Bryce: Ex-Business: An Ex-Club Romance

by Camilla Stevens

  Edie breathes out a laugh and shakes her head. “How can you be so glib about all of this? Aren’t you worried?”

  I shrug. “Worrying solves nothing. I’d rather drink and be merry. How’s that for a toast?”

  She gives me a half-hearted smile as she raises her glass. “That’s at least something I can lift my glass to.”

  “There’s the spirit!” I say, enthusiastically tapping my glass to hers.

  “Mmm,” she says, closing her eyes after her first sip. “I definitely needed this tonight. Thanks.”

  “Always happy to be of service, Edie.”

  Her eyes flash open and she gives me a suspicious look.

  I just keep my gaze focused directly on her without wavering.

  “Okay, I have to ask. What is it that turns your mouth into a fountain of sexual innuendos when I’m around? Is this your way of flirting or do you just get off on annoying me?”

  “Yes,” I reply with a grin.

  She coughs out a soft laugh. “So we’re back to being in high school, is that it?”

  “Even that depraved teenager in me couldn’t fathom the things I’d love to do with you, Edie.”

  She’s already twisted slightly to face me, but now she shifts under the weight of those words, pulling her legs up underneath her. Instead of responding, she hides behind her glass of cognac.

  “The thrill is in the hunt, and the only thing you do by continuing to spar with me, rebuffing every advance I make, is make yourself more desirable prey,” I continue.

  “So if I had sex with you, you’d leave me alone?” she asks, one eyebrow raised.

  “I’m willing to put that theory to the test,” I say with a solemn, academic look. “For the sake of science.”

  She laughs and shakes her head. After taking another sip she tilts her head to the side to consider me. “It was only one night. I don’t even remember most of it.”

  “Is that really true?” I ask in a way that doesn’t even hint at being a question. I had the only proof I needed that she remembered every touch, every moan of pleasure, every damn orgasm; it was in the way she looked at me the next time we saw each other after that night.

  She remembers every damn minute of it.

  “I was drunk.”

  “So was I.”

  “Good sex never comes from too much drinking.”

  “Yet another theory I’d not only put to the test for the sake of science, I’d bet money on it not being true.”

  She shifts again, now taking a longer sip as she looks off to the side uncomfortably. “We’re supposed to be commiserating about our respective magazines.”

  “Is that what you really want to talk about tonight?”

  “Yes,” she insists, her eyes coming back to me as though I’m absurd for even suggesting otherwise. “I mean, if you’re expecting sex tonight—something that wasn’t on the table in the first place—then, surely you must realize that I’m far too stressed out to even think about such a thing.”

  “In which case, sex is even more urgently needed. No better stress reliever out there.”

  “Bryce,” she protests.

  “Okay, okay,” I say raising my free hand. “No more talk about sex.”

  “Thank you,” she says with a firm nod of approval.

  “After you answer one question.”

  She coughs out an incredulous laugh. “You just don’t give up, do you?”

  “Come on, humor me. One question.”

  She takes a sip of her drink and sighs, waving a hand my way. “Okay, ask away. I don’t promise an answer, mind you.”

  I stare at her, remembering how she was that night seven years ago. It was a casual mixer at a bar, a way for the new students to get to know one another. Network, network, network, as they say. Edie wore a white blouse and skin-tight jeans. Even then, I knew she had great legs. I’d had my eye on her since I first saw her and didn’t waste much time making my move.

  “Why were you so skittish around me after that night?” I ask her. “I thought we had something there, even if we were drunk.”

  Her eyelashes flap in surprise. “Don’t you know? I figured you of all people would.”

  Now, it’s my turn to show surprise. I had no idea there was a legitimate reason behind her ambivalence, if not outright animosity after the fact.

  If I didn’t know before, I damn sure want to know now.

  “Know what?” I ask.

  “I was basically the class whore after that. Lila Tanner told me that you had already made the rounds that night, trying to get into every woman’s pants at that mixer. I was the fool gullible enough to fall for you.”

  I stare at Edie, wondering if this is just some made-up excuse. When I see the truth in her gaze, I laugh.

  Which is so damn stupid.

  Chapter Seven

  Edie

  “Are you kidding me?” I exclaim, ready to pick up what’s left of my Hennessy and throw it in Bryce’s face. “I’m glad you find that so funny. And you wonder why I avoided you after the fact.”

  “I’m laughing because it’s so ridiculous,” he says, calming down. “First of all, why would you listen to anything Lila had to say? She had her claws dug deep into everyone’s back in her attempted rise to the top. Anything she could say to throw you off your game before classes even began, trust me, she’d do it.”

  Before I can even consider that, which has a grain of truth to it if I’m being honest, Bryce moves in closer.

  “Secondly, she was only mad because she made a pass at me, and…I passed.” He grins and brings his arm up to rest on the couch behind me. “In favor of you, Edie.”

  I’m unsure what to say. I fill the silence with my cognac as I eye Bryce over the rim.

  It’s that same feeling I had when he first approached me at that bar seven years ago. I was speechless. I figured at some point one of my fellow classmates might make a move on me. I hadn’t expected it to be him. Bryce had already ingratiated himself to all our fellow classmates, the life of the party after only one week. Everyone liked him, even the professors. More than a few women wanted him. I was certainly one of them.

  And he wanted me.

  But my rational side took control of the wheel, steering me well away from the distraction that would cause. I was in business school solely for the sake of turning Contempo Woman into a bigger success than it already was. Getting involved with some Lothario who was probably only at Columbia Business School to satisfy Daddy’s wishes—I knew all about the Wilmington family even back then—was just a recipe for disaster.

  That was before the first glass of Hennessy he ordered for me.

  The same thing I’m drinking now.

  “Nothing to say yet again?” he teases, that grin growing wider.

  But I see the longing in his eyes telling me that he doesn’t just want a valid response, he needs it.

  Maybe I’m once again underestimating him.

  “I just…” I look away and sip before turning back to look at him and continuing. “I didn’t want to be that woman. The one who threw herself at a guy. The one who everyone knew got laid that night. I knew what our class thought of my magazine, or rather my mother’s. It was bad enough growing up with her, seeing how everyone reacted to her. Why do you think I go by Edie, not Lola? I already had a mark against me, and I wanted to be taken seriously.”

  “So you moved onto a more serious man,” he says before turning his attention to his drink. I’m surprised to note the undercurrent of resentment in his voice.

  Why on earth he’d be jealous of Reggie of all people is beyond me. I mean, Reggie had a certain charm that won me over, but, especially in retrospect, it was a manufactured charm. As fake as his perpetual tan and the over-styled hair. At the time, he seemed ambitious and truly interested in connecting with me. Again, in retrospect, I should have known it was my connections to the entertainment industry. He eventually found out those connections were quite tenuous, at least as far as his aims. There’s qu
ite a leap from Broadway and RuPaul’s Drag Race to R&B and pop music.

  “You certainly moved on pretty quickly as well,” I point out.

  “Only because you shot me down the next day. A direct bullet to the head which made it perfectly clear you wanted nothing to do with me.”

  “I may have…gone a bit overboard with that.”

  “Overboard?” He repeats with a harsh laugh. “If I may quote you directly, ‘It obviously wasn’t that good because I don’t remember a thing, which makes it even more of a mistake.’”

  I wince, imagining how much that must have stung.

  “Like I said, overboard,” I repeat, feeling ashamed, just as I did right after the first time I uttered those words. “But you had to realize where I was coming from. Lila had just basically called me a slut. I’m pretty sure the entire class thought I was a running joke when I first got there. And the resident class clown with more money to his name than anyone else had just used me as a notch in his belt.”

  “You were never a notch in my belt, Edie,” he says, almost angry.

  I swallow more of my cognac, really starting to feel it now. “I’m sorry, Bryce. Really I am. There was no reason for me to be so cruel. I just felt so ridiculous at the time, like a laughing stock.”

  He groans and throws his head back. I watch him from behind my glass as I sip, wondering what’s coming next.

  Bryce brings his head back down to consider me, squinting one eye. “Do you honestly not remember anything about it?”

  I sit up straighter to mask the feelings that hit me as my mind teleports me back to that night.

  Of course I remember everything. Every touch, every word. The way he made my body feel. His disarming charm that had me so at ease, enough to completely let go.

  “I…” I don’t want to lie. But telling him the truth now would be—

  Wait a second, why are we even discussing this? We should be commiserating over our magazines.

  Shit. My magazine. It hangs precariously on the edge of a cliff of complete dissolution and here I am reminiscing about sex. Good sex, yes. Unforgettable, frankly. But still…

  “You do!” Bryce sits up to face me with an accusatory grin on his face. He throws his head back and laughs. “I knew it. No wonder you moved in across the hall.”

  “Wait a second!” I protest, trying to reclaim some of my dignity. “I moved in because of Kitty Edelman, obviously. Had I known the only available unit would be right across the hall from you of all people…”

  “Come on, not even a little bit because you knew I lived here?” he teases, shooting me that frustratingly adorable grin.

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, rolling my eyes and finishing my drink. I set it down on the coffee table.

  “Oh no you don’t,” he says, instantly rising to get the bottle of Hennessy and bring it back to pour me more.

  I should protest.

  I should just get up and walk out now before we go down a road I can’t walk back from.

  I’m already picturing what our morning strolls to the elevator would look like if I let it go too far.

  Talk about a walk of shame.

  I pick up the newly poured glass.

  I’m already this close to being fucked by the owner of my magazine. I might as well get fucked in a far more pleasurable way while I’m at it.

  Not that I plan on sleeping with Bryce.

  That’s just the cognac talking.

  “So,” Bryce says with a grin, twisting to face me as he crooks one arm on the back of the couch. “Where were we?”

  “We were discussing a possible solution to our magazine problems.”

  “Screw the magazines,” he says, waving a dismissive hand.

  “Spoken like someone who has the Wilmington fortune to fall back on.”

  “You say that like it’s not akin to literally falling on the sword,” he says with a bitter twist to his lips as he takes a sip of his drink. He gives me a skeptical look. “Besides, the daughter of Cassandra LeFleur and Alfred Hartman should have no problems landing on her feet.”

  “Talk about falling on the sword,” I sigh, already imagining the absurd circles each of them run in.

  To say my parents had a marriage of convenience would be an insult to fake marriages. Even back then, Dad was flamingly gay and Mom continued to have affairs with half the men in Manhattan. But Dad needed to put on a “straight” face for his grandmother’s inheritance and mom, well, she just wanted to do something daring.

  Although they never came out and said it, I suspect I was adopted because of the novelty of raising a black child. They did it long before Madonna made it fashionable. In his defense, Dad at least wanted children and he was a wonderful and caring, if embarrassingly flamboyant, father. Mom…well, she certainly helped me grow up fast.

  That said, the “King of the Gays” and the “Most Notorious Woman in New York” certainly have their fair share of connections. Not necessarily the kind I’d love taking advantage of, unfortunately.

  “So, I suppose we both have means at our disposal,” I say.

  “At the risk of hara-kiri.”

  I breathe out a laugh. “Most people would kill to be so lucky.”

  “True,” he says, lifting his glass before taking a sip.

  I crook my elbow and lean my head on my fist to stare at him. “So what are you going to do?”

  “Tonight, I’m drinking.” He lifts his glass again, this time toward me. I smile and tap mine to his again before taking a sip. “And hopefully getting laid.”

  I nearly spit out my sip of cognac.

  Bryce chuckles as he swallows his sip.

  “Is your mind constantly on sex?”

  “Only when I’m around you, Lola.”

  I untuck one leg to kick him lightly.

  Look who’s suddenly playful. If it wasn’t for the cognac, I’d read the writing on the wall and make my escape.

  Bryce gives me a keen look. “Set your glass down and give me your hand.”

  “What?”

  “Just do it.”

  I study him for a moment, my eyes narrowing with suspicion.

  Oh, what the hell. I’ve come this far.

  I set my glass down and give him my hand, still leaning my head against my other arm crooked on the couch.

  He takes hold of it, pressing his thumb into the center of my palm.

  “What are you doing?” I protest, trying to free myself from his grip. He holds on tightly.

  Bryce smiles and lets his eyes drop to my hand still in his. “This? It’s just an experiment.”

  He slowly begins to trail his thumb across my palm, tracing the lines then sliding it around and over the fat part near my thumb.

  It tickles.

  And does something else that makes me squirm and clench my thighs together.

  “Stop,” I whisper. I snatch my hand away, curling it against my thigh to make the sensation disappear.

  Bryce chuckles as he picks up his glass to drink. “It’s surprising where the erogenous zones on the body are.”

  I breathe out a laugh. “Is that what you were trying to do? Turn me on?”

  “Did it work?”

  “No,” I lie.

  “Well then no, I wasn’t trying to turn you on,” he says with a smirk.

  I laugh and reach out for my glass of cognac. I take a sip, eyeing him over the rim. After swallowing, I raise one eyebrow, feeling a bit devil-may-care-ish.

  “So what would you do if you were trying to turn me on?” I ask before taking another long sip.

  His brow rises as he swallows the sip he just took. He sets his glass down again. “Give me your hand.”

  “Haven’t we been over this already?”

  “Not the way I want to,” he says with a piercing look.

  I twist my lips, but I’m intrigued (inebriated) enough to set my glass down and give him my hand again.

  The tips of his fingers once again rest against the palm of my hand. “The thin
g about seduction is, it’s no different from hunting. There is a definite intersect between the two. The seducer and the object of his attraction. The predator and the object of his hunger. It all leads to the same thing: conquest.”

  “Is that so?” I ask, a hint of cynicism in my voice. Where is he going with this? Still, I can’t deny feeling his hand holding mine is…nice. Maybe even a bit dangerous.

  Perhaps he has a point.

  “Don’t tell me you plan on killing me,” I joke.

  “Funny you should ask. The French have a word for orgasm, petit mort. The little death.”

  Leave it to the French.

  “But back to hunting,” he says, all hints of humor gone from his gaze. “Just look at the human body, it’s a treasure trove for any predator—to eat or to fuck. Take for example the spots on which most women spray a hint of perfume, an intoxicating scent to lure someone in.”

  “Are you saying women are the hunters?” I ask with a crooked smile.

  “Magnificently so,” he replies with a grin.

  I breathe out a laugh. “Okay, go on.”

  His fingers dance across my palm to the part of my wrist exposed beneath the sleeve of my blouse. I wonder if it’s the way his fingertips feel against the skin there that makes it seem so tender.

  “The wrists.”

  He sets my hand down and I inhale sharply when those fingers come up to trace a line along my throat. They linger against the jugular, which has to be visibly pulsating considering how rapidly my heart is beating.

  “The throat,” he says with a definite gleam in his eye as he holds my gaze captive.

  His hand drops to my lap. My legs are pressed together, bent to the side. His hand slides down to the crease where they meet. His access to the tenderest part is barred by my position, but that doesn’t make his touch any less dangerous. He traces a line right down the crease where they press together in the middle.

  “The inner thigh,” he says in a low voice.

  His hand comes up around to caress the curve of my hip, then down the side of my thigh to the back of my knee, firmly tucked away. His fingertips dance along the top of the crook as though taunting the delicate flesh hidden beneath it.