by Sienna Blake
Not even the bubbles in my glass of fine champagne managed to lift my mood. I'd learned to play this game, to win this game, but for some reason I no longer had much motivation to or interest in playing. Something had changed. I was no longer calm, steady, stealthy, like a shark prowling the waters of the wealthy and wealthier. I was restless, unsettled, impatient. Impatient for what, I wasn't sure, until she walked through the tall French doors to the ballroom.
I didn't even bother to politely excuse myself from my oh-so-stimulating conversation with Mr Smith or Mr Jones or Mr Who the Fuck Cares. I simply walked away mid-sentence, leaving him babbling away to the empty space, which, in effect, was not much different from what he'd been doing while I was standing in front of him.
I moved toward her as if drawn in by her gravity, her magnetic pull, as if her presence put a spell on me, that same wild desert magic from years ago. Abbi meandered through the crowd, unaware that I was on a collision course with her that I could no longer control. People I slid past called my name, extended hands, offered to buy me a drink, but it all fell from me like drops of rain down my bare skin.
The ballroom was crowded. As I made my way toward her, she would disappear only to reappear when I craned my neck, shifted to the side or stretched up onto my tiptoes, all self-control seemingly gone. Every time I caught a glimpse of her it was like seeing her for the first time.
She wore a modest black gown, simple in every regard except for the fact that it was on her. The seemingly formless material glided over her like water over a statue of Venus. The water itself was not beautiful, but rather the way it followed the curves of the goddess's waist, hips, all the way down to the delicate bones of her wrists. Her hair was swept up into a simple chignon at the base of her neck, and the way the flicker of candles caught her golden locks reminded me of the sun on her hair in the mountains by the lake.
As I drew nearer I thought I should feel like a predator stalking his prey: dominant, dangerous, in control. But I couldn't help but feel like it was the other way around. I was walking into a trap, like a rabbit walking willingly and eagerly into the jaws of the wolf. But I couldn't stop myself, not any longer. I needed to be nearer to her, even if that meant being consumed.
Abbi's back was to me as I moved to stand behind her at the table of hors d'oeuvres.
"Do I need to check your purse?" I asked, my lips at her ears.
Abbi didn't start or startle, as if she'd known the whole time that I was approaching her. She turned slowly to face me in the small space I left her between me and the white linen-covered table. Her lips quirked up into a grin as she looked up at me.
"Do you intend on apprehending me?" she replied.
She wore very little makeup, just a brush of blush across her freckled cheekbones. It was the same flush she had as she came stumbling and smiling off that dance floor. It was the same sweet, raspberry pink she had when she laughed during our handfasting ceremony. It was the colour of the sky just after the sun sank low over the mountains, it was the colour of her lips after she kissed me for the first time, it was the colour of her breasts after she'd come with me inside of her.
Abbi watched my face and I wondered if those intelligent, thoughtful hazel eyes were reading my thoughts.
"Am I free to go?" she asked softly. "Mr O'Sullivan?"
She plopped a bacon-wrapped date into her mouth and sucked her fingers one after the other. When I remained silent, she slipped past me. I followed her as she weaved through the crowd of tuxedoes and evening gowns, designer labels and Swarovski crystals, pockets of Black Amex cards and Mercedes keys.
"What do you plan on stealing tonight, Ms Miller?" I asked.
Abbi didn't glance back at me. She had no need to. She had known I was there, following. And, I thought, she'd wanted me there, following.
"Why are you so sure that I intend to steal something?" she asked, greeting people casually as she moved easily through the crowd.
I nodded to a few faces I half-recognised or sensed I should half-recognise.
"Once a thief, always a thief."
Abbi laughed and the sound cut through the din of the ballroom like a knife against a crystal champagne glass. "I remember another set of lips drinking from that wine bottle, Mr O'Sullivan."
The memory of her fingers brushing mine as we passed that wine bottle back and forth in that linen closet hit me with the same realness as a random shoulder.
I stumbled as I followed Abbi. I hadn't been able to stop myself then. I wasn't able to stop myself now.
Abbi grabbed a glass of wine from a passing tray and sipped it as we circled the ballroom. "What are we supposed to do at parties like these?" she asked.
"Survive," I said.
She eyed me over her shoulder. I noticed like a strike of lightning the flash of mischievousness in her eyes.
"Survive?" she repeated, as if it were a dirty word. "I would rather starve than merely survive."
Her words surprised me.
"That seems a little bit melodramatic, no?" I asked.
Our conversation paused as we exchanged quick niceties with this executive or that, this important person or that, this douchebag or that. Abbi managed to slide away from the small talk as easily as water down a mountain stream.
"Perhaps it's melodramatic," she said, her voice hushed so only I could hear her as we smiled and nodded through the crowd. "But still, one is living and one is not."
I quirked up a curious eyebrow.
"Starving is living?" I asked. "Isn't that a contradiction?"
Abbi grinned devilishly over her shoulder again, and she was no longer in an elegant ballgown, but Converse tennis shoes coloured in black, a white button-down, and a vest two sizes too big.
"Life is full of contradictions," she said, her eyes darkening. "For instance, you can't stand me and yet you can't seem to stay away from me."
The thrill of her, the excitement of her, the danger of her like the first few sparks on dry grass before an unstoppable wildfire filled my chest. She was right: I needed to stay away from her and I couldn't. Worse, I didn't want to.
"You're my personal assistant," I argued. "I need to have you close should I require something of you."
Abbi whirled around and lifted up her chin defiantly to me.
"Then tell me what you need right now, Mr O'Sullivan," she said, her chest pressed against mine. "Or admit you can't stay away from me."
Her closeness sent blood rushing straight to my groin. I swallowed heavily as I tried to control myself.
"I'm about to receive a very important call," I said, my voice strained.
Abbi frowned in confusion. "I don't have any calls on your schedule."
I moved even closer toward her so she had to tilt her chin up to meet my eye.
"I'm about to receive a very important call," I repeated more sternly. "And when I do, I am going to have to leave this ballroom."
Abbi's eyes started to show a hint of realisation.
"I need you, my personal assistant, to steal a bottle of the nicest red and follow after me."
I grinned wickedly when Abbi gasped slightly, her pupils widened. Before she could recover, I reached around her head and pulled a pin from her chignon. Her hair fell like a velvet curtain, covering one dark hazel eye.
"And then," I said, placing the pin between her supple lips, "I need you to make good use of this, Ms Miller."
Abbi
Michael and I stumbled into the linen closet at the Brown Hotel, laughing and yanking the door closed behind us. I had a $300 bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon tucked under my arm and Michael had snagged a half-empty bottle of whiskey as well. We were giggling like naughty teenagers and breathing heavily after sprinting hand in hand through the maze of hallways, people calling after Michael in confusion.
My side ached from laughing so hard, and we were gasping to catch our breaths when we heard someone outside calling for Michael.
"Mr O'Sullivan? Mr O'Sullivan?"
Michael's hand
shot out and covered my mouth, pressing me against the shelves, his eyes fixed on the door. I wasn't sure if he knew what his proximity was doing to me as he waited for the person whose footsteps we could hear outside to move on.
His hand was hot against my lips and I could remember that heat on my inner thighs, on my neck, on my breasts. The muscles between my legs tightened as I smelled his cologne mixed with the sweetness of champagne and the bite of a cigarette. His body was pressed against mine and all I could think about was what it was like to have his body moving against mine.
The voice faded down the hallway and after a few more tense moments of silence in the linen closet, Michael finally removed his hand and stepped back from me. I fought to control the heaving of my chest. He studied the small space around us under the light of the single hanging light bulb.
"More might come looking for you," I said. "You're supposed to give a speech later."
Michael just shrugged before his eyes moved to mine. "I'll just blame my personal assistant."
I snorted and crossed my arms. "I'm just following orders here."
Michael grinned and his eyes trailed up and down the length of my body. "I think we both know full well you're not the 'just following orders' type."
I formed my lips into the shape of a devilish, wry grin, but the movement was forced, foreign when once it had been natural. It was like I was following a user guide instead of trusting that instinct deep within me. That rambunctious, wild, devil-be-damned attitude was rusty, covered in a thick layer of dust, shoved out of sight in the back of my mind.
Even as I played along externally, Michael's words sent a pang through my heart. He was seeing the me I'd been nine years ago. The Abbi who gave orders a middle finger was the Abbi I said goodbye to when I gave birth to Zara and a whole world of responsibilities.
It was almost with a sense of shame that I feared admitting the truth to him. That the girl he knew was not the girl standing in front of him, despite the eerily familiar backdrop of neatly folded linens and stolen bottle of absurdly expensive red wine. I was afraid that he might learn exactly who I was: the rule-following type. There were no more one-night stand adventures to the mountains because Zara had school in the morning. There was no more entangling with strange hearts because it wasn't just my heart I had to think of anymore. I drove the speed limit and I didn't just mean in the car on the road: my heart beat slowly, steadily, my dreams obeyed the signs that said slow, slower, slower, my wild, yearning soul sat at the red light and waited.
I didn't want to tell Michael that the girl he knew was gone. I'd caged myself, and for good reason. But that didn't mean I didn't miss an open road and a wide sky. Didn’t mean I didn’t miss her a little sometimes.
Michael watched me as we stood in silence, one in front of the other in the small linen closet.
"I think we should drink," he said.
We arranged ourselves and our long legs on the floor with a series of awkward apologies and excuse me's as we knocked knees, arms, heads. The end result was a tangle of limbs and hearts far too close to one another. I took the bottle from Michael like I'd been wandering the desert for days and he was offering me fresh, cool water. I didn't care that it might be nothing more than a mirage. I'd drown in the fantasy.
"Why are we doing this?" Michael asked, taking the bottle from me in much the same manner.
I shook my head because I didn't have an answer. Both of us knew it was a mistake. And yet neither of us was reaching for the door. More alcohol certainly wouldn't solve anything and yet more alcohol was all we had.
"You must think I've changed quite a bit," he admitted.
I laughed as he passed back the bottle. "I was just thinking the same thing."
Michael lifted an eyebrow. "Were you?"
I nodded, my lips around the bottle as I lifted it higher than I should have. But Zara was at a friend's house for a sleepover and I couldn't handle whatever complicated feelings I had for Michael sober. So I tipped the bottle back even further before wiping my lips and passing it back.
"Maybe it was bullshit," I said, to which Michael raised a curious eyebrow. "That we were different people back then, I mean."
He remained silent, his intelligent green eyes patient as he watched me grapple with my thoughts.
"I mean, maybe this was always who we were, deep down," I went on. "Maybe nine years ago, maybe that weekend, maybe we were just kidding ourselves. Maybe we were just…pretending."
Michael rested his hands on his knees, seemingly thoughtful as he rested his head against the door behind him. He stared up at the hanging light bulb above us.
"It felt pretty real to me," he said, his voice soft.
When he looked back across the crammed linen closet at me, I didn't see the cold, ruthless business man, but the young boy searching for what was important in life, eyes wide, heart open.
I shook my head. "We both know it was just a dream," I said flatly, taking the bottle.
"Then let's close our eyes again." His words were incendiary.
My eyes darted to his as if to a bush alongside a hiking path at the distinct sound of a rattle. "We can't do that."
"Why not?"
There was fire in Michael's eyes, a challenge, a dare like we were two kids on the playground. I wrenched the bottle of wine from his hand and finished it with a couple of large swigs. Michael grinned as he opened the bottle of whiskey.
"Because I don't like you," I said, feeling the temperature in the linen closet rise, feeling the air grow denser, hanging thick and heavy and oppressive over us. "I don't like anything about you. You're unfeeling and calculating and arrogant. You're a prick and I want nothing to do with you. You're rude and selfish and—"
"And still your boss, Ms Miller," Michael interjected sharply.
I blushed slightly. I'd forgotten myself for a moment. I'd been too brazen, too bold, too daring. I'd overstepped the boundaries I'd established for myself.
And I liked it.
I looked up to find a victorious grin tugging up the corners of Michael's lips.
"You tricked me," I said.
"I did nothing of the kind," he said.
I was getting angry. I was angry at myself for letting my emotions get in the way of what I was supposed to do, aka not Michael. I was angry at Michael for bringing out that side of me I'd tried so hard to repress, to reform. He made me feel rebellious, made me like feeling rebellious.
"Stop it," I said, fingers balling into fists.
Michael laughed and held up his hands. "I have no idea what you want me to stop, Abbi."
I snatched the bottle of whiskey from him before he could raise it to his own lips. The burn of the alcohol was supposed to wake me up, to clear my head like a splash of icy cold water. It was supposed to part the churning, sparking storms that were clouding my judgements. But it did nothing of the sort: it was simply fuel to the fire.
And Michael's sharp green eyes on me, unrelenting as a hot summer wind, just made that fire roar inside of me.
"Stop it," I repeated.
When Michael grabbed the bottle his fingers skimmed against mine, the lightest of touches. But a parched, dry field needs nothing but a single ember to alight.
"Stop it," I whispered.
I sounded like I was begging. Perhaps I was. Because I no longer had any illusions about being in control of the flames.
Michael grinned around the lip of the bottle. "Stop what?"
How was I supposed to explain what he was doing to me? Stop making me feel like my stilettos were Sharpie-covered Converse? Stop looking at me like he wanted me to break into more than just a linen closet in some hotel? Stop awakening in me that wildness I put away so many years ago?
I was determined to be a groomed and manicured garden shrub and Michael seemed intent on seeing me as a sunflower, growing wildly and without restraint and always yearning toward the bright sun. Maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was the way his eyes felt upon me like rays of morning sunlight, but I f
elt different, I felt transformed.
"Stop it," was all I said.
It was all I could manage to say, whiskey tingling on my lips.
Because it was my eyes that were speaking in the tight, hot, unmoving air of the linen closet. And they weren't just speaking as I looked across the space at Michael; they were screaming.
Don't stop.
Please, don't stop.
Michael
Her breath left her wine-stained lips as I slammed her against the wall. I claimed the soft exhale as if I was inhaling her very soul. I felt her fill me, pulsing in my lungs, racing through my veins, burning every inch of me. She made me feel alive, like I was on cocaine, out of control, like I was tipping back an endless bar top of whiskey shots. Reckless, like I was driving drunk down an abandoned country road, engine protesting as I hurled faster and faster into the encompassing black of the unknown.
As my lips found the searing heat of her neck, Abbi clawed at my back with one hand and swung wildly to try to close the door to her dark apartment with the other.
"Leave it," I growled, nipping at the sensitive skin behind her ear.
The glow of the porch light fell over us as we tore at one another's clothes, illuminating us as if on a stage for any curious neighbours out for a midnight stroll. I didn't give a fuck. I wanted the whole goddamn world to know that at least for that night, Abbi Miller was mine.
Abbi groaned against me as she gave up her efforts to close the door and instead put that hand to better use unbuckling my belt. My cock was already straining painfully against the front of my pants. The brush of her fingers against me was enough to make me groan and bite my lip, fist pounding the wall beside Abbi's head.
"Fuck," I growled.
I couldn't remember feeling the kind of need I felt in that moment. It consumed my thoughts like a thick fog, electrifying my body in constant jolts. Up became down, left became right, and I was lost entirely, save for the beacon of Abbi's eyes in the yellow light.