by Hart, Staci
Not anymore, whether I liked it or not.
8
The Curious Case of the Missing Orgasms
KASH
I should have known I was walking into trouble the second I saw Ivy and Tess eyeing each other across the work table the next morning.
“Kash,” Ivy started, arms folded, “settle something for us.”
I set down the buckets of zinnias on the table. “Lay it on me.”
“How many times would you let your girlfriend go without an orgasm before you upped your game?” Ivy said without batting a lash.
A surprised snort. “Zero.”
“See?” Ivy gestured to me. “Good guys don’t let their ladies go orgasmless.”
Tess laughed, rolling her eyes. “You don’t think Lila at least faked it? How do you know he knew she wasn’t orgasming?”
The knowledge that we were talking about Lila struck me like a bell, reverberating down my spine. I caught myself frowning and schooled my face.
“Because she told me, you ninny. He’s a doctor, Tess. He should understand female anatomy.”
“I mean, in theory,” Tess answered.
“Lila thinks it’s because he’s too hot to have to try,” Ivy noted.
“Is that a thing?” I asked dubiously.
“Oh, it’s a thing,” she assured me. “The really hot ones go one of two ways—either they’re gods or complete duds. There is no in-between. Size of ego usually has something to do with it. Any man who would take a woman to bed thinking she was the lucky one has it all wrong.”
“I think you’re just mad at Brock,” Tess said, turning back to the arrangement she was working on.
“Damn right I’m mad at Brock. She came home last night a mess, and it’s his fault. He wasted her time and her love. I shudder to think what he said to her to have shaken her up like he did.”
“You don’t even know if he was there,” Tess argued.
“Oh, he was there. I know my sister.” Ivy huffed. “Stupid jerk. Of all the low down, dirty ways he could have played her, that was the worst.”
This time when I frowned, there was no stopping it. “Brock?”
“Her stupid boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend.” Ivy sulked, grabbing a zinnia and snipping its stem like it was Brock’s inattentive member. “She walked in on him nailing a Felix Femme in their entryway last week. After she busted her ass in the flower bed.”
I leaned a hip on the table, folding my arms. A flash of rage burned through my chest like a meteor. “Which Femme?”
“Natasha. And worse—Lila has to see her practically daily, what with her sister’s wedding and all. God, you should have seen her when she came over after she caught him, still covered in greenhouse dirt.”
“She must have been furious,” Tess said.
“The opposite. She was matter-of-fact, completely calm and collected and in fixer mode. But that’s Lila. Whatever she felt, she kept it locked up or reserved it for when she was alone. In fact, she insisted it was a good thing. That she’d somehow learned something vital, thus saving herself. But I know she’s hurting. She thought they were going to get married, for God’s sake.” Ivy shook her head, brows drawn with concern. “I’ve always hated him, but now I could rip his face off and shove it down his throat like baloney.”
“How long were they together?” I asked carefully, hungry for details and shocked that any man could be so ungrateful.
“Two years. I always thought he was a douchebag, but I never suspected he’d sleep with a girl who couldn’t even drink—and right there in their apartment.”
“And what makes him such a douche? He sounds like a stupid asshole, but not exactly a douchebag.”
“Let me count the ways,” Ivy said, ticking off points on her fingers. “He’s a poor little rich boy, obsessed with status. Constantly talks about himself. Tells bad jokes. Didn’t give my sister the orgasms she so clearly deserves. Wears too much cologne. Cheats on her with reality TV stars. His name belongs to a weatherman—Brock Bancroft,” she scoffed. “Should I go on?”
I chuckled, imagining some weatherman type with a booming voice and too many teeth. I couldn’t picture Lila with a man like that. She was too immaculate, too enterprising to settle for anything less than equal to her. Not that I knew her, I reminded myself once again. But the woman she chose to show the world was solid and unflinching. A woman who took no shit and accepted nothing less than the best.
How she’d ended up with some shitbag who didn’t even give her orgasms was beyond me, a nonsensical concept with no grounds in reality.
To have something end like that was brutal, unforgivable
Ivy continued on her teardown of Brock the Cock, as she lovingly called him. Lila’d moved in with Ivy for a little while, I learned as Ivy went on, and was sleeping in the nursery. Last night, she’d gone back to get her things, and it hadn’t gone well. Ivy didn’t know what had happened though, and Lila hadn’t clued her in. This was apparently Lila’s modus operandi—she gave nothing away, played it close to the vest.
Several pieces of the puzzle clicked into place as I turned the knowledge over in my mind. When we’d met at Skylight after her tumble into the black-eyed Susans, she’d looked like she hadn’t slept, and now I knew the who of it. Her ideas about love and liars, the fury with which she spoke about relationships, all made sense. And now, Lila Parker was single—and heartbroken, if Ivy was to be believed.
A familiar sense of protectiveness bloomed in my ribs, common when I came across someone being mistreated. Lila seemed indestructible, and to think that someone had found a way to hurt her felt obscene, sacrilegious. I wondered how she might ever mend her heart, knowing time would help, distance. But her job required her to be around the very object of their demise—Natasha Felix. I could only imagine how painful seeing her would be, and to have to bottle it all up in order to perform? It seemed too much burden to carry, though I had a feeling that Lila shouldered it with grace and determination.
“What she needs is a rebound,” Ivy said to the tops of the zinnias. “Somebody to pound her into oblivion, but someone disposable. Someone who she won’t catch feelings for. Somebody to make her forget Brock the Cock ever existed.”
A lightbulb flashed over my head, and I blinked at its brightness.
“When in the world does she even have time to meet someone like that?” Tess asked. “She works eighty hours a week. I’m not even convinced she does such human things like eat and sleep.”
Ivy sighed. “I don’t know. She doesn’t believe in dating apps.”
Good, I thought to myself. Because I knew a guy who might fit the bill, someone who checked all the boxes.
Pound her into oblivion—check.
Make her forget Brock existed—check.
Disposable—check.
There was no danger of Lila Parker catching feelings for me. I couldn’t be convinced she didn’t actually hate me. But maybe I could help her move on.
She deserved to be appreciated by a man. She needed to know her ex was the anomaly, not the norm.
And if she was interested, I might just be the man to prove it to her.
9
A Good Smiting
LILA
I woke the next morning with a renewed optimism and Brock firmly in my rearview mirror, and for a full week, I maintained that attitude with the white-knuckled will of a Spartan.
Ivy and Dean had let me slide into the apartment that night without pressing me for details, and I offered none. I’d gone to sleep in the comfort of my own clothes and the scent of my soap on my skin, the only familiar things about my circumstance.
Truth was, I was glad for the company. It forced me to retain my civility and togetherness, to pretend I was fine. I found that the longer you pretended a thing, the sooner it became reality. And I wanted to be fine, to be over it. Pretending was useful that way. And as long as I kept myself busy, it’d soon be a speck on the horizon at my back.
For a whole week, that was exactly what
I told myself, repeating it again as I stood on the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the sweeping neo-Gothic church casting me its shade.
I saw the cavalcade of black Escalades the moment they turned onto Fifth, a string of them with opaque windows and drivers in suits, screeching to a halt in front of the church.
Doors opened almost simultaneously, and the retinue of the Femmes poured out. Camera crews first, then assistants, then bodyguards. Paparazzi materialized, flashes bursting. Five vehicles for five Femmes, who stepped onto the sidewalk nearly in blonde, leggy unison.
Sorina, the matriarch, took the hand of a bulldoggish giant wearing wraparound sunglasses, a suit, and a stern look. She had recently celebrated her fiftieth birthday but had not aged past thirty, thanks to advancements in plastic surgery. The five of them converged, heading toward me like a military chevron, all fashion and grace and unearthly beauty. Flanked by bodyguards with menacing looks toward the paparazzi, they carried on unaffected, two cameramen in their wake. The groom, Jordan Holt, was at Angelika’s side with nothing but smoldering looks and Jesus hair and a suit he wore as easily as a regular guy would jeans and a T-shirt.
I smiled, creating a blank spot in my mind where Natasha stood.
“Lila, darling,” Sorina said with a perfect smile, and we air-kissed in greeting. “Are they ready for us?”
“All set. Sister Marilla is waiting to show us around the church, and then Angelika and Jordan will meet with Father Dickman.”
Natasha snickered. I wasn’t the only one to ignore her, though Angelika flicked a glare in her direction, full lips set in warning.
“Come then,” Sorina said, linking arms with Angelika, the picture of mother-daughter joy. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”
I led them inside, past the brass doors carved with saints where Sister Marilla waited, hands in the pocket of her habit, her face bovine and kind. She wore an innocent sweetness that made me wonder if she’d relocated to New York from somewhere more remote. Like North Dakota.
“Hello,” she said cheerily, extending a hand to Sorina. “It’s so nice to meet you. You can call me Sister, or Marilla, or Sister Marilla, if you’d like. And,” she said with a flush of her sagging cheeks, “forgive me, but there are so many of you, and I’ve forgotten your names.”
A derisive sound came from Natasha at the slight—the vast majority of America knew them on sight—but Sorina, ever gracious, only smiled and introduced her daughters, oldest to youngest, who stepped forward one by one like the Von Trapps to shake the aging nun’s thin hand. Alexandra, Sofia, Angelika and Jordan, and at last, Natasha, who pumped her hand theatrically and made a condescending show of things.
“Oh, I just can’t wait to meet Father Dickman,” she said snidely. “Does he handle all the new members?”
Sorina leveled her with a glance. Her sisters’ expressions shifted from condescending boredom to a cruel twist of attention. Poor, sweet, unaware Sister Marilla tittered.
“Usually we sisters do, but aren’t you just so kind to ask after him? I’ll be sure to let him know how thrilled you are. Do you all have any questions for me before we begin?” she asked, smiling that sheep smile of utter trust.
“Would you say Father Dickman is shy? Or does he prefer an audience?” Natasha asked.
Sorina and I snapped our gazes to her. She smiled back unapologetically, her eyes sharp with challenge when they met mine.
“Oh, he’s an accomplished orator,” Sister Marilla assured. “World renowned.”
“World renowned at oral education”—Natasha paused—“of faith.”
“Yes,” she insisted, smiling broadly. “You should come to mass, my child, and see for yourself. I think you’ll leave quite pleased by Father Dickman. All of our parishioners do.”
Natasha choked off her laughter, pursing her lips once Sorina’s presence got too hot for her. How Natasha Felix had not been struck by lightning was beyond me. If anyone deserved a good smiting, it was that slag.
Marilla continued, unaffected, “Let’s start here, in the chapel.”
We followed her down the carpeted aisle as she spoke softly, gesturing to the sweeping ceiling of white, the rib vaulted ceiling joined by blood-red keystones carved with ivory designs, no two alike. She told us of the stained glass and how the collection was extensive and made all around the world, many from master crafters in France.
I listened only on the fringes, having heard the details a dozen times. Instead, I marveled over the architecture, feeling small and humbled, as I supposed was appropriate for a place of worship. She walked us through the broad strokes of a wedding ceremony, told us the story of the bells and listed their names, all nineteen of them. Even the cameraman was drooping by the time we made it to the pulpit. Sorina had a placid smile on her face, her eyes distant. The other sisters were on their phones, and my eyes lingered on Natasha, leaving me wondering if it was Brock she was texting with that vicious smile on her face. And Angelika was …
Missing.
Angelika was missing, as were Jordan and one of the cameramen.
My eyes widened, heart lurching. I melted back, putting myself behind the Femmes, my head swiveling as I looked for the other cameraman, my only clue as to where they were.
I found him perched outside a confessional booth, lens pointed smack at one of the carved wooden doors, and I swore under my breath, palms blossoming with sweat. Because I knew exactly what they were doing in there, and if one of the clergy found them defiling the hallowed space, the venue was off. And if the venue was off, I would be the one to take the fall, guaranteed.
The Felix Femmes were, quite literally, the fucking worst. And their indecency, irreverence, and utter disregard for anyone but themselves was likely to get me fired over something so stupid as a stunt for their reality show.
But not today.
I clipped across the church and to the niche where confessional booths stood. The cameraman politely backed up to get me in the shot, then stepped behind me. Placing my body where I could shield the view of the box’s contents, I took a painful breath, held it, and opened the door.
A giggling tangle of limbs greeted me, a flash of nipple, Angelika’s naked ass, dress hitched up to her waist and G-string held aside by Jordan’s broad hand.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I hissed, closing the door but for a crack, camera lens over my shoulder.
“What … the fuck … do you think?” Angelika breathed between humping.
“Put your clothes on and get out.”
“One … second … oh!” she squealed before moaning into his mouth to the soft pat of skin on skin.
I closed the door with a snick and put my back against it, palms flat and damp against the wood, my mind flashing with solutions. It was one of the many moments when I’d regretted all the waivers and contracts I’d signed making me an accessory to such indignities, and the butt of jokes for their show to boot.
What I wanted to do was fling open the door, grab those walking publicity stunts by their entitled, disrespectful ears, and throw them half-naked into the cars outside. What I wanted was to dress them down, not that they had many clothes on to start. What I wanted—
Didn’t matter because before I could figure out what to do, a nun approached, brows quirked and eyes suspicious.
I flashed my most charismatic smile. “Hello, Sister,” I said overly loud, stepping away from the booth to greet her in the hopes that she wouldn’t hear the fornication happening right there in the sacred place of her home. “I was just wondering, what time is confession?”
Relief smoothed the lines in her forehead. “After every mass and most afternoons. Are you with the Felixes?” She glanced at the cameraman.
“I am. Lila Parker, their wedding planner.” I thrust my hand in her direction, speaking before she even took my hand when I heard a thump from the booth behind me. “We are just so pleased you found time for us in your calendar at such short notice.”
Her eyes shifted behind me, b
ut at the tangential mention of the outrageous donation that had made the booking possible, she settled her full attention on me. “Well, we seem to always find room for our most valued parishioners.”
“And aren’t we fortunate for that?” Another thump, and I scooped the nun’s shoulders under my arm and turned her in the opposite direction. “I wanted to light a candle while I’m here. Could you show me where I can do that, Sister …”
“Eleanor. Yes, certainly, child,” she answered gently.
“My sister, she’s having a baby soon,” I started, following her lead.
“What a gift,” Sister Eleanor cooed. “The welcoming of a child is a joyous thing indeed. If you just go past here and turn, you’ll see the candles there. I’ll say a prayer of my own for your sister and her baby. May God bless them and keep them.”
“Thank you,” I said, turning to face her so I could sneak a look back at the confession booth just as the door opened.
Angelika slinked out, adjusting her skirt, followed by Jordan, hands adjusting his pants. In the midst of rehearsing the brimstone speech I was about to lash them with—I mean, serious, scorched earth, end of days tongue lashing—she reached back for his hand with the deepest affection in her eyes. And he returned it with adoration, the connection between them visible, palpable, even from across the room.
Stunt or no stunt, sinners or snakes, those assholes had found love. Real, honest love. A deep thrum of longing plucked in my chest. I sighed, the sound heavy with dreams lost and wishes I’d never have fulfilled.
Sister Eleanor watched me, worried. “Are you all right, dear?”
“I will be. Thank you, Sister.”