by Alexis Hall
He lifted a hand, bringing a cigarette to his mouth. He was briefly illuminated by a flare of amber and then he tilted his head back, eyes falling closed as he exhaled a sinuous plume of smoke into the darkness.
And God, his face like that. Open in pleasure. The suddenly undeniable sensuality of his parted lips.
I must have been staring at him like a cartoon American cop at a doughnut because, at that moment, his eyes snapped open and I’d never seen anyone shut down that fast, his expression becoming a mask again: smooth, composed, impenetrable.
I tried to think of something nonawkward to say but instead blurted out, “I didn’t know you smoked.”
“I allow myself one.”
“A day?”
“A month.”
I didn’t dare tell him that was kind of completely…adorable. “Why?”
“I like smoking. But I believe in controlling one’s vices.”
“Really?” I strolled across the balcony as casually as I could. Pretending I just wanted to admire the view, rather than be close to him. “Because I believe in letting them run riot.”
He gave a soft laugh and passed me the cigarette. “Then indulge yourself for me.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
As it happened, I hadn’t smoked much tobacco. I’d done a bit of weed, because it was available at student parties. Well, at the dull ones anyway, where you sat around talking about Kant instead of getting laid. But when I was fourteen, my mother had given me a cigarette in order to teach me how deeply uncool smoking was.
And, honestly, it had worked.
It was hard to find things rebellious or subversive when your mum introduced them to you.
But there was no way I was passing up an opportunity to share something with Caspian Hart. To put my lips and fingers where his own had lingered. Perhaps leave the taste of me for him. And I could just imagine us, monochrome in the moonlight, so elegant and sophisticated as we passed the cigarette between us like lovers in the movie I kept inventing. He would be played by Gregory Peck and I would be Lauren Bacall and at some point I’d be terribly willful and he’d be obliged to seize my wrists and kiss me cruelly until I’d learned my lesson.
“Arden?”
“Yes?”
“Do you want this or not?”
Oh God. “Sorry, yes. Thank you.”
Our hands brushed as I took the cigarette, that small touch of skin to skin crackling through me, electric-neon, lighting me up. I’d expected to look effortlessly sexy, with my cancerous accessory, but I wasn’t sure how to hold it. It was different to a joint, and I felt self-conscious. Like the pretender I was.
And if I didn’t act quickly, he was going to notice.
It tingled when I put the filter to my mouth. I could have sworn it was still warm from him, but that was probably wishful thinking.
How hard could this be?
I braced myself and sucked heartily.
Ashy heat rushed into my mouth and burned all the way down my throat. For about 0.124 seconds I fought valiantly not to make an idiot of myself in front of Caspian Hart and then I just died. Coughing, wheezing, smoke pouring out my nose, water streaming from my eyes, the whole deal.
I must have looked really attractive. Same as when I fell on my arse.
I’d dropped the cigarette in the general carnage. I was vaguely aware of one of his perfectly shined shoes grinding out the embers. And the faint warm pressure of a hand between my shoulder blades, rubbing soothing circles against my jacket.
Then he was offering me a handkerchief. Monogramed, of course. I couldn’t breathe very well but I could still see how fucking exquisite he was. Where did he get all that poise? Was he just born gorgeous? Had he never been clumsy or messy or desperate like me?
“You don’t smoke, do you?” he asked.
“Not as such.” I wiped my face, feeling hot and smeary. “I think I nuked my lungs.”
His expression shifted in a way I’d never seen before, his brow creasing faintly with confusion. “Then why did you say yes?”
It was a legit question.
“Because you offered?” Yeah. That made even less sense when I said it aloud than it had in my head. But what was I supposed to tell him? “I wanted to impress you”? I stared at the ground because you never knew when it might be obliging enough to swallow you up. Of course that also meant I was stuck staring at the crushed remains of his cigarette. “Sorry I wrecked everything.”
His fingers were chill as marble against my chin, the gesture as fleeting as it was unexpected, tender and yet insistent as he turned my face up to his. “You didn’t wreck anything, Arden.”
“You only have one cigarette a month and it’s”—I pointed with melodramatic self-recrimination—“there.”
“I only smoke one cigarette a month, but I don’t carry it around in state like the Ark of the Covenant. I have the rest of the packet.”
The shadows had softened the icy splendor of his eyes, making it easier somehow to see—or imagine—that other side of him. The man who had teased and soothed me over the phone, who seemed so full of power and gentleness and need. “You really carry around a packet of ciggies, knowing you can only have one of them a month?” I asked. “How is that possible? I can’t even leave the second bar of a Twix.”
“It wouldn’t be temptation if it wasn’t tempting.”
“Yeah, but I’ve never figured out what you get for resisting it.”
“Personal growth,” he told me gravely.
And when I giggled—how could I not?—his lips curled slowly into an answering smile. Though all too soon, he was turning away, reaching into his jacket pocket for his cigarettes and a lighter.
It was a swift, graceful ceremony, sensuous in its way, the crackle of paper, the swoosh of the flame, and the deftness of his fingers. I liked watching him. It felt intimate. I imagined all the times he must have done this to have grown practiced at it, developed it into ritual. Standing alone in the dark.
He moved into the space between the…wossnames…uppybits of the crenellations, braced his elbows on the stone, and blew out a wisp of cloudy smoke.
There was just enough room for me to squeeze in next to him, so I did, not quite realizing that just enough would bring my leg against his, his hip to mine, our upper arms into a warm L of togetherness.
“That ain’t no Marlboro Light,” I drawled.
“No, it’s a Dunhill. If you’re going to sin, you should sin thoroughly and with conviction.”
Words to live by. “It’s one cigarette. If that’s your idea of sin, I have to admit I’m slightly disappointed.”
“Oh no.” A few flakes of whitish ash drifted away like cherry blossoms in spring. “I have a familiarity with sin that is as profound as it is unglamorous.”
He sounded bleak, and I ached for him. Wanted to make him smile again. “Maybe you’ve been committing the wrong sins.”
“All the more reason to resist temptation and restrict myself to cigarettes.”
We were quiet a little. But it felt okay. Not scary the way too much silence can be sometimes. There was something relaxing about the steady inhale-pause-exhale of his smoking. He kept his face turned away, so I only caught the scent a little and it wasn’t nearly as unpleasant as it had been up close and personal.
Honestly, I was far more interested in him. I had no idea what cologne he was wearing, but he smelled good enough to eat. All this cocoa-dark and honey-velvet, sandalwoody deliciousness that made me want to either bury my nose in his armpit or go raid his bathroom cabinet. Except whatever he idly spritzed himself with in the morning was probably worth more than I was.
He let out a soft sigh of peace and pleasure.
And I thought how marvelous it would be to give that to Caspian Hart. And how fucking tragic that he would only trust himself to a paper cylinder of nicotine and tar.
I wouldn’t have to be rationed. You could give in to me.
But all I said was, “I don’t know how
you acquire acquired tastes.”
He glanced at me. “What?”
“Well, why bother acquire them when you could just, y’know, cut out the middle man and consume something nice?”
“You mean smoking?”
I nodded.
“I never had to acquire it. I’ve always liked it.”
“So you just woke up one morning and decided to take up an unhealthy habit?”
“I…ah.” His fingers tightened on the cigarette, creasing it.
“What’s the matter?”
He shook his head. “Arden, I prefer to avoid personal conversation.”
“That’s not personal; it’s just conversation. Personal would be: Have you ever been in love? or What’s the thing you’ll always regret?” Oh shit. I shouldn’t have had that second glass of champagne. “I just mean…I’m a stranger. I’m not going to tell anybody and even if I did, it wouldn’t matter because you’ll never see me again. I’m nobody. I’m safe.”
For what felt like forever, he didn’t answer. Then, very quickly, “I liked having something to do with my hands.” I couldn’t help looking at them: his pale, perfectly groomed, perfectly controlled hands. Hard to imagine them ever doing something inelegant or being restless. As if he read my thoughts, he went on. “I was…different when I was younger. And I’ve been smoking since I was fourteen.”
“You iconoclast you.”
He didn’t smile this time. Just crushed out his cigarette against the stone and then put his back to the battlements, the city, the deep, blue-black sky. “I like the way it makes me feel. It eases the tight spaces in my mind. And it’s private.” He cast me a glance from under the shadow of his lashes. “Usually.”
His voice was so soft that it felt more like a caress than a rebuke. I smiled up at him, treasuring these unexpected confidences. This odd moment of being together in some small sense before the world remembered to turn and draw us our separate ways.
“I tried to give up at university, but it didn’t happen. I had a philosophy tutor here. Hilary Rupert Baskerville he was called…” He made a sound of quiet amusement, surrendering momentarily to his memories and something that seemed close to affection. “I had the nine a.m. tutorial slot and we used to smoke a cigarette together, leaning out of his window, before he dismantled my essay.”
“Wow”—I tried not to sound wistful—“that sounds like proper Oxford Memoirs stuff. I never had any cool tutors. I mean, they’re nice, especially Professor Standish. She’s like this super-intelligent grandma person. But you get all keyed up to be taught about Life TM by an eccentric genius. And then that’s not what it’s like.”
“I’m not really sure Hilary taught me anything much about philosophy, let alone life. But I do remember the day I told him I had decided to give up smoking.” Caspian’s voice dropped into a plummy register: “‘Oh but whatever for?’ I told him it was for the sake of my health and he said it was the most appalling hubris he had heard in all his life. ‘Why, my dear boy, you could be squished by an automobile tomorrow.’”
I tried to imagine the scene, and this younger—apparently different—Caspian with his restless fingers. “And you’ve been smoking ever since?”
“When I choose to, yes.”
“Always at the same time every month?” I stepped away from the stone, tucking my hands in my pockets, trying to pretend it was a casual movement. And not a brazen desire to be able to look at him straight on. He was spectacular in profile—he would have been from any angle—but even harder to read.
“Whenever the occasion calls for it.”
I was pushing my luck as usual but it was my luck, so I pushed it. “What called for it tonight?”
“I’m sure many smokers reach for a cigarette after wine and a fine meal.”
He was giving me this I totally know what you’re doing look. I gave it right back to him—with extra eyebrow arch—because that was some pretty fucking blatant evasion right there. And I wasn’t going to let him think he’d got away with it.
What this meant, in practice, was that we were standing there, staring at each other in this almost-playful-almost-not way. Like eye duelists.
I’d normally have yielded. If past experience was anything to go by, good things happened when you yielded. And, in other, less exciting contexts, it meant you avoided getting into an argument.
But, for some reason, I didn’t do that now.
And he…Well, a man like Caspian Hart would never yield. I wouldn’t have wanted him to yield. Just give a little. Not as in up but as in gift. But he somethinged. Conceded maybe. “I…just wanted some time to think.”
“This is supposed to be the place for it.”
“This balcony?” He made a slightly airy gesture with his fingers, like Prospero over his spellbook, and suddenly I could see the ghost of his old self: a young man who had not quite grown into his height, his grace. And all that power inside him, a piece of potassium waiting to ignite.
“Hah. I meant Oxford. Though, honestly, I’ve spent the last three years doing as little thinking as I possibly can.”
“I’m sure you had better things to do with your time.”
“I used to believe that. But now I’m wondering if I just fucked around pointlessly.” Okay, that was way too much honesty. Saying it aloud made the fear inside me curl up even tighter. “What were you thinking about?”
“Ah.” I wasn’t sure he was going to answer. The gloom had muted all colors except the city’s gold, but I thought he might be blushing. “Embarrassingly, I was thinking about my father.”
“How’s that embarrassing? Don’t you get on?”
He was very still. “No. On the contrary, I admired him very much.”
Past tense. And there was my foot. Put right in it. “Oh shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…God. Fuck. Sorry.”
“It’s quite all right. I was fourteen when he died. I’ve been alive without him for almost as long as I was alive with him.”
I bit my lip to stop something crass and inadequate falling out of my mouth. He’d spoken so lightly, I was sure he was expecting me to respond similarly, but how could I? Not when he didn’t even seem to realize he’d kept count. “He must have been young?”
“Forty-two. Which”—again, that gentleness of his, that promise of smiles—“would probably have amused him.”
I wanted to cry for him. Or hug him. Or hug him and cry. You didn’t admire him, I wanted to say. You loved him. Maybe he genuinely couldn’t recognize it. Or maybe it just hurt too much to say the word. “You must really miss him.”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t think about him very often.”
“He’d be super proud of you, Mr. Hart.”
I thought it was a pretty reasonable thing to say. Everyone wanted to do good by their parents—even hopeless little me—and this guy was a billionaire, for God’s sake. And, though it probably wasn’t the sort of thing your dad would notice, a stunningly put together specimen of manhood into the bargain. The embodiment of a myth: the type of man women were supposed to want, 90 percent of men were supposed to want to be, and the rest of us were supposed to be grateful for being on Team 10 Percent so we could fancy him too.
But he didn’t react at all, the silence getting deeper and heavier all around us, while he just stood there, a creature of stone, starlight, and secrets. And then he said, “No, he wouldn’t.”
It wasn’t the words, but the terrible certainty of them.
Completely broke my heart.
It just seemed impossible to me that Caspian Hart could believe something like that. And I needed—with this terrible sense of helplessness, or perhaps what Hilary Rupert Baskerville would call hubris—to make it better.
To remind him who he was: someone magnificent and rare and deserving of all the pride in the world.
I reached out, wanting to comfort him, to bridge the spaces between us—the chasm of our lives—with touch.
“Don’t.” He caught me by the wrist, fingers as c
ool and implacable as steel.
I was sure, on his part, it was nothing more than the desire to stop me doing something he didn’t want. And while I had tastes, I wasn’t so consumed by them I couldn’t tell the difference between intentional and incidental.
Except…
Maybe because it was him. Maybe because he’d been gentle with me when he didn’t have to be. Protected me when he didn’t have to do that either. Trusted me with a handful of his secrets.
But when he held me—that suggestion of restraint, of strength greater than mine—it ignited me like fireworks.
And oh God. The sweet shock of skin to skin. My pulse swollen with heat and sudden energy beneath his palm. Needles of awareness running all the way up my arm. My heart pierced by the sharp longing to be controlled, to be taken, to be his. Even if only for a little while.
For a moment I was transfixed—perhaps we both were—by that narrow strait of me claimed by him. And then I looked up, and so did he, and his eyes were intent in the darkness, the blue of them bleached by the shadow and the reflection of the moon bright in his pupils. It made him a little wolfish. Hungry and distant. But I wasn’t frightened of him. I wanted him. To be close to him. Remembering not his savagery but his hurt.
“Don’t,” he said again.
Though he didn’t let go. Didn’t step away. If anything, his fingers tightened.
His breath came harshly through the silence.
It was only when I felt cold stone beneath me that I realized I’d gone to my knees, my hand slipping from his grip. I barely knew how I got there, let alone understood why I’d done it, but it seemed…right somehow. That it would be good for him to have me there. Something I could give that he could accept. Easier, for him, than comfort.
A different sort of understanding.
I gazed up at him. He looked sharp and stern, harshly etched by the moonlight, brows pulled tight in anger or confusion or something he was trying to conceal.
“What are you doing?” Whatever he might have wanted me think, his voice betrayed him. It wasn’t quite steady.
And gave me the courage to tell him, “You know what I’m doing, Mr. Hart.”