Astor Hill

Chapter 12

12

Olivia

Climbing up the brick staircase, I feel my phone buzz in my bag.

Ben

Door’s open.

Definitely not a man of many words, at least not over text. I reach the third story of the brick building, relieved that the old world exterior does not extend to the interior furnishing. Not that I don’t love old world charm— I am a Nor’easter. I just appreciate an updated take on the 18th century. As I glance around, I notice that the wall sconces, while authentic, have been polished, but the crown molding has been swapped out and freshly stained a deep walnut shade. My eyes dart between the unit numbers on either side of the hallway, finally spotting 314 at the far end. The largest suite. Of course.

Standing in front of the door, I check the text again. Door’s open. Something about just waltzing into his apartment feels too familiar. I gently rap my knuckles against the door, the sound swallowed by what I now understand to be an original piece of infrastructure in this colonial brownstone.

Sighing, I turn the brass knob, pushing forward to reveal dark walnut floors that mimic the crown molding. The walls are a soft white, clean except for a few strategically placed art pieces. I did not take Ben for an art guy . I round the corner, escaping the narrow entryway, and notice that the spacious living room is equally as clean and bright as the foyer. Hearing a subtle whir, I whip around to see the kitchen. My eyes and ears track the whirring to a vacuum leaving its dock, clearly just beginning its scheduled task. I notice the tidiness of the kitchen and living room, the pristineness on full display over the kitchen’s glossy bar top, when a deep inhale has me registering notes of cedar and musk. I trail the scent deeper into the apartment, taking a left rather than a right, pausing on the fact that there is a left and a right to take. I did not take Ben for an old-money apartment kind of guy, either . A sunny room takes shape to my right, lined on either side by two brilliant, beautiful built-in bookcases. The wall between the two is consumed by two nooks and two sets of french windows. The tiny slivers of wall not possessed by the nooks or the case are, like the rest of the apartment, a soft white. In the center of the room sits an oversized, deep green ottoman, creamy pillows scattered across the almost bed-sized expanse. The piece sits atop a simple ivory rug, waffled but seemingly plush. I’m scanning the books lining the walls when I remember why I’m here.

Annoyance pushes my curiosity far away when I realize I’m wandering around Ben’s apartment, un-greeted. The books and burning candle fumes hint that he’s near, so I release an audible huff and plop onto the ottoman that was, truly, beckoning me anyway. I slip off my flats, testing the plushness of the rug and hearing the creak of a door, I quickly slide them back on. Attempting to look as bored as possible, I gaze out the window. About time.

Summoning a tart smirk, I remark, “Don’t worry, your vacuum did a perfect job of greeting me.”

I pull my gaze up the solid, towering form that’s appeared before me, clad in only a bath towel secured by the hand on his hip. The quirk of his lips, struggling to stifle an amused smile, does quick work of my annoyance. It’s gone before I can reel it back, replaced instead by a flush of embarrassment and… something else. His chest is bare, revealing the hardened muscles I’d assumed were there. What stun me are the intricately tattooed lines, curves, and sketches that highlight the muscled terrain of his chest. They stop just above his bicep, which I’m guessing is why I’d never imagined him like this .

Which I definitely haven’t. Not even after he made that comment about stealing me from Will’s dreams.

His hair, freshly tousled by a towel, lays and doesn’t lay every which way, quietly dripping water on the wooden floor.

“I’m greeting you now,” he says with a playful grin. “I’m sure you’d rather be greeted like this than by me dripping in sweat after practicing in the outdoor gym.” My mind briefly considers Ben like this: sweaty, exhausted, muscles tense from hours of strenuous dribbling up and down the long expanse of the court. I’m not sure I’d be any less affected.

“I don’t think I could bring myself to care either way.”

He’s staring at me, his brows furrowed in what seems like a challenge or a question. I feel my pulse quicken, so I stand up and stride over to the bookcase on the left. Pretending to inspect what is obviously the post-modern section of the collection, I play with snarky remarks in my head.

“I assume you’re going to get dressed now, unless you’re developmentally stuck in that one phase… where you’re preoccupied with your own nudity?”

I sneak a glance over my shoulder, catching his grin widen. I wait for the reply, only to hear what I assume is his bedroom door shut with speed.

I’m mulling over the wittiness of my remark when I hear him approach the bookcase, stopping to stand nearly shoulder to… temple with me. Standing like this, I’m struck by the height of this man. He’s a pillar next to me, grounded and towering, immovable it seems. His hair is still a tousled mess, but it’s damp rather than dripping, and the beautifully tattooed skin taut over his tight, muscled chest is now hidden by a light gray t-shirt.

“Assessing my development or thinking about me nude, Beckett?” he asks, dipping his head to the right.

I know he’s being his facetious, flirtatious self but my face warms anyways. Feeling my phone vibrate again, I use it as an excuse to avoid answering the question and slip it out of my back pocket.

Will .

A red dress loads as the first message, two thin straps held up by two feminine hands.

Gen .

The dress is fine, a little slutty, and not my type.

Will

For the gala. ;)

I would have preferred it in black, but who am I to have a preference. I shut my eyes and feel them roll. Forcing them open, I take a slow, deep breath, pushing my anger back into the vat of emotions I frequently access when I’m dealing with Will.

I click my phone screen off, feeling Ben’s gaze on the screen. Clearing my throat, I roll my eyes upward, my brows rising in irritation.

“Do you have something to say?

His mouth opens then shuts, finally sighing and breathing through his nose.

“Just seems obvious you wouldn’t wear a dress like that,” he says, looking everywhere but at me. My skin prickles, my pulse fluttering high in my throat like it did whenever Lily would see right through me like this.

“Maybe I would,” I say a little too defensively, pushing my hair behind my ear, willing my eyes to keep contact when he finally looks at me. I hold his gaze that has turned inquisitive, assessing. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what, Olivia?”

My arms cross on their own, my body suddenly feeling naked under his stare.

“Like you know something I don’t. If you have something to say just say it, Ben.”

He breaks his stare, but not before I see the fire in his eyes cool. “I’m sorry,” he says, his tone shifting into slight annoyance. “It’s your boyfriend buying you lingerie with another woman, not me. I’m just your study partner, Olivia.”

And then he’s down the hall. I’m instantly cold, the sensitivity of my skin now transformed into chilled goosebumps— the heat I’ve come to associate with Ben’s nearness replaced by the coolness of his disdain.

I pull my Astor crewneck out of my bag, pulling it over my head and onto my chilled body. Cracking my neck, I focus on regaining my composure and trace the steps he made to what I assume is his bedroom. I find him at the desk adjacent to the bed in the middle of the room. It’s slightly raised, covered in simple navy linens laid atop white sheets. Like the rest of the apartment, the walls are white and contrast with the walnut floors and crown molding. I awkwardly stand at the threshold, wondering if I should just leave. I refuse to be anywhere I’m not wanted but… against my better judgment, I cross into his room.

Searching my mind for the right thing to say, I land on, “I’m sorry if I was… a bitch.”

Without looking at me, he says, “Don’t call yourself that, Olivia.”

Grabbing two stacks of papers, he leans out of his chair and hands me the article we’re supposed to be reading. I’m half expecting the fiery, molten gaze I’ve grown used to when he meets my mine, but all I find are cool, dark pools of indifference. He smirks, but it fails to reach his eyes.

“I guessed you didn’t bring your own copy, so I made you one.”

“Thanks,” I offer with a warm smile, accepting the article. He’s right, I didn’t. Just like he was right that I wouldn’t wear a dress like that.

Glancing around the room, I notice there aren’t any other chairs for me to sit on. “I can grab a chair from…” The dining room, I want to finish, but I didn’t quite get to that wing of the apartment.

“I can grab you one, or you can use the bed.”

He catches my hesitation and adds, “Don’t worry, I won’t be on it,” that familiar mischievous glint slightly peaking through.

Stop being weird, Olivia. You made this weird. Make it unweird. Be normal. Reaching into my well of charm I respond, “What a gentleman. Don’t mind if I do.” I sling my bag on the bed, sliding my flats off before I propel myself onto the neat arrangement of sheets, landing in a thud.

Making a show of inhaling the sheets, truly enamored by the scent. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been in a guy’s bed that smells this good. What is your secret, Cabot?” Sitting up, arms slightly stretched behind me, I catch him watching me. Ignoring the surveillance, I move my brows in question.

He blinks twice, subtly shaking head before answering. “Money. And a daily cleaning service.” The playful grin is back, his eyes pleasant. An improvement.

“Well. I have got to get one, because this—” I inhale one more time, deeply— “is unreal.” I finally hear a chuckle escape, his shoulders releasing just a bit. “Okay. How do you want to do this? We could take turns or read alone and stop at intervals to discuss?”

He picks up the article, rifling through, counting how many pages we have to get through. “Let’s read it alone, share thoughts at the end, compare notes?”

Slightly disappointed that he chose the isolated option, I mutter, “Cool.”

“Okay. See you in thirty.” Flashing a soft smile at me, he grabs the over-ear headphones on his desk and slides them on. He uses his phone to set a thirty minute timer and balances it against the back ledge of the desk so I can see. I watch him grab a pen and highlighter from a pen holder, the pen quickly becoming a spinning baton between his fingers.

I’m mesmerized by the adeptness with which he twirls the pen, swiftly stopping to jot a note, seamlessly resuming the twirl, when I notice there are only twenty minutes left on the timer. I start reading, only to realize that I didn’t bring a pen. Inching myself off the bed, I quietly walk to the desk and reach across the article Ben is pouring over to grab one of his pens. I’m mid reach when I feel the fingers that were preoccupied with the pen wrap around my wrist. His other hand pulls his headphones down around his neck, and his head cocks to the side, a smirk of disbelief gracing his face. The skin around my wrist grows hotter the longer his fingers firmly grip me.

His eyes squint up at me, mocking me. “No article, no pen? I’m just admiring how unprepared you are.” His grip brings my attention to the quickening pulse in my wrist. He suddenly releases it, the mockery in his eyes guarded with the kind of caution you use with a stranger. He nods, permitting me to grab a pen, and offers me a shallow grin.

I roll my eyes, grateful his mood has improved enough that teasing me is on the table, even if it was fleeting. Taking the pen, I hop back onto the bed and finish the article. My eyes are heavy, intent on falling shut, when I hear the alarm on Ben’s phone go off.

Stretching my arms above my head and legs out across the bed, I stifle a yawn. “I think I need to sit with this, “ I admit, certain I don’t have any coherent thoughts after half-reading-half-sleeping through the article. It’s not that it wasn’t interesting, it was that half way through I was overcome with exhaustion. I’m not about to offer my half-baked ideas to Mr. Feminist Literature Aficionado over here.

Standing out of his chair, Ben mimics my upward stretch before agreeing. The hem of his shirt inches upward, and despite the fact that I just saw him shirtless an hour ago, my mind takes the bait. My hands tingle with the desire to fist the sides of his shirt, and I imagine him leaning over me on this bed, making it easy for me to pull the shirt off him. I picture my hands tracing the labyrinth of ink on his chest, his hard, smooth muscles possibly twitching in anticipation of where my hand might go next. “Let’s regroup tomorrow. I can’t say I totally grasped everything either,” he says before grabbing my bag and placing my now slightly crumpled article into it.

“Well, thank you,” I say with a breath, reaching for the bag in his hand. “The bed was insanely comfortable. Ten out of ten. Truly.” I wink just as his fingers brush mine, and I feel him still just as I do. Our gazes are locked for a second too long, broken only when I watch his gaze settle on my mouth. The attention is unnerving, and I involuntarily bite my lip before pressing them together. If there were only an inch between my lips and his, I wouldn’t be surprised. Despite the distance between our faces, my face heats anticipating him closing the distance with ease. My pulse is erratic, waiting for him to press those supple lips against mine. I lean in just enough for him to notice, and his gaze shifts back to mine. Ben’s lips betray him by erupting in a smile. He looks away, scoffing, his hand running through his hair, and when he lands back on me his eyes glitter with amusement. I release a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding, the anticipation fleeing my body, lust-filled regret moving in to replace it. A nervous laugh escapes me as I pull the bag over my shoulder and move toward the door.

“Okay well… I’ll leave the way I came I guess.” What I’m sure is an awkward smile graces my face. I couldn’t pretend to be unaffected if I tried.

“Not a chance, Beckett. I’m opening your doors and everything.” His hand rests on the top of the door frame, an easy feat given his height. I walk ahead of him, slightly ducking my head to hide the girlish grin I’m biting down. We approach the front door and I spin around to offer him my hand. He looks down, studying my manicured hand before firmly gripping it and tilting his head in question. His hand feels so good in mine, and I feel like I’ve won a prize just by holding a part of him like this.

“This is a partnership, remember, Cabot?” I remind him, shaking his hand. “Today you brought… pens. And paper. Tomorrow I’ll send you earth-shattering revelations about popular romance and women’s reading culture.”

Returning the shake, he releases my hand and reaches behind me to grab the door handle. The angle results in him crowding me, the top of his chest just inches from my nose and I can’t help but try to breathe him in. His scent brings me back to that night in the bar. I’m brought out of the thought when his hand gently grips my waist, adeptly rotating me just enough to pull the door open. I’m halfway through the threshold, my back to him, when I feel him murmur, “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Walking down the tree lined street, I tilt my face toward the sun and angle it into the breeze, eager to feel the incoming season wash over me. Unlike so many college campuses, Astor’s immediate vicinity is carefully curated, the student housing mixed in with storied brownstones, interspersed with both mom and pop shops and restaurants attractive to both students and faculty. Our proximity to Boston means we don’t need much else; a quick 30 minute drive and you’re already in Beacon Hill. I almost drove to Ben’s, but the moment I stepped outside today I knew it was walking weather.

Brownstones line the cobblestone streets, the stones differing shades of brown and terracotta. I’m rarely over on this side anymore; the cobblestones aren’t necessarily compatible with some of the footwear I’m known to live in when I’m spending time at the newspaper office. This side of campus isn’t practical for that, nor is it near the places I frequent for any of my stories. Ian doesn’t keep me on the preppy, lifestyle beat— thank god— but that doesn’t mean I would mind having to be here. I guess I don’t need a reason, but a reason always helps. The thought appears the moment my eye snags on the bus stop that would drop Lily and I off on our little city quests.

Lily would drag me down here for any reason. The stop at Astor was definitely not the closest stop on the way to Boston’s city center, but we took any chance we could to get close to our future school. The farmer’s market, obscure metal concert, pop-up shop, dog adoptions, skateboarding competition, regional book fair— anything. She never needed a reason to do something that she thought would bring her, or me, joy. The vigor with which she lived had always left me in awe of her. She was so intentional. I could find a million excuses not to come down here, but every time we did, and we sauntered back to the bus station to head back to our prep school, we were filled to the brim with excitement. We’d arrive back to the dorms sated by our expedition, Lily always the commander who just knew what we needed.

Lily knew for the both of us. She knew that whatever compass existed in others, the compass that points true north or whatever, didn’t point true north for me. That with my mother barely around, I needed her to guide me through this life. She was my touchstone. I felt rooted when I was with her. Her death detached me from that rootedness, but there are moments when I feel it again. Like that night at the bar. Like right now, walking through the autumn breeze after an afternoon with Ben.

An afternoon with Ben . Something flutters in my stomach at the thought of more afternoons with Ben, but I fight the urge to identify the something as butterflies. My best attempts to ignore my attraction to Ben are trampled by the way he simply looks at me. Ben’s eyes search me, sear me, explore me— I’ve never been so looked at in my life. His gaze, so focused and restrained, makes my body hum with excitement. I can’t keep away either, if I’m being honest with myself, and that is the problem. The extent to which I’m drawn to him unsettles me.

Of course I had to ask him to stop. I can’t encourage whatever this thing is between us.

Rounding the corner toward the outskirts of campus, my contemplative bubble is burst by a shrill reminder of my current reality.

“Olivia, did you not die when you saw that dress? I died.” Sleaze oozes from Genevieve’s voice. You wouldn’t know it looking at her. While she’s not a demure girl, she’s not an overtly sexual one either— that is, until she leans over the table and grabs your boyfriend’s hand in playful banter. She’s a snake, Gen is. She slithers in the grass, playing coy and harmless, until she rears her head and you see the vicious colors hiding on the underbelly. While she hasn’t shown it to me yet, I know it’s coming.

“Pity you were somehow resurrected,” I jeer, unable to conceal the ire reemerging now that I’m faced with this bitch.

“You know, you really should be nice to me, Olivia. I’m helping you.” The fake pity in Gen’s eyes only fans my anger. Scraping my teeth over my upper lip, I glance away before settling my wrathful gaze on her.

Titling my head, I ask her, “In what universe do I need your help, Genevieve? Is it the one in which you’re—” I gasp for effect “—desirable? Irresistible? The girl everyone here is undressing in their mind the moment she walks into a room?” I huff a disinterested laugh. “Gen, we know that’s not you. But let me know if you find her. We can compare notes,” I snap out, my patience for her delusion dissipating.

Expecting her to retreat, I’m surprised when I feel her close the distance between us, her face just inches from mine. An elusive smirk slides into place.

“You’re right, Olivia. I’m not like you. Maybe that’s what he likes.” Brushing past me, her shoulder knocks against mine, her quiet cackle echoing as I feel my face grow hot with humiliation. I hear Lily’s voice as soon as the heat overwhelms me.

You always lose when you get like this, but you do it anyway.

Teeth gritting against each other, I pick up my pace down through the network of housing strategically built near the athletics facility.

By the time I reach Will’s apartment, only half the rage from my encounter with Gen has evaporated. The other half is still hot, boiling just under the surface of my outwardly cool composure. As I slip the key into the lock, I notice the differences between this apartment and the one I left just twenty minutes ago. Stepping into the apartment, I can’t help but compare the modern trapping of Will’s cold, steel space to Ben’s refreshing, but comforting home.

Dropping the key on the counter, I let my bag drop to the floor.

“Will,” I throw out, unwilling to give him an inch in the upcoming confrontation. He’s coming to me.

He’s slipping on a powder blue short sleeve button up, just beginning to do the buttons.

“Jesus, Olivia. Where were you? Everyone’s going to be at Vida’s at 8.” By everyone, I’m assuming he means Grant, Gen, Andrew, Scott, and whoever is dangling off Scott’s arm this month. Sounds like a wonderful time.

It crosses my mind that I did not, in fact, tell Will about my study session with Ben. I’m considering hiding this when I remember the source of my seething anger, and instead decide that honesty is the best policy.

“I was at Ben’s,” I say very matter of factly, and I watch the fury consume the mild irritation that danced across Will’s face when he walked out of the bedroom. He’s waiting for me to elaborate, but I won’t.

“Why the fuck were you at Ben’s?” he barely gets out, his teeth so tense I can see his jaw flicker.

To lie, or not to lie . I look over at the clock and see we only have an hour until we’re supposed to meet our friends. A lie would draw this out. Another day .

“Because we’re partners in this women’s lit class we’re both in, and we had to do a partner reading. I could’ve sworn I told you.” Okay, maybe a little lie to get him going a little bit. It’s the least I can do . A small, sinister smile settles on my face, full of vengeance and the desire to make him feel the way I felt seeing Gen in his photo and having to listen to her insinuate horrible shit to me about her and Will over and over again.

Taking a few careful steps toward me, Will counters, “ Well you didn’t. I would’ve remembered.”

“Well, apparently you don’t.” I step around him. “Now where’s the dress your favorite fan-girl picked out for me?” The disgust in my voice is palpable.

“Olivia. Stop.” His anger swirls with concern, and I feel him grab the same wrist his brother grabbed earlier. This time, the grip feels cool and suffocating.

“No, you stop. I ran into Gen on my walk here. She always has such glowing things to say about your company.” He releases my wrist, crossing his arms as if I’m lying about Gen insinuating they are sleeping together. He always finds little ways like this to take her side and honestly, it hurts more than if I found out he was actually cheating.

“I went shopping for you with my childhood best friend because you were busy. You conveniently forgot to tell me why you were busy, probably because you knew that it would piss me off. ” The volume of his voice creeps higher and higher, until he looks me over once and glances away, shaking his head. “And I’m the fucking bad guy? I specifically told you to stay away from him, Liv,” he adds, hurt coloring his expression.

“I’m not a dog, Will. You can’t just tell me to sit and stay.” My anger at his afternoon with Gen only intensifies at the notion that I should blindly follow his direction, like I’m his lackey and not his literal girlfriend. “I’ve told you numerous times how uncomfortable I am with Gen, but still you do shit like you did today.”

“Unbelievable,” he scoffs. “So, how was it then?” His eyes are back on me, part repulsion and part possession.

I feel my pulse quicken at the suggestion that there was anything more than studying going on between Ben and I. I roll my eyes at his question. “Why don’t you ask him?”

I walk around him and into the bedroom, spotting the red dress in a garment bag in the open closet. Bringing it into the bathroom, I begin slipping it off the hanger. I see Will in the mirror, slipping his arms around my waist, his mouth by my ear.

“Just… tell me I’m being crazy, Liv,” he says, the words landing like a sandbag in my gut, the guilt I feel so heavy. I push it away, telling myself it’s fleeting— the guilt, the attraction, all of it— but Will isn’t. I turn around and my hand cups his smooth, arrogant jaw, angling it so that my lips easily lock with his.

Like velvet against me, his kiss caresses my mouth, slightly ajar as I inhale the scent of him. He’s lemon and fresh soap, mingled with crisp cedar and warm spice. He coaxes me open and I feel him glide against me once before he suddenly pulls back.

“Liv,” he barely murmurs before diving back into me. My hand pushes up the back of his head, gripping his golden locks and I feel his palm descend just below the small of my back. Nudging me into him, he deepens our kiss, twirling around me with tortuous sleekness. His wet warmth evades my next pass, his teeth now softly biting my bottom lip. My head falls back, leaving bare the neck he quickly begins warming with those plush lips, his tongue tracing circles on my skin. I place my hands on his chest, gently pushing him away. Swiftly, he spins me around and I feel him press into me, firm, twitching with need. His lips return to the side of my neck, his hand brushing away the chestnut locks shielding that sensitive part of me Will is definitely seeking.

“I could do without a hickey, Will,” I manage between shallow breaths, attempting to regain control over my traitorous body. “And I’d rather not be late.”

His hands wrap around my waist from behind, his face buried in my hair. “We’re resuming this later,” he whispers in my ear, his hand now tracing circles on the sensitive plane beneath my hip bone and above where Will knows I’m already pulsing with need.

“If you say so.” I push away from his body, oozing pleasure and sultry charm. “Let me just try this on.” I watch him walk away in the mirror, clearly satisfied by what he thinks was the end of that argument.

I watch myself step into the slinky dress in the mirror. My neck is flushed from the attention he paid to it just moments earlier, and I lean closer to inspect whether or not concealer is necessary. I bring my hand to my neck, my palm feeling for the warmth radiating there.

This is how it goes with Will and I. We fight, usually because he finds something I’ve done or said unacceptable, and just as I gain ground, he nullifies every doubt or worry with his touch. And every time he wraps me in his arms, murmurs my name in my ear, worships me with his hands and lips, I truly forgot how fucking awful I felt because of him just seconds before. And when we’re done I’m exhausted, wrapped in his sheets, dwelling on how perfectly we fit together— in bed, in a room full of people, on the cover of Boston Common, at galas like the one we’re going to soon. And if my thoughts veer toward the ways in which we don’t fit, the post-intimacy euphoria usually chases it away.

I can’t chase it away right now.

You wouldn’t wear a dress like that , Ben had said to me.

Dread and embarrassment coalesce in my chest as I imagine Will in a Neiman Marcus, Gen by his side, his hand at the small of her back like it is at mine when we stand together. I push the image out of my mind with a deep breath, but the feeling remains, so I think of Ben in some sort of secret, mental revenge and righteousness washes it away.