by Geneva Lee
“Don’t worry about that.”
“Don’t worry about that?” I shriek. “Are you out on bail?”
“I am,” he confirms coolly.
“Then why did you come here? They just released you.”
“To bring you home,” he says.
“I want to come back,” I tell him, “but maybe my mom is right. Maybe distance is the best thing right now.”
“You won’t have distance for very long.” A cloud passes over the sun as he speaks, momentarily casting us in shadow.
“What does that mean?” I demand.
“They’re questioning your alibi.”
“My alibi? Don’t you mean your alibi?”
“Our alibi. Emma, they’re building a case against both of us.”
“Case?” I repeat in confusion. The reality of what he’s telling me refuses to sink in or maybe I’m not allowing it to.
“They want to charge us both with my father’s murder,” he clarifies. Reaching out, he takes my hand. “But I’m not going to let that happen.”
“What are we going to do?” I breathe.
Dropping my hand, he takes a pair of silver aviators from the console and slides them on. Then he leans over, bringing his lips to my neck. He drops a soft kiss and a moment later I feel the seat belt snake over my shoulder. “Buckle up, Duchess.”
Chapter Three
I should be surprised when Jameson pulls into the driveway of a mid-century, mini-mansion—the kind Palm Springs is famous for. I stare him down expectantly, as he waits for the privacy gate to open.
“It’s not mine,” he assures me.
“Good, because you don’t have to buy real estate in every city you visit.”
“Believe me, if I was going to buy a house here, Duchess, it’d be next door to you.” He pushes his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose and winks at me. “Easier to sneak through your window that way.”
And into my panties. “If you can get past Hans’ security, go for it, otherwise I suggest walking in through the front door.”
He laughs as he hits the gas and speeds into the driveway. Apparently, the Porsche doesn’t do slow. The grounds of the house are as immaculate as the lines characteristic of the time period—sharp and neatly edged. Large, orange blooms cascade over the retaining wall that surrounds the house. It’s smaller than my stepfather’s place but it gives off a retro-hip vibe that I can’t help but admire.
“So whose place is this anyway?” I ask as I climb out of the car. Jameson is at my side instantly, shutting the door behind me.
“A friend’s,” he says like this is an answer before he throws his arm around my shoulders and leads me toward the front entrance.
Judging from the severe lack of furniture inside, his friend is either really into minimalism or a dude. Inventorying the living room, my suspicions are confirmed. “I’m going to guess your friend is a guy.”
“How did you know?”
“Psychic,” I say dryly. “One couch, two chairs, every gaming system. A TV that takes up half the wall, and no pictures.”
“You’re a regular Nancy Drew.”
I spin toward him, and trail my index finger along the hard planes of his chest. “Is your friend home?”
He catches my waist and pulls my body against his, dropping his lips to my ear, he whispers, “Does it matter?”
I’m guessing that, according to bro code, friends don’t cock-block friends in their bachelor pads. But as if to undermine my theory, an amused voice interrupts us. “Don’t mind me, I like to watch.”
I’m so wrapped up in Jameson that it takes a second for the familiarity of the voice to seep into my giddy brain, but when it does, I turn and gawk at the equally familiar face.
“Never fails,” Jameson grumbles. “Levi, you have terrible timing.”
“I have excellent timing,” Levi calls, grabbing an apple from a bowl on the kitchen counter. He takes a bite, and continues to talk as he chews. “That is, according to Michael Bay.”
“I wouldn’t brag about that, man.”
Neither of them seem to remember I’m here. I elbow Jameson in the ribs. There’s no point in trying to play it cool now, not when I’ve been staring like a catatonic fan girl for over a minute.
“Sorry, Duchess.” Jameson shifts, and puts one hand possessively on the small of my back. “Emma Southerly meet Levi Rowe.”
“I know who he is,” I hiss. “What I don’t know is what we’re doing here.”
“Nice to meet you, Em,” Levi says, before his movie star white teeth crunch into the apple again. He swallows hard and I follow the slide of his throat. How on earth does he make that look sexy? “I figured Jameson had to have a girl up here if he was coming back to California.”
I raise a questioning eyebrow at my boyfriend. “This is the part of the scene where you tell me how you two know each other.”
Between the Wests’ money, and his sister’s brief bid for fame, it shouldn’t shock me that he knows Levi Rowe, former teenie bopper heartthrob turned up-and-coming action film star. I’d been safely passed my tween years when he’d been doing his Disney Channel stint, but even though movies about transforming robots aren’t my cup of tea, I drooled over his abs like every hot blooded female I know.
As if on cue, Levi steps away from the counter, his unbuttoned linen shirt fluttering open as he strides towards us. Those abs. “Jameson brings all his girls here to impress them.”
Levi extends his hand, and the two grip each other’s forearm as they lean into a masculine hug. Two seconds and a chest bump, I’m beginning to wonder if I stumbled into a frat house by mistake.
“Levi was at Stanford with me,” Jameson says. “For what, like two weeks? Turns out his serious college plans were a publicity stunt designed by a movie studio.”
“I plan on finishing someday.” Levi’s lips twitch into the grin that casting directors are willing to pay millions for.
“He plans on getting an honorary diploma,” Jameson clarifies.
“Jodie Foster got a doctorate,” Levi tells us.
“You’re going to have to find a script with less running, and more lines to snag one of those, professor,” Jameson advises him.
“I’ll have you know my agent sent over a serious part this morning.” He glances from Jameson to me, and back again. “And you know, I think I need to go read that now.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” Jameson agrees.
“Yep,” Levi says as he backs down the hall. “I’ll be in my room with my headphones on, deep in thought, completely oblivious to the outside world. If you scream for help, or”—he fakes a cough—“any other reason, I won’t hear you.”
“You’re overselling it,” Jameson calls after him, but he doesn’t miss the opportunity to haul me in the opposite direction. “Come on, Duchess.”
I steal a glance over my shoulder as Levi disappears into another room. “We’re at Levi Rowe’s house.”
“Yes,” Jameson says.
“You know Levi Rowe.”
“Yes.”
“Do you introduce all your girlfriends to him?” I ask.
“Not if I can help it.”
“Ooh, want to make some wine with those sour grapes? Are you threatened by your friend’s brutish masculinity?”
Jameson groans before he laughs. “Are you attracted to my friend’s brutish masculinity?”
“Not particularly. Why settle for a movie star when you can have a billionaire?”
“That’s my little gold digger,” Jameson pauses before a closed door. “I don’t introduce my girlfriends to Levi.”
“Somebody like to play with your toys?” I ask, but when he turns to stare at me, the light mood vanishes. In the darkness of the corridor, his eyes are shadowy gray and my stomach clenches as they bore into me.
“I don’t do girlfriends.”
“I thought I was your girlfriend,” I breathe.
“You are,” he says pointedly.
“Wait.”
I struggle through the hormones muddling my brain to piece together what he’s telling me. “Am I your first girlfriend?”
“I think there was one in fifth grade, Kyla or Kaylee.”
“You haven’t had a girlfriend since fifth grade?”
“I find girls usually want me for one thing.”
“And you’re happy to give it to them.”
“Money, Duchess,” he corrects my assumption. “They want me for money. I want them for sex.”
“Let me guess which one of you gets what you want.”
He backs me against the door. “Do you know what kind of depraved things people are willing to do if they think there’s a pot of gold at the end of the…”
“Blowjob?” I offer dryly. My guess is that Jameson could get most girls in any number of compromising positions even if he were dirt poor. He grins wolfishly, and I wonder if I’m leading myself to the slaughter. “So your friend went to Stanford as a publicity stunt, and you went for…”
“An education,” he says.
There’s a double meaning to that.
“I haven’t even taken AP Biology,” I whisper. Jameson leans forward, bracing his hands on the door and effectively caging me. I don’t want to be just one more sacrificial lamb, but I don’t want him to stop either.
“You should know what you’re getting into,” he says gruffly.
“I’m not as innocent as I look,” I protest, but a flutter of panic surges in my chest. Now I’m the one overselling it. Being willing is different than being experienced.
“Don’t lie, Duchess.” He bends forward and presses his lips to the hollow of my throat.
“I’m not wearing white to my wedding,” I remind him.
His laughter tickles across my bare skin. “What? Because some kid sweated on you for thirty seconds?”
“It was more like a minute.”
“I stand corrected.” His mouth glides along my collarbone. Despite the heady cocktail of frustration and desire swirling inside me, I push against his chest in annoyance.
“If we’re going to have a pissing contest, we should do it in the bathroom.”
Jameson straightens and meets my eyes. “You have the wrong idea. I like that you’re innocent. I like knowing that my hands, my fingers, my lips, my tongue, this”—he presses his hard-on into my soft lower belly and I feel it through the layers of clothing separating us. “get to educate you.”
“You sound awfully sure of yourself,” I murmur. The kiss he brushes over my lips proves he has a right to be, and a moan escapes me. He wraps an arm around my waist, and I know two things: he’s caught me and I don’t want to escape. But before the kiss can deepen, he throws open the door behind us. Despite his firm grasp, fear thrills through me in a jolting split second of weightlessness.
“I won’t let you fall,” he promises.
Something tells me I already have.
We stumble back toward the bed, fumbling with our clothes, leaving a trail of discarded clothes in our wake until I’m stripped to my bikini and he’s down to his boxer briefs. A rare bout of shyness overcomes me, and I’m torn between how much I want to rip off his underwear and my inexperience. When I finally get up the nerve to slip my fingers past the elastic waistband, he catches my hands and draws them over my head.
“Not so fast,” he advises me. “I want you to know exactly what you’re getting into.”
“I have a pretty good idea,” I pant, not bothering to hide my annoyance as my shyness shifts into shamelessness instantly. But Jameson keeps my wrists pinned over my head.
“I got you off in the elevator,” he recalls in a lowered voice. “Has any other guy?”
I shake my head, feeling my cheeks flame.
“Then I’m guessing no one has had his mouth on you.”
It takes a second for me to realize what he’s suggesting. I bite my lower lip, and shake my head again, the flush on my cheeks probably turning to a lovely shade of candy apple red. “Don’t be embarrassed, Duchess. I’m going to let go of you now, but I want you to keep your hands up here. Can you do that for me? At least until…”
I nod. I’m not entirely sure what the end of that sentence is, but I have a few ideas what comes after until. He kisses downward between my breasts past my navel, sliding his hands along the path until they stop on my hips.
I resist the urge to bury my face in a pillow when he plucks the ties of my bikini bottom. He waits for a moment, as if letting me get used to the idea of what’s about to happen, then he draws it slowly down. Suddenly I can’t remember if I shaved this morning. Or if I shaved enough. I’ve seen a Playboy, and I know he has, too. I open my mouth to apologize, but before I can speak, I feel the warm wet plunge of his tongue, nudging its way to the throbbing pulse between my thighs. I arch up, lost for words except for a strangled cry that vibrates from a part of me I didn’t know existed. Now I understand what he meant by until because my hands fly to his head, grab hold of his hair and push him against me as his tongue works magic. He reaches up and pries my fingers loose. Gripping my wrists, he pins my arms to the bed. He’s in charge now. I give in to that reality, allowing my hips to move in unison with his mouth. Dozens of half-formed thoughts flit through my head, prematurely dismissed by a flick or suck, each growing shorter as the pressure builds inside me. Before long, I can’t stop myself from bucking against him, and his pleased groan vibrates against my sensitive swollen flesh.
It’s enough to send me crashing over the edge. I’m not sure if the screams are in my head, or if I’m bellowing them out loud. All I know is I can find no other word except his name. When I can’t take any more, my legs clamp instinctively against his head. Trembles wrack my body and I grip the comforter. I need something to hold on to, because I’m not entirely convinced that I’m not dreaming. He frees himself, then he slides his arms under my torso and gently moves me farther onto the bed. I curl into a fetal position—an instinct they don’t tell you about in Cosmo—and blink languidly as he climbs in beside me. I reach a trembling hand toward his waist, but he stops me.
“Not right now. That’s all I needed.” He cradles me to him and presses a kiss to my forehead.
“I…I…” Thoughts are still slow to form.
“Speechless,” he notes with satisfaction. “Rest up, Duchess. There’s more where that came from.”
I blink into the sunlight, then sit straight up, clutching the sheet thrown casually over my lower half. “Oh my god. What time is it?”
Jameson glances up from his phone and smirks. His hair is a tangled mess, and I wonder for a second if it got that way from me trying to pull it out. “Relax. It’s just after four.”
“Oh my God.”
“No, just Jameson.”
I flop back down on the bed, sneaking another quick peek at him as I pull the sheet higher. He flips onto his side, and traces the edge of it.
“I have to say that I find your sudden modesty a bit too enticing.”
I pull it to my chin. “Mr. West, what big eyes you have.”
“Skip to the part where I say, ‘The better to eat you with,’” he encourages me, and I slap his shoulder. He falls back beside me, laughing.
“That was ...” I hesitate, before landing on, “Incredible.”
“Feel free to write songs and sonnets singing my praises.”
“I would, but I don’t think it’s safe for your head to get any bigger.” I turn onto my side, already thinking about round two, until my eyes land on his phone. I stop breathing when I spy the Instagram feed on his screen. “The Dealer should be called The Mood Killer.”
“Don’t worry about him,” Jameson says.
“So it’s a him?” Maybe while I slept off the orgasmic coma he put me in, he’s found some clues.
“Or her,” he adds.
Or maybe not. I scoot up in the bed, shaking my head. “How am I not supposed to worry? That’s seriously creepy shit.”
“Agreed, but I don’t really see the point. Whoever it is needs
to be charged with stalking. We should go to the police.”
He hasn’t been looking closely at all. I reach for his phone, and scroll through the feed. “These two are from the night your father was murdered,” I inform him. “I don’t know about the rest.”
I return to the top of the feed to find I’ve made my first photo appearance. The photo that posted seconds ago is definitely from that night. I stare at the picture of me sleeping in the cabana. It’s dark enough that I can’t make out much, except for one important fact.
I’m alone.
“That’s new,” Jameson says in a quiet voice. I want to reassure him, but we both know that if anyone finds this picture, it could undermine the alibi he’s established for that night. He had been honest with me about what happened after I fell asleep, but I’d kept those facts to myself. I might believe that he did nothing but fight with his father and then drown his sorrows in a few drinks, but whoever posted this knows that a picture is worth a thousand words. In this case, all thousand of them are guilty.
“We need to find out who this is before anyone else sees these photos.”
“Too late,” Jameson take his phone from me, and tosses it foot of the bed. “The Dealer already has a few followers.”
“What is he advertising for fans?” I lunge forward to retrieve it, but he holds me back.
“None of his followers are going to tattle.”
“How can you possibly know that?” I ask.
“Because so far, his entire following consists of Monroe, Josie, you, and now me.”
“Should we send an engraved invitation to Hugo? I doubt he’d want to miss this party,” I snap. Hugo’s cameo in The Dealer’s stream is more incriminating than most.
“For now, I think we’re safe,” he continues.
“But for how long?”
“I have a guy who can check into this. Whoever this is can’t hide behind a username forever.”
I don’t ask him what we’ll do when we find out who’s been collecting a scrapbook of our intimate moments, because once we know who they are, they’ll have nothing left to hide.