at me. I cross my legs hard and force my eyes away.
Jesus Christ, is it the ring? Because I can literally eat him whole and ask for seconds. Thank God this shirt-dress I assembled is black because I feel a wet spot coming on.
Note to self: don’t drink red wine in public anymore. Apparently, it turns you into a horny, amateur porn star.
“We met at the graduate dinner.”
I really don’t want to but my eyes are drawn back to Hunter like a moth to a candle flame, and I’m pretty damn sure I’m not imagining the stink of singed moth fur.
“She was in a bit of a jam that night, living out of town as she did. She didn’t really have a place to stay, so I offered my bed.”
Hunter laughs, and my cheeks glow. I fumble for my glass, find it filled to the brim again, and take a thankful swallow.
This time, it’s not as bitter.
Thank God, we’re onto a new bottle.
“I mean,” Hunter says through a laugh, “I slept on the couch, she took the bed.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Alexa barks out through a laugh. “I’m sure that’s what happened.”
I look up at a clatter of bangles. Alexa’s waving toward me. “I mean look at her.”
And they do.
All of them.
I shove myself to my feet, ignoring the way the room wants to tango with me, and mutter out an incomprehensible, “Sorry,” before stumbling to the powder room at the bottom of Hunter’s stairs.
I fumble with the door and end up slamming it behind me. I sit and pee, eyes closed and a hand pressed to the wall to keep my balance.
Shiiiiit.
I haven’t had more than a glass of wine with dinner for the last fucking year and a half. What the fuck was I thinking? Everything’s spongy — like the world’s suddenly turned into a jumping castle.
There’s a jarring knock to the door. I manage a slurred, “Busy!” but it opens anyway.
Alexa. All wide-eyed concern and pretentious worry. “Hey, babe, you okay? You went super white there for a moment.”
A crude laugh escapes me. “No, you’re super white.”
Her head darts back, and she gives her lips a quick swipe. “How about I get you a cool cloth?”
“How about you get out of my fucking face?” I snap back.
Alexa backs away, and the door slams for a second time.
Fuck.
I slither off the toilet, kick away my underwear — who the fuck needs it, anyway? — and try to flush the cistern with my foot.
But I’m wearing heels for fuck’s sake, so I have to get them off first. And since my hands are in my hair — reason unknown — have to do it with my feet.
I have one off — victory! — when the powder room door opens into my shoulder.
“Ow.”
“Cl—”
I get the second shoe off. “Yeah, bitches!” I tip my head back and get a view of a concrete-faced, upside-down Hunter.
“Hey, babe,” I say. “Wanna fuck?”
Chapter Nine
Hunter
Of course this would happen. Any equation without a fixed variable cannot be accurately calculated. Clover is anything but a fixed fucking variable.
“Okay,” I mutter, grabbing Clover’s wrists and pulling her to her feet. “Let’s get you to bed.”
“Whaaa?” She tries to kiss my neck, misses, and ends up smearing lipstick over my dress shirt. It’s fine — this outfit is ruined.
I arrive in the dining room and halt.
Everyone’s standing up and looking anywhere but at me. Except for Kane, of course. He has that, ‘I told you so, you fucker,’ look on his face.
“My apologies, everyone,” I say, as clear and collected as I can. “I think it’s best if you leave.”
Alexa’s in a huff, I can tell. She already has her purse in hand — I think if I’d been in the bathroom a moment longer, she’d have been gone by the time I got out. She grabs Joshua’s hand and strings him along behind her as she struts to the door and lets herself out.
Her BMW’s rev cuts through the mumbled apology I send Kane’s way. He lifts a hand, dipping his head, and slings an arm around Zee’s shoulders. She’s looking at the wreck of Clover hanging like butcher meat from my shoulder with wide eyes and a confused twist to her mouth. But it only takes a few whispers from Kane to get her moving to the door.
I watch them go, and my entire body sags.
There’s no way to salvage this. No way to recover from my misjudgment. I mean, I could arrange another dinner…
Clover’s a junkie — a fact I keep forgetting. I’ve been so careful to keep her to less than two glasses a night, but tonight my attention was elsewhere.
I failed her.
I failed myse
lf.
Sighing, I climb the stairs.
“The fuck did you give me?”
My eyes latch onto her as she pushes herself up against my back. She’s trying to glare at me but her eyes are unfocused, her pupils crowding out those glorious blue irises of hers.
“Shh,” I whisper. “I’m taking you to bed.”
She squirms, bangs her fists against my lower back. “Not getting in your bed, you motherfucker.”
I pause halfway up the stairs and let out a heavy sigh as I put her down. I barely catch her before she topples down the stairs. “You want to sleep on the couch, then?”
“Yeah!” She points an imperious finger. “Take me to the couch.”
When I get there, I see Kane is still outside, smoking. I briefly wonder if it’s a joint or a cigarette, but then realize I don’t have the energy to care. Tonight drained me.
Honestly, if everything had gone off perfectly, I’m not sure how the fuck I was going to pull this off.
Clover turns from me to face the back of the couch and writhes away from my touch when I lay a hand on her shoulder.
Then I guess she’s sleeping on the fucking couch tonight.
I straighten, crack my neck.
My knuckles next.
The air grows warm and thick around me. Not like the leaden blanket of heroin, but like the short-circuiting electric blanket of MDMA.
I turn. Kane’s watching me, leaning against his Jeep with his arms crossed over his chest. Zee’s in the background, spinning in circles across the lawn.
Kane finishes whatever he was smoking, flicks away the butt, and ambles back to the door with a grim set to his mouth.
He pushes open the door, and we stare at each other over the intervening space.
“The fuck did you drug us with?” he asks.
I manage a never minded shrug, and sink onto the couch beside Clover, maneuvering her legs aside so there’s enough space.
He could have asked me the combination to my safe, and I would have given it to him right then.
“MDMA,” I say.
He cocks his head to where Zee’s running around like a crazy person outside. “Her too?”
I shake my head.
“Thank Christ.” He turns, puts fingers to his mouth, and lets out a shrill whistle. “Zee! Get in here!”
Beside me, Clover stirs. She rolls onto her back, glares at me in a grumpy rage, and mutters, “The fuck’s going on with all this noise?”
Chapter Ten
Clover
I’ve had heroin — fucking, duh — and coke too. Some ecstasy. Bit of crank, here and there, nothing serious.
This?
Fuck. My. Life.
I was pissed off as all hell at everyone — fucking everything — but now it’s like I’ve lost the ability to be angry.
Everything’s good. Everything’s wonderful.
It’s a beautiful world.
Hunter’s a beautiful man.
And I’m gonna marry him.
There’s a whirl of color — Zee. From what I gather, she was supposed to be sleeping upstairs, but she came downstairs some time ago and has been buzzing around like a bumblebee, seemingly fascinated with how fucked we are.
There’s a piece of paper in her hand. She shoves it into Kane’s lap and then falls to her knees in front of him, leaning her cheek on his knee and staring up at him like a puppy dog.
My heart clenches, and I swallow hard. God, it’s painful to see such a vibrant, pure personality trapped inside that bird-thin body, to watch her peer out through those huge, haunted blue eyes.
Kane’s smoking a joint. Smoke curls up over his face as he keeps it in his mouth and lifts the piece of paper to catch the light. It’s moody down here after Hunter turned off all but the display lights — those tiny pinpricks of light in strategic places meant to highlight the cabin’s bones.
“Yeah, kid,” Kane mumbles around his joint. “Only twenty more sleeps.” He folds up the paper and sticks it in his pocket.
Does he have a whole stash of them somewhere — Zee’s little notes to him? What do they say? Does she ever tell him she loves him?
“Sleeps?” My tongue feels weird, the word sounds weird. Weird, but wonderful at the same time.
Zee’s still on the floor. Her eyes are closed, and she’s humming to herself as Kane strokes her hair.
“Till her birthday.”
I want to say something to the girl, but I can’t bear to have those eyes on me. I nod, smiling at Kane. “How old?”
Kane shifts a little, glances away. “Twenty-one.”
Zee squirms as if she loves hearing the number and looks up at Kane with that same worshiping gaze.
“Twenty-one?” Hunter’s voice swarms into my ear and makes goosebumps flood over my skin. “Kane, she’s not—”
Kane lifts a finger, and Hunter cuts off. Then he scoops Zee’s face into his hands and murmurs, “Bring me water.”
Zee jumps up and races into the kitchen as Kane pivots from the waist to look at Hunter.
The three of us are on Hunter’s long sofa in the living room. He’s lit a fire, and it’s our focal point when we’re not talking to each other. Kane’s on my left, Hunter on my right. Which doesn’t make any sense, because they keep having to talk over me and it’s difficult keeping up with their conversation.
“She’s not twenty-one,” Hunter says.
“She thinks she is.”
“How about you set her right?”
Kane drags deep on the joint, notices it’s finished, and crushes it out in the ashtray by his feet. “Because every time I do, she goes hysterical and she won’t eat or drink for days after.” His eyes flick over to Hunter. “That’s why.”
“PTSD isn’t overcome by avoidance. If she can’t handle a truth as simple as the fact that she’s twenty-five—”
Twenty-five? Holy shmoly. She’s as old as me? She sure doesn’t look it. Maybe that’s what’s going on here. She looks in the mirror, and it just doesn’t compute. Because, I mean, if I was to—
“It doesn’t work like that, Clover.”
I jerk, glancing at Hunter. And then realize I was talking out loud. I drop my eyes, but Hunter grabs my leg, shaking it and forcing my gaze back to him. “You of all people should know, the only way to get rid of PTSD and its triggers are to confront and come to terms with the initial trauma.”
“Quit it, Doc,” Kane snaps. “I don’t want you in her head. We’re doing just fine, me and her.”
When I turn to Kane, his eyes are narrowed. It’s not annoyance — I don’t think Hitler could have been annoyed on MDMA — but he’s not pleased with Hunter right now.
“We’re just the right amount of fucked up, Zee and I. Nothing about us needs fixing.”
As if her name was a summons, Zee comes into the living room with a coffee mug between her hands. Kane takes it without looking, sips at it, and puts it by his feet.
Then she’s kneeling by him again, her head in his lap and his long fingers stroking her white hair.
It’s then that I realize I’m receiving similar attention from Hunter.
His hand is on my leg. It rubs up and down real slow, building friction along the way. I switch my attention to it, entranced. How on earth does he manage to type with such big hands? Surely, he would hit like three keys at the same time? But he’s always in his fucking office, tip-tap-tapping at that goddamn keyboard.
Like I can’t hear him through the door. I mean, come on.
Kane shifts, his thigh now pressed tight against mine, but I hardly think it’s intentional.
I must have zoned out because all of a sudden Kane and Hunter start talking about me as if I’m not even here.
Which means I should probably be paying attention, but fuck it if I can’t stop thinking about how the fuck Hunter gets through the day with his massive hands.
I put my hand over his, comparing.
Christ, each finger has like an inch over mine.
No wonder i
t feels so good when he slides two of those inside me and—
Mmm…no. No, no, no.
I look up, biting my lip in full expectation of a reprimand.
But yeah, I remember now; Hunter can’t hear what I’m thinking.
And thank fuck, because I’m imagining so many smutty things about him right now.
Kane laughs and a hand lands on my thigh.
Shocked, I turn to him. Can he hear my thoughts? He’s still smiling, a joint between his knuckles, before it finally dawns on him that the flesh he’s touching is not his own or Hunter’s.
Kane looks down. Looks up. His grin half-collapses, and his hand slides off my thigh.
Pity — I was just about to start comparing his hand to Hunter’s and then my own.
Suddenly, I’m all fucking fascinated and shit about hands.
The ring.
I lift my hand to study the rock on my finger.
I take back everything I said about diamonds. My God, this stone’s pretty as fuck. The whole rainbow’s in there, motherfucker. And if I turn it this way, then—
A hand snags my wrist. Kane forces my hand down into my lap before releasing it.
“This ain’t right, Hunter.” Kane’s voice.
I turn to him, but it’s like we’re on a slow internet connection because he’s stopped talking and now Hunter’s voice is coming from behind my head.
“You don’t know what we have.”
When I turn to Hunter, he’s already done talking.
Fuck!
“Yeah, I don’t.”
I turn back, and this time Kane’s just taking a drag of his joint — hand obscuring half his face — before he speaks again. “But I’m pretty sure you’re just compensating.”
A hand darts across my chest. Warm flesh presses against me from either side — Kane and Hunter; Hunter with his fist twisted in Kane’s shirt.
Whoa. Was not expecting. I turn a neck, rusty from disuse, toward Kane.
Fuck, but this man’s got beautiful eyes. And a beautiful face. He looks like a model for a brand of cigarettes or something. Marlboro, yeah. That’s it.
I feel stubble under my fingertips, but I can’t stop touching Kane’s jaw.