by Isabel Jolie
The first photo, posted one hour earlier, showed a close-up of her eyes. The caption read, “Practicing the cat eye. Click to see a real pro do it.” She scheduled her posts, so she could have posted it at any time. I recognized it for what it was–a promotional share. No doubt her cat eye friend posted something sending viewers to Poppy’s page.
I studied the close-up. Those large, luminous blue eyes sparkled, maybe a shade more turquoise than in person. Her smooth skin revealed a flawless, poreless complexion. I could hear her now, telling me how she used an app to brighten her face. Maybe…but she didn’t need a photo app. I wished she’d pick up the damn phone so I could talk to her. Tell her I was making progress. Find out how she was doing. Hear her laugh.
I scrolled down, searching for a photo that showed more of the curves that had been noticeably absent from my bed the past week. I paused on the image and ran the pad of my thumb over her breasts, as a very real visual of the real thing came to mind. With a frustrated huff, I scrolled further.
An announcement in bright magenta letters read, “OMG! Joining forces with Paragon Media Publishing from SPAIN!!!”
I held the phone farther away, scrutinizing the message and the following exclamation filled rant about how honored she was. I typed in Paragon Media into my browser field and clicked on the first search result. I sat up and hurled the phone onto the coffee table. It bounced twice and clattered loudly on the floor.
Unfuckingbelievable.
She refused my investment dollars, and instead decided to join forces with an international pornography conglomerate. This whole time, I thought she was above that shit. Held herself to higher standards. Rationalized she was simply a celebrity of sorts, selling glimpses into her life and photos of herself in various outfits and poses. But no, money—that’s all she wanted. And she was willing to do it all to get it.
The house sucked out the oxygen around me. I’d spent too many days in the same damn living room and kitchen configuration. Too many days in the tiny one-window office. An office with a window looking out on pavers and asphalt, no less.
Fuck all of this. If there was ever a sign it was time to move on, to return to the city, get back to my life and kick some ass, this was it.
I opened the door and walked barefoot onto the deck. The wind whipped my hair, and the mist soaked my skin and dampened my clothes. I breathed in the salty air and attempted to clear my head.
I wouldn’t fly back in this weather. But I might be able to hop on a commercial flight out tonight. Or I could stick to my plan and fly myself back tomorrow afternoon. Every ounce of my being screamed to get off the island, away from this blasted suffocating shithole.
I stormed inside and threw my suitcase onto the bed. I began throwing clothes into a rumpled pile but stopped at the smooth touch of silk. Holding the straps of her chemise, I dangled the delicate item, suspended in air. She still has all her crap here.
My steps thundered down the stairs to the guest room she’d been using for closet space. Her two suitcases rested on the top ledge of the closet. I filled them with everything of hers I could find. Disbelief I’d attempted to introduce her to my mother shook through me. My mother. I fucking knew better. I’d been camping out on this island, and all for what? Because of a woman who sold herself to the highest bidder?
I loaded the suitcases and sped down Federal Road, the most direct path to her house. I supposed she’d be making enough money now she could keep her precious marina location. One helluva way to stay. Fuck. Reed was right. Should’ve just let him name his price. Wouldn’t be any different than the future she chose.
Incensed, I skidded to a stop outside her place. Some old lady waved as she and her pissant dog walked by. I shot her a glare in return. So ready to get off this island.
I lugged the suitcases, one in each hand, up her deck. I pounded twice, hard, on her doorframe then headed back to my cart. The rain picked up, and my pace did too.
“Gabe?” She leaned over the railing, wearing ripped jeans, a white t-shirt, and glasses that gave her the appearance of intelligence.
I stood in the rain, torn between taking off without another word and rushing onto the deck and letting her hear exactly how I felt about her selling out.
Her concerned expression transformed as her temper flared. Her hand went onto her hip as if she’d been rubbed the wrong way and was about to let me have it.
Oh, sweetheart. I don’t fucking think so.
I jumped over the ridiculous white picket fence and charged up to her.
“What exactly is your problem?” I glared at her, furious she could even think about being angry at me.
“What’s yours? Are mommy and daddy gone now? Are you upset I didn’t skip back over and play house?”
“Play? You know what? It’s enlightening to hear how you viewed us. Really. It is. Thanks for that.” I pointed past her at her scratched up old luggage. “I think I got everything. If I missed something, Tate will have a key. Help yourself to whatever you want. Hell…feel free to use it for filming. Burn any sheets you use.”
I spun around and gripped a white spoke, prepared to hop over the fence to my cart when a sharp pain sliced my leg. Fuck. Dark red blood trickled down my leg. Fucking rose bush.
“Watch out for the roses.” She spun around, leaving me in the rain, bleeding. She reached her suitcases then threw a hand on her hip. “Wait a minute.” With slow steps, she returned to the railing. “Filming?” Her hands fell to the railing. “You saw the announcement?”
“Yep.” My attention fell to my ankle and the vine that had snagged my sock. I shouldn’t have worn flip flops with socks.
“So, your assumption is what?” The careful articulation of each word warned me. But I didn’t give a shit.
“Why don’t you tell me? What did you agree to when you signed on with a pornography conglomerate?”
“Chesterton, you’re a fucking moron.”
“How so?” I called. She lugged her suitcases inside, and the screen door slammed. I kicked back my leg and swallowed the sharp pain. I ran up her steps and pounded on the door. “How so? How am I the moron? You don’t have to do that shit. You have everything in front of you. How exactly am I the moron?” I screamed at the top of my lungs. The same old lady stood still on the sidewalk across the street and watched. Fine. Enjoy the show.
I snapped the screen door open, and it closed behind me with a bang.
Poppy faced me, her right foot tapping out an angry beat. Her cheeks flushed. Her naked blue eyes glowed against her freshly washed face, the cat eyes gone.
“First, you’re a hypocrite. You watch porn. You subscribe to porn. But yet you wouldn’t want me to do porn.”
“Hell, yeah!” I shouted at her. “Call me hypocritical. Fine by me. I don’t want the woman I—I don’t want you doing porn. And you don’t want to do it. Maybe it’s fine for some women, but you’re not proud of what you’re doing now. This will tear you apart…and you don’t need the money, so don’t pull that bullshit excuse—”
“I sold my account to them. I’m not working for them.”
“Bullshit. I saw the posts.”
“And there’ll be posts for months into the future. Everything is scheduled. They’ve taken over. They have access to years of photos they now own. And all my subs. They’ll weave in other talent.”
“Talent? That’s what you call it?”
“What the fuck is your problem? I thought you’d be fucking happy. Isn’t that what you wanted all along?”
I couldn’t look at her anymore. I gripped the edge of the counter. Anger vibrated around me. I had the inexplicable urge to rip the marble countertop right off and throw it against the wall.
She glared right back at me, fire flashing through the blue.
“You’re bleeding on my floor. Clean it up before you leave.” Arms crossed, she rocked back on her heels and waited.
I gritted my teeth and tore off a paper towel. I ran it under the tap and kicked my foot up onto
the counter so I could wipe away the red. With each wipe of the cold paper, my anger simmered. With care, I slipped off my thorn filled sock and dumped it into her trash can.
Breathing heavily, exhaling a shit load of anger, I looked around the room. Taped up moving boxes lined her back wall. I shook my hair out like a wet dog.
“Congratulations,” I offered. “I hope you struck a good deal.”
“There’s still blood on the floor. Clean it up. Then leave.”
A mellow Jack Johnson tune hummed in the background, and I focused on the words, letting the acoustic guitar coax me back to a rational place. I bent down on my knee. My cleaning attempt smeared the dark substance more than removed it, so I gathered up more towels.
“You do know that my not taking your investment dollars has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with me. I’ve explained that to you before.”
“Explain it again,” I challenged her. Not that I cared, not really. But, for the sake of argument, it seemed like a good idea to be in the know.
“I want to do this on my own. I don’t want to be dependent on anyone.”
“But Suzette? It’s fine to take her on as a partner?”
“How’d you know about that?”
“Do you really think Tate doesn’t keep me updated?”
She rolled her eyes and backed up until she leaned against the wall with her arms crossed. “She’s different. She’s a business partner.”
“I would’ve been a business partner.”
“Hhmmm…yes and no.”
I raised an eyebrow, prompting her to explain.
“You see, my emotions got involved. And it’s too similar…I need to do this on my own. Have my own business.”
“Too similar to your mom?” I asked. She hadn’t told me much, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to fill in the blanks behind five marriages.
“I’m sure you’d be a solid investment partner.” Her glare softened, and I couldn’t remember exactly what we were arguing about. I didn’t mind that she picked someone else as a business partner, but we had other issues. I gripped the counter and focused on the tile floor, gathering my thoughts.
She sold her subscribers.
She’s not doing porn.
But she’d still been freezing me out.
“You got my text? I did bring my parents by.” You can apologize to me now.
“I’ve been swamped.”
“And you couldn’t bring yourself to text me? Not even a ‘hey, got your text’?”
A trace of amusement flashed. “I might have been a tad miffed.”
“Well, I’ll give it to you. You can do the cold shoulder like none other.” I’d had girls try to pull that shit before, but never had anyone done it quite as well as Poppy. I’d been checking my phone continually since my first unanswered text.
She walked around me and slid open a narrow kitchen drawer. She lifted a small yellow tube of ointment and tapped the counter. “Kick your leg up here. Let me clean it up for you.”
Her light, gentle touch soothed. I tucked her hair back behind her ear, so I could see her face as she hunted for injuries.
“I missed you.”
“Missed you, too.” She paused from her work to give me a sad smile, then resumed lightly fingering my leg hair, searching for broken skin. She tapped my calf. “Good as new.”
I lowered my foot to the floor as she returned the tube to the cram-packed drawer. I closed the distance between us. When she turned back to me, I tilted her mouth up to mine. I waited, searching for permission. Her lids half-closed, and she inched closer. I pressed my lips to hers. She opened up to me, and I reveled in her sweetness. Her soft curves pressed against me, and I rocked her up against the counter.
She pressed her palm to my chest and pushed, gasping for air as we broke apart.
“What are we doing, Gabe?”
“What feels good.” Her reaction confused me.
“You’re going back to New York?” The tip of her nail brushed my lip.
“Yeah. I am.” I could tell her it would be for a short while, that I’d return. But that would be a lie. And I’d always been honest with her.
Her eyes glistened, and something deep inside me punctured, as if someone drove an ice pick into my sternum.
“If things were different, I’d be planning for the long-term. We’d be having a different conversation.” Surprise flashed, and I couldn’t blame her. The truth shocked me, too.
“If things were different…how?” She sounded small asking the question, vulnerable, and I hated that idea, that I’d had a role in making her insecure in any way.
“You’re launching a business here. And I belong—”
“In the city. I know.”
“This week is going to be a big week for me. I have a lot of legal meetings. I’m close to putting the bullshit behind me. Then I’ll start something new. Building out a new fund, it’s intensive.” Grueling, stressful, thrilling.
“We were never meant for forever.” Her emotion threatened to choke her words.
“You deserve the world. The best of everything. Your drive to succeed—on your own. All the people who ever tried to put you down, I hope you smear your business success in their face.”
Her bottom lip quivered, and I kissed her. Not a deep kiss. Just pressed my lips to hers.
The rain outside picked up and pattered against the glass panes over the sink, drawing our attention outside.
“You drove your open cart over. Won’t be fun driving back in this rain.” She stared out the window, and I leaned down and breathed her in. Her palm held my jaw, and her thumb brushed against my scruff. I closed my eyes to memorize the sensation. “Why don’t you plan on staying? One last night?”
Chapter 28
Poppy
* * *
Even as I said the words, I questioned them. Why on Earth would I have him stay the night, when he was leaving tomorrow? My insides already hurt. Throbbed.
But I missed him. And I was gonna hurt no matter what. I wanted to experience him one more time. And for this reason, without hope for anything more, I led him up the stairs to my bedroom and closed the door.
The rain outside pattered against the windowpane and ran down the glass in thick streams. The sun remained hidden behind an overcast sky, but enough late afternoon rays filtered through the window to light the room. In the shadows, he could see me.
He wrapped me in his arms and kissed me, slow and sweet. He must’ve had bourbon at some point in the day because he tasted like candy. Delectable and delicious. We shifted on our feet, neither of us in a rush, a slow, undulating dance without rhythm or reason.
His touch on my sensitive skin sent jolts all over me, overpowering my ripped heart. The relief would be temporary, but I wanted it, I needed it. One last time.
As I undressed in front of him, I didn’t hide. For our last time, I wanted him to see me, the real me. The flawed me. The one with tears running rampant. The one with lumps and squish.
Those green eyes. I memorized the way they looked at me. With more than adoration. It was a look I didn’t dare to describe in my head.
But then, as we came together and he filled me, the words came to me. With each thrust, he grunted out, “Love you.” Each time he said it, inside me, I chanted the truth. With every fiber of my being, I loved him. Over and over again, he said the words. Our bodies moved as one. We brought ourselves to the edge, and trembling, sweaty, spent, we let go.
I wasn’t fool enough to believe he meant it. Even afterward, as we held each other, his heartbeat close enough to mine the reverberations of each beat pulsed deep within my core, so close I could swear our hearts synched. His caress, each brush of his lips, his attentive touch—I hoped to remember it always. This, I told myself, was what it felt like to be cared for. Not loved, I refused to be that deep of a fool.
I let myself fall asleep in his arms and allowed myself to dream. A mix of daydream and nightdream, a vision of a future with Gabri
el. A future as his girlfriend, and I met his mother, and we bought a Christmas tree together. I didn’t allow my crazy brain more than a holiday season, but god, I loved how my senseless dreams warmed me from within.
I allowed myself to dream for hours, as we clung to each other. He would wake with need, almost as if his body were aware and wanted its own goodbye. It was a night of little sleep, and distorted, soothing, dreams.
As the morning sun rose, I gathered my strength. I left him, sleeping in my bed. He had New York City awaiting him. And I had realistic dreams.
“Where are you?”
“Lord, woman…I’m almost there. I can see you.” I thrust my hand in the air from the boardwalk, so she could see me through the swaying grass over the dunes.
She eyed me speculatively as I approached. My lack of sleep showed. My sex-tousled hair had been pulled up in a mad bun, and the frizz wouldn’t lay down. Some of my flattened curls stuck out in straight lines. I’d stared at myself for a good sixty seconds, redid the bun with zero improvement, and hustled down to bow to my morning god—also known as my coffee maker.
“Late night?” she asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“Your t-shirt is inside out.” She grinned. “And you’re normally more put together. Only person I know who applies mascara and an eyebrow pencil to go for a walk.”
“Oh, shit. I totally forgot about my face. Here, hand over your sunglasses.”
“What?”
“Snap, snap. I look like a ghost without my eyes. Damn light blonde eyebrows. How could I forget my eyes?”
She passed over her shades but pulled her hand back when I went to take them. “Too much to drink last night?” she asked, but the suspicion in her expression told me she was doing the math in her head, and it didn’t add up.