by Holly Ryan
She cocks her head, briefly acknowledging the office. “When?”
“A few minutes ago.”
At first, she doesn’t say anything else. Then she brings her hands together in front of her waist, pushing her shoulders back. “Yes, I was.”
“So you admit that you directed Stella to this office in the hopes of her thinking it was me in there with some other woman.”
“I don’t admit anything, Mr. Thatcher. And I won’t.”
Her answer is one of attempted provocation, but I relax, having gotten most of what I needed out of her. “Of course you won’t. Just tell me something. Is this a regular thing that I don’t know about?”
“Is what a regular thing? I’m not sure what you mean. And I told you, I’m not admitting to anything.”
Part of me wonders if she just wants to hear me say it outright. I start to, but close my mouth before a word is uttered. I’m not going to give her that satisfaction. “It seems my company is in need of a culling.”
“A culling, sir?”
“Yes, a culling. And the first to go is you.” Well, the third, actually. But I don’t want her to know that.
That blow hurts her. How could it not? But she does a good job of not letting it show. Her pride won’t allow it. And she might be waiting for me to say more, but what more is there to say? Slowly, she steps forward. She touches my shoulder with delicate fingers, and then leans in and plants a single, carefully-placed kiss on my cheek.
I don’t hold back my stoic glare when she pulls away. “Goodbye, Scarlet.”
“Goodbye, Cohen.” She turns, her eyes the last of her to break away from me.
I step back inside the office and am met by Stella, waiting. I know she saw the whole thing though the panes of glass. Hell, there’s no way she couldn’t have. She more than likely heard all of it, too.
Sure enough, she’s sitting exactly where I left her – that is, directly facing the glass panels, which gave her that perfect view. Her feet are flat on the floor and her hands are cupped patiently in her lap. The look on her face is one of exhaustion.
“I’m ready to leave now,” she says.
I sigh. “Me too.”
After lunch, we head back to her place. She stops, her keys dangling in the door, and turns back to me. “It’s messy.”
I rub the back of my neck. The day and all of its drama is finally getting to me, and I want nothing more than to lay down, anywhere, with her. “That’s okay. You should see my place after I actually spend time in it.”
That makes her feel a little better; her face lights up, but only for a moment before she turns her attention back to her keys. She swings the door open, and then reaches in front of me to switch on a light on the wall beside us. I’m greeted by the warm smell of candles. There aren’t any burning, I notice as I look around, but she’s clearly a candle person.
“It’s nothing compared to your place.”
I take a seat at the stool in front of her counter, swinging it on its hinges and taking the seat backward. I haven’t sat like this since I was in high school. It feels good. “Why are you being so hard on yourself lately?” I take another look at her apartment, scanning the area. “I like it.”
“Am I?” She closes the door of the fridge, turning around with nothing. “It’s just a habit I guess. An impulse when I get stressed.” She shrugs. “I guess I don’t really mean it.”
It hurts, realizing that I am a part of that stress.
She leans forward across the counter. The heat kicks on in her apartment, wafting a warm wisp of her scent toward me. “I understand why she kissed you,” she says.
I don’t look away from her like a lesser man might do. I’m glad she brought that up. I didn’t like it lingering, staling the air between us. I laugh. “Why? Because of my money?”
Stella keeps her straight face. “No. Because…” she straightens up again, fishing for words but coming up short. “Because you’re Cohen.”
“Right. So because of my money is what you’re saying.”
“No,” she rolls her eyes, a little of her sense of humor breaking free, “not because you’re a Thatcher. Because you’re Cohen.”
I get what she’s saying, but being me, I don’t get the appeal. My mind drift to its darkest corners, to the place where I can’t help but think of the past and the biggest thing I failed at – which just so happened to be a big enough failure to overshadow any possible successes. I think about the woman in the car’s future, which was taken from her, and the family she left behind.
I clear my throat. “Maybe not everyone sees me the way you do.” I try to keep the words meaningless, but I fail. Emotion creeps up and I have to swallow it back down.
She catches it, but does a good job of changing the subject to avoid bringing up something that’s too deep for the moment at hand. “You don’t have to get back to work?”
“I’m not going back today.”
“What about your appointments?”
“I’m cancelling them. After what happened, we won’t be back in business until I can get my staff sorted out.” I lean back. “It’ll take some emergency meetings, so to speak.”
“I guess something like that is a pretty big deal.”
“Members of my staff completely undermining me? Hell yes it is. I’ve just learned I can’t trust about eighty percent of my them. I can’t be in business until I can trust my staff.”
“So if it’s an emergency,” she sits next to me, “does that mean you’ll be leaving me?”
I shake my head. “Tomorrow.” Truthfully, it should mean today; but I just want to be here with her. “I should be able to get it sorted out pretty quickly.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“By firing lots of people,” I half-joke. “And what about your job?”
“What about it? It’s the usual. Boring.”
“Have you applied for anything on the side?”
She shrugs. “Not yet. I’m still thinking that over, to be honest with you. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ll have to come up with something. It’s not like your bills will adjust to your level of income. Wouldn’t that be nice?
“That’s very true. They won’t. But my offer still stands.”
She cracks a smile of genuine thankfulness.
We spend the afternoon on her couch, browsing through her television, coming to rest on some mindless comedy to pass the time. The show doesn’t matter to me. The only thing that does is the warm glow that Stella’s body is radiating onto my side. Eventually, she settles back, leaning into me as if she can’t burrow deep enough. I drape my arm over her shoulders and we pass the time that way until the sun starts to set.
“Are you hungry?” she asks, positioning herself to get up off the couch. The place where she’d been resting against me suddenly becomes cold at the lack of her presence.
Instead of answering her, I lean in and slide a hand under her shirt, cupping the warm flesh of the small of her back. Instinctively, she knows, but she doesn’t want to say it. She leans back against my hand, increasing the pressure. I hoist her forward until she’s straddling me and then tuck my face into her neck.
“Cohen…” she says, pausing.
I want to tell her that it’ll all be okay. No matter what happens, even though I know all too well that that can, at times, be a lie.
I entwine her fingers with mine, and at that she gives in; she leans down at the same time that I lean up, and our lips collide. I brace the back of her neck as I smoothly move her onto her back, then lift her shirt and graze her smooth stomach with my mouth, stopping just before the I reach the crest of her jeans.
STELLA
“Take off your clothes,” he whispers, our lips still brushing. “Then take off mine.”
He washes away any remaining hesitation with the caress of his tongue. That brief moment of hesitation stemmed from two things: the fact that, in addition to being mysterious, Cohen seems to have a hell of a lot of baggage. Baggage whic
h, as I learned today, isn’t always as clear-cut as it may seem. Scarlet was vicious. What do I know about being with a rich guy? What if I don’t have what it takes to fend off or compete with women like her, and one day, one of them wins?
The worries vanish when he pulls away from my mouth and instead uses it to drift down my body. We’ve never before explored each other in this way, and I tilt my chin up, arching my back in response to the new sensations.
I pull myself up to do as he said. I fumble to unbutton my jeans, then, when I’ve steadied myself, manage to peel them off, leaving my underwear for him. He can’t resist helping me with my top, and when I’m free of it he dives to my breasts, covering the top of them with his mouth and cupping them through my bra.
We fit together perfectly. The energy of his release sends shockwaves through my flesh, the heat of his body passing into mine and me, overcome with pleasure. My body tightens around him. He holds on to me, as if he’s desperate to not let me go.
When I open my eyes, it’s black. I tip my head to the right; Cohen is there on the pillow next to me, apparently in a deep sleep, which is where my body feels like it wants to be again right now. The memories of a few hours earlier come back all at once, and I smile to myself as I clutch the sheets over my bare breasts as though covering myself somehow matters.
I slide out from under the covers, paying special attention to not moving the mattress too much. I don’t want to wake him. He needs his sleep after today. Successfully, Cohen doesn’t stir from his silent position. He stays in place on his side, his athletic ribs rising and falling with deep, quiet breaths.
Just as swiftly, I disappear into the bathroom and close the door behind me. I turn on the light and then take a moment to gaze at my reflection in the mirror. I’m in desperate need of a shower, especially after all that. I smile to myself, thinking back. My hair falls in pieces around my face, verging on the greasy string look. I play with one before tucking it behind my ear in an attempt to make myself look more presentable to… myself. Okay. So I’m being a little vain. But it’s hard to be any other way when you’re standing naked in front of a mirror. It’s not every day that you regard yourself in such an exposed way – at least it isn’t for me. I could stand to gain some weight. My hip bones stick out slightly from my skin, echoing the appearance of my boney shoulders and collar bones.
Who would have thought this is me? Hi, I’m Stella. I just made love to a billionaire for the second time. And yet, I’m not any different. Never would I have imagined this would be my life – me, sheltered by the protection and love of a man who’s actually capable of protecting and loving me. Cohen is so different from all the others, and I’m not just talking about the fact that he’s loaded and successful.
My thoughts are interrupted by the sudden sound of a moan. Now, I know that sound. It’s Cohen. I pause, unmoving so that I can hear better, but the sound of his nightmares are no longer unfamiliar to me, so I have a pretty good idea of what’s happening. At least, I think I do. Last time, when it almost became violent, should have been my warning to leave him be and let it run its course.
I grab my robe off the back of the bathroom door and pull it around me. Once I’ve tied it around my waist, I open the door, leaving the light on to get some kind of illumination into the room. It cascades over my bed, onto where Cohen sleeps. Sure enough, he’s in the throes of another dream. He’s torn the covers off, so he’s now exposed, wearing only his boxers. His muscles ripple as they randomly tense and release in response to whatever chaos is going on inside his head. This isn’t the normal twitching response to a dream, the innocent kind like the kind you’d see in a dog. It’s movement that has the potential to be violent, movement that’s obviously fueled by something deeper, dangerous.
I sit next to him on the edge of the bed.
The last time, when I gently shook him away, he told me not to do that again. But I feel bad for him, and it’s uncomfortable seeing him like this. Besides, what if he hurts himself? I want to help him.
“Cohen,” I say. I won’t shake him; this time, I’ll just touch his shoulder.
He doesn’t wake, or even stir. His brain is stubborn – he must get into such a deep sleep when this happens.
I lean closer. I know the move is foolish, but I feel like this time around I’m prepared for whatever might happen. And when you have that knowledge close at hand, you can react quicker. At least, I hope that’s the case.
“Cohen, wake up.” He still doesn’t stop the movements, and his brow doesn’t unfurrow. I release him and stand up. “Cohen!” I finally yell.
At that, he snaps awake, his head shooting toward me, where he heard the sound of his name come from. I sit back down.
“Shit,” he says under his breath between heavy sighs. Slowly, he pushes himself up against the backboard.
“Hey,” I say softly. “You were having another dream.”
“Might as well call them what they are.” He looks around and then leans, clicking on my bedside lamp. “A fucking nightmare.”
“Well, don’t worry. You didn’t almost hurt me this time.” I bite my tongue, immediately regretting what just came out of my mouth. That was stupid. I was trying to lighten the mood, but it was a super lame attempted at a joke, and in pretty bad taste.
He brushes my slip up off and instead focuses on calming his breaths.
I try hard to convey my longing to understand. To understand him, and all of this. I reach over and swipe my fingers through his short, tussled hair. “Are you ready to tell me now?”
COHEN
It was the worst one I’ve ever had.
This time, it’s not night. It’s midday and the afternoon clouds have just begun to roll in. I’m somewhere I’ve never been before, suddenly standing in the middle of a gray pebbled road, only a few feet from a parked black limousine. Confused, I turn toward it, debating whether or not I should try to open it. Is that where I came from? Is this my limo? If so, I’d much rather get back inside. There’s a vague sense of unease out here, like a thick fog that hangs in the air. If I can just crawl back in, maybe it’ll go away.
“Cohen,” calls a voice in the distance. Judging by the sound of it, it came from far away, but it drifted down to my ears on the tail of the wind.
The voice stops me right before I’m about to try to open the door. I turn and see a woman standing on top of a small hill, looking down at me. She’s dressed almost entirely in black, and she’s gesturing to me with a wave, urging me to come to where she is for some unknown reason. Then, without waiting for a response, she turns her back to me and walks away. My attention falls to what it is that’s directly next to her, and what it is that’s around me and the stagnant limo.
I shudder. Gravestones, one right after the other, until I can only assume there are dozen. They’re all old and decrepit, and they’ve started to become overgrown with various shades of mosses and grime. I step closer to one of the stones nearest to me, bending down to my ankles to get a better look. The wording is elaborate but faded. I outstretch a finger to try to clear some of the crud away from the letters, thinking to myself that it’s a shame it’s been allowed to get this way, when the woman in black is suddenly in front of me, right behind the stone. My head shoots up at her swift appearance. Now that she’s closer, I can see her more clearly. Her hair is as black as her clothing, and it’s done up in a loose bun at the top of her head. Her eyes are a piercing, dark brown, perfectly framed by stern eyebrows, and they bore straight through me as though she knows my secrets. I have no idea who this woman is. I’ve never seen her before in my life.
“Cohen,” she says again. This time her voice is calm, steady. “Come.”
Her tone reassures me, so I follow. My feet crunch against the burned summery grass that’s trying to grow between the stones, and occasionally the tail of the woman’s long dress blows against my legs.
She stops in her tracks when we reach the top of the hill. Here, there are several other people. They’re all
gathered around a grave, but it’s not a grave like all the rest. This one is fresh. Just dug. Still open, ready for a body to be lowered in.
Things start to register, and this is too close for comfort. All at once, I don’t want to be here. That foggy unease? The one that made me want to dive back inside that limo, if that’s even where I came from in the first place? It’s grown. Now it’s so strong that it overpowers me like a sick stench. I want to cover my nose to get away from it, to buckle over, to vomit. My body is telling me to do anything else, go anywhere else but here.
I haven’t actually garnered the strength to make a move, but the mourners seem to read my mine. They all turn their heads to look at me, emotionless expressions upon their faces.
I take a step back, the only sound the whipping of the wind until my heel meets with a gravestone. I trip over it and reach out for anything to take hold of, but end up landing on my back.
At the same time that the thud reverberates through my body with shockwaves of pain, I’m suddenly back at the shore. I look around and then bring myself to my feet, clapping off my hands. The funeralgoers are gone, but I’m not alone. In front of me are the back of several strangers, staring out into the water and talking among themselves in panicked voices.
My feet are bare. I wiggle my toes, and sand embeds between them.
“Did you see that?” one says to another, pointing into the water, which contains nothing more than a blank horizon and waves. “That guy just tried to help her.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, yeah. It was him. I saw it with my own eyes.”
They turn around. Maybe I’m invisible. Maybe they’ll see right through me. I become aware of a strange sensation covering my body. My clothes suddenly feel sticky, and although the wind is the same here as it was in the cemetery, it now chills me to the bone.