The Last Days of Lilah Goodluck

Chapter 11

11

Thursday

A knock on the door wakes me at midday. It’s a delivery person with a package containing a black leather jacket and a matching helmet, the kind without a visor that leaves the face exposed. At the bottom of the package is a note, See you at four. Alistair.

Just seeing his name makes me smile. The jacket is a sturdy and smooth leather in a simple racer style from a brand I could never afford. The way these people throw money around is something else. I was on a motorcycle once when I was a child. Just around a pasture on a farm owned by my uncle. I’m excited to experience it again as an adult, and for the opportunity to spend time with my purely platonic friend. Knowing your end date makes you bulletproof in a way. For instance, it’s highly unlikely I’ll be involved in a horrible traffic accident today. Unless such an accident were to happen and it put me in a coma and they turned my life support off on Sunday. How fucking macabre. I am going to stop thinking about this now.

Rebecca and I sat up all night. We watched The Vampire Diaries , ate some edibles, and talked about anything and everything.

At six in the morning, we crowded out onto my apartment’s tiny balcony. The last star disappeared as the sky changed colors with the morning light. I can’t remember the last time I saw the dawn, but it was wonderful. Even LA is sort of peaceful at that time of day. Then we crashed. By the time the delivery person woke me, Rebecca had left for home to sleep in her own bed.

What a week. Given the wish-list idea only occurred to me on Sunday, I’ve covered some ground. I got a tattoo, went skateboarding, drove the Pacific Coast Highway in a convertible, tried bowling, drank absinthe, ate food from a Michelin star restaurant, and stayed up all night to watch the sunrise with someone special. On the off chance I die soon, at least I can say I’ve lived.

It’s an overcast afternoon. I’ve always thought clouds are kind of amazing. Their colors and shapes and general moodiness. The way they hang in thin air. When we were little, my brother and I used to lie on the back lawn and search for animals and faces in the clouds. I haven’t thought about that in ages. No idea why it occurs to me now. I need to call him and reminisce.

By the time Alistair arrives, my stomach has been topsy-turvy for over an hour. Being in denial about him hasn’t helped. Therefore, I’ve decided to embrace how big it feels to be seeing him again. As mentioned before, I am having a big-feelings kind of week. But I can and will keep my emotions under control. Something I believe right up until the moment I walk outside to meet him.

Huh. I have a motorcycle fetish now too. Though I have a sneaking suspicion it’s more specific. More Alistair-oriented.

He is at the curb, sitting on a big matte black Triumph motorcycle. Despite its retro design, it’s clearly modern. Alistair is wearing a helmet, and he’s struck a pose that makes the most of his muscular jean-clad thighs. Thank goodness sunglasses hide my ogling eyes. I have no shame when it comes to this man. Still no sign of any paparazzi on the street. No telling how long our luck will hold out. We need to enjoy our time together while we can.

“The jacket looks good,” he remarks with a small smile. “Put the helmet on so I can check the fit.”

I slide it onto my head, and he fusses with the chin strap. “How does that feel, Lilah?”

“Good.”

“Good. Ready to go for a ride?”

I lick my lips and nod. My nerves have obviously not abated. About him or the bike or both—who can tell?

“What’s wrong?” he asks in an amused tone. “Don’t you trust me?”

“I could ask you the same question. Though I have, haven’t I?”

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence between us. Then he holds my chin and stares deep into my eyes. Like he can read the secrets of the universe in my gaze or something. Having his undivided attention remains a hell of a rush. Then, finally, he says with all due seriousness, “Yes, Lilah, I trust you.”

I smile. “Thank you. I trust you too.”

“Hop on,” he says and holds out a hand to me. I swing a leg over the machine and carefully climb on. This is obviously what had me worked up. This moment right here. Because riding on a bike with him means all the bodily contact. We could hardly get closer with our clothes on. The hard line of his back and the breadth of his shoulders. How big and solid his body feels. It’s a wonder I don’t drool.

“Right up against me,” he says. “Hands nice and tight around my waist.”

“Okay.”

He starts the engine, and smooth as can be, the motorcycle comes to life beneath me. It’s a heck of a vibration. I say this as someone who’s made it a mission to test an array of such things. As is good and right.

“Nice and tight,” he repeats, drawing my hands around him. I remind myself he is not in fact talking dirty to me. Just issuing safety instructions. Only this doesn’t feel safe. Not for me and my messy emotions.

I press my front to his back and cling to his waist. It isn’t fair how deep and rough his voice is. Same goes for his hot accent. Add the giant vibrator I am currently sitting on top of, and I never stood a chance.

“Lilah,” he says. “Who’s that?”

“Huh?” I look up.

And standing there on the sidewalk staring at us is Josh holding a single red rose. Cheating on someone and then abusing them via text seems more of a whole bouquet kind of situation. Though he always was cheap. He stares at us, his mouth open and brows high. You would think kicking someone out and blocking them would send a message. I know he read the articles about me and the almost-prince, but seeing me with another man has him stunned. Which is ridiculous.

“It’s my ex,” I say. “Josh.”

Alistair’s body tenses. “The one who cheated on you? Do you want to talk to him?”

“No.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“And say what, exactly?”

He grunts. “Actually, I was just going to punch him in the face. I don’t suppose you’d be okay with that?”

“Hmm. That’s another no.”

“Let’s get the fuck out of here, then.”

He revs the engine, and we take off down the street, leaving my sordid past behind. Which is exactly where it belongs.

We ride a circuit—Laurel Canyon, Mulholland Drive, and Cahuenga Boulevard—with great views of LA and the Valley. My butt goes numb about halfway, but I could happily cling to Alistair all day. What was fun in the convertible is even better on the back of a bike. The rush of the wind and the feeling of freedom as you watch the world go by. It’s little wonder people get addicted. This absolutely qualifies as a daring exercise, racing through the Hollywood Hills with a royal rebel.

We don’t stop or speak—we just ride.

When we’re done in the hills, he doesn’t head back to my place. He takes us west through town toward The Flats at the base of Beverly Hills. We pull up at a large gray metal gate and wait for it to slide open. Tall walls of the same color surround the property with trees reaching high above. A gravel driveway deposits us in a courtyard, surrounded by a tall stone building, which is also gray. It stands two stories high, and there are no windows on the street side. Just the large glass front doors and an abundance of wisteria vines.

If a modern-day fairy-tale prince turned grumpy beast were looking to relocate, this would be the place. No questions asked.

He turns off the engine and takes off his helmet. The sudden quiet seems to match this mansion looming over me. It’s a mood.

“Quite a fortress,” I say in a small voice. “Where are we?”

“My home.”

“Okay.”

“Why are we whispering?”

“I have no idea.”

He holds out a hand to help me dismount. Gravel crunches beneath my black ankle boots, breaking the silence. Then an insect chirps and a bird sings. Soon this is followed by the distant hum of traffic. We are, after all, still in the city.

“What did you think of the ride?” he asks, climbing off the bike.

“I loved it.” I grin. “Though I think I swallowed a bug.”

“Extra protein. Good work.”

“Thanks.”

“Come inside,” he says, nodding to the large glass door surrounded by a cool aged steel frame.

“You’re inviting me into your sanctuary?”

“You don’t want us being seen together by the press. Eating here seemed like a good idea.”

“It’s a great idea.”

He flashes me a smile. There and gone in an instant. One day he’s going to smile for long enough to get used to the feel of the thing. What a day that will be. Showing me his home seems to suggest a new level of trust between us, which is nice. He unlocks the front door and disables the security system of the huge and silent house. It’s an interesting mix of industrial and luxe, with gray concrete walls and dark wood floors. The only sound is the echo of our footsteps.

“Can I take your jacket?” he asks.

“Thanks.”

He doesn’t hesitate. I undo the zipper and his hands are there, reaching around from behind me. The backs of his fingers graze against the thin material of my tee, sending a shiver through me. Everything low in me clenches. This is ridiculous, what with all the time spent on the bike pressed up against him. I wouldn’t blame his new lady friend if she hated me. I get so messy around this man. He makes every moment feel momentous. It sure puts my average attraction and affection for Josh in its place. Which would be the trash. No one should settle when it comes to love or lust.

Alistair takes the jacket and hangs it on a rack beside his own. I can only hope he didn’t feel my reaction. My body needs to calm the hell down.

“How high are these ceilings?” I ask, to distract myself.

“Sixteen feet.”

“Wow.”

He hangs back, watching my face with interest as I look around, obviously proud of the place. Which he should be. Him wanting me to like his home makes all the warm feelings rush to the surface. The non-horny ones for a change.

The entryway opens onto a sprawling combined living-and-dining space. Floor-to-ceiling windows look onto a back patio with more wisteria wrapped around pillars, the green of a lawn, and the blue of a pool beyond. In the seating area, a flat-screen the size of California hangs above a large fireplace. There’s not much furniture—just a long white sofa (always a brave color) and an antique wood dining table with a dozen or so seats. A couple of boxes sit in a corner, along with several large unframed paintings. The only real hint of personality is a gaming unit sitting on the floor beneath the TV. It feels like more than a strict dedication to a minimal decorating style. Alistair just is this buttoned-down and hidden from view.

“It was built in the sixties by a gallery owner,” he says. “She wanted to be close to everything but still be able to lock out the world and have total privacy.”

“I can see how that would appeal to you. This place must have been beautiful when it was full of pictures.”

“I have some pieces I keep meaning to hang,” he says, nodding to the collection of boxes in the corner. “Just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

“I didn’t mean... The house is great. Can I check it out?”

“Make yourself at home.”

The house has two levels and is shaped like a C, surrounding the backyard with its pool, firepit, and hot tub. It’s no wonder it feels like a fortress. There’s a chef’s kitchen with stainless-steel appliances, gray stone countertops, and a smaller dining table seating eight. And more of those packing boxes shoved off to the side. Given how immaculate the rest of the house is, those boxes are an oddity.

Since he already knows I’m nosy and has accepted that about me, I open the stainless-steel double-door fridge. In the freezer, there’s a bottle of vodka and some ice. In the fridge is a half-empty six-pack of beer, a quart of milk, and an unopened bottle of champagne. No food. He’s a breatharian, apparently. Good on him for giving alternate lifestyles a go.

“Are you judging me?” he asks in an amused tone.

“I would never.”

“Of course not. You do realize your nose twitches when you lie.”

“It does not,” I say, reaching up to touch it just in case.

“Would you like a drink?”

“Not yet.”

Beyond the kitchen, the hallway runs off at an angle while a set of stairs leads to the second story. This house is a rich man’s hobbit hole. A sprawling aboveground bunker for those with a taste for luxury. There’s a distinct subterranean feel to the place. Standing inside these gray walls, the rest of the world might as well have disappeared.

“Down there are the three guest bedrooms,” he says, pointing down the hall. “Upstairs is my bedroom, an office, sitting room, and outdoor area.”

“What’s down the other end on this level?”

“Home gym, library, and a media room,” he says. Library is no sooner out of his mouth than I am racing in that direction. Because books. “Lilah, wait. You’re going to be disappointed.”

As promised, exercise machines and weights occupy the first room. There’s even a towel slung over the seat of an elliptical. It’s the most lived-in space I’ve seen so far. Across the hall is a bathroom with gray stone tiling and copper pipes. Very cool. Then at last I find it—the library. He’s right about being disappointed. Dark wood shelving to match the floor lines two whole walls reaching up to the high ceiling. But apart from the mountain of boxes stacked in one corner, all of it is empty. Though there is one of those cool ladders on wheels. I wonder if he’d push me back and forth if I asked nicely.

Imagine having your own library and not even using it. This is a travesty. A disgrace. It also makes absolutely no damn sense.

“This room is beautiful. Or it could be,” I say. “How long have you lived here?”

“A while.”

“Narrow it down for me.”

He leans against the door frame with his arms crossed. “I don’t know. Not quite five years.”

“Five years?” My eyes are as wide as can be. “Fuck me.”

“I was going to ask how you were doing with the ‘great sex’ thing,” he deadpans.

“Don’t change the subject.” I point a finger at him. “You do realize you bring that up every time we talk?”

“What do you want for dinner?” he asks, most definitely attempting another change of topic. He likes living dangerously. He should take me more seriously when books are at stake. I might joke about a lot of things, but never the printed word.

I rip the tape off the nearest box and peer inside. Just as expected...books. All these boxes are full of books. He obviously loves reading, and yet his library is in shambles.

He scratches at the dark stubble lining his jaw. “Feel free to just go ahead and open those.”

“Is there furniture in the guest bedrooms?”

“No. If a friend crashes, they just sleep on the couch. Unless they’re a special friend.”

“What about upstairs?”

“There’s my bed, of course. And a desk and table in the office.”

“Anything in the sitting room?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not a space I use.”

“What about the media room next door?”

“Got the screen set up in the main room, so...”

I stare at him in wonder. “You’ve been living here for half a decade, don’t use the bulk of the house, and haven’t bothered to finish unpacking. Does that basically sum up the situation?”

“Yeah. Basically. I’ve been busy.”

There have been many times in my life when I wished men came with a manual. But none so much as now. I run a finger along a shelf, and it comes away dust free. Meaning I can move straight into unpacking the boxes and getting the books in order. “I’ll have that drink when you’re ready.”

“You’re going to set up my library?”

“I am.”

“That’s a big job.”

“Oh. I meant to tell you, your mother visited me last night,” I say, piling books from the first box onto the floor.

All amusement falls from his face. “Helena visited you? At your apartment?”

“Yeah. It was fine. Don’t panic.” I pull out my hair tie and redo my ponytail. Wearing the helmet has left it feeling lopsided. “But she and my friend Rebecca were snooping and found my wish list, along with other clues, such as information on green burials.”

“You’re not going to die,” he growls. “I wish you’d stop worrying about that.”

“At any rate, questions were asked, and I wound up telling them about Good Witch Willow and the predictions. But don’t worry. I made sure not to mention the one about us being soulmates within your mother’s hearing.”

His frown amps up to eleven. “All right.”

“Her Ladyship decided I needed spiritual cleansing.”

“Of course she did. You didn’t actually let her do it, though, did you?”

“Your belief in me being sensible is beautiful but unwarranted,” I report. “She filled up a Super Soaker with essential oils, and I stood in the shower wearing my bikini, and...yeah. She fired it at me.”

His mouth hangs open in wonder.

“Say something, Ali.”

“You let my mother fire a water pistol full of scented oil at you?”

“Yes.”

He just blinks.

“She threw Himalayan crystal salt at me too. Big handfuls of the stuff. A huge chunk of quartz was also involved. I forget what that was for. But she didn’t throw that at me. It just sat on the shower floor, where I kept accidentally kicking it. There was some chanting involved too. A mantra or something.”

“Right.” This is about when he starts to massage either side of the bridge of his nose. Like he’s in actual physical pain. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I am just telling you because I thought you would want to know.”

“Lilah, be careful with my mother,” he says, his voice slow and deliberate. Like he’s choosing his words with care. “She doesn’t always make good choices.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just be careful,” he repeats. “Please.”

“Okay. About that drink?”

Without a word, he turns and disappears. It seems I am sorting books on my own.

Alistair reads a fair amount of fantasy. I’ve no idea why, but this surprises me. Terry Pratchett and J. R. R. Tolkien and N. K. Jemisin are all here. I went through a fantasy phase in my midtwenties, but it doesn’t appeal as much to me right now. Guess the idea of a world with a system of magic was more enticing before these predictions bit me on the ass. Though being told you’re going to die next week will suck the sparkle out of anything.

Alistair returns with the bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice, along with a single champagne flute and a beer for him. He pours me a glass of bubbles before starting in on one of the boxes alongside me. We’re going to work on the library together. I like being close to him, so this is a good thing. Though I am a little surprised he didn’t object to me going through his books and taking charge. Maybe he is starting to trust me after all.

“Am I allowed to ask how your lunch date went on Wednesday?” I say oh so casually. “Friends ask each other things like that, right?”

“Do they?”

“I just happened to see the photos on a gossip site.”

“You just happened to see them?”

I nod and sip my drink. “I was actually checking to see if there were any updates on me, if you must know.”

He unpacks books and doesn’t answer my question.

Undeterred, I ask, “How does the fame thing affect you dating?”

“Was that the first time you’ve seen your ex since the night you threw him out?” he asks in return.

“If I answer your question, will you answer mine?”

He narrows his gaze on me and says nothing. And I keep my mouth shut and wait. Finally, he says, “Yes.”

“That was the first time I’ve seen Josh since that night. Though he did text me when the photos of you and me were everywhere. Called me a cheating bitch, if you can believe it.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he says in a low and deliberate voice. The vibes coming off him are beyond intense.

I don’t know what to say. No one has ever been quite this angry on my behalf.

“You should have let me punch the little shit.”

“He isn’t worth an assault charge. Though I appreciate you being willing to go there for me.”

“Did it upset you? Seeing him?”

“No. That part of my life, being with him, it feels a weirdly long way away. Like it was years ago. Guess a lot has happened in the meantime. Or maybe this week and the predictions and so on have just weirded out my emotions.” I take a sip of the champagne and think calm thoughts. “This is good.”

He sighs and allows me to move the conversation in a different direction. “It’s a vintage Krug Brut,” he says. “I thought you might like it.”

“You were right.” I smile. “Thank you.”

“It’s well-known for being great at washing down bugs.”

“Answer my question now.”

“I usually date people who know what they’re getting into. Professionals in the entertainment industry and such. They’re under similar pressures and know how to keep their mouths shut. Often, they have just as much to lose if the wrong thing goes public.”

“Makes sense.”

He pushes his dark hair out of his face and looks me over. From my sensible flat black boots to my dark blue jeans and white tee. “You look nice. I meant to tell you earlier. You always look lovely.”

“Thank you. So do you.” The way heat rushes to my face. I gesture to the boxes. “Have you read all these books?”

“Some. Others I bought and stored here for later.”

“You didn’t want your housekeeper or cleaner or someone unpacking the boxes for you?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t like the idea of someone going through my things.”

“I’m going through your things.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it? But what stopped you from doing it?” I ask. “Not just from setting up in here, but the rest of the house too?”

“I told you. I was busy.”

“For five years?”

“I don’t know, Lilah. It doesn’t matter.”

I just nod and let it go.

“You were going to tell me how you were doing with the great sex.” His expression is perfectly blank. Like he’s just making casual conversation. Jerk.

No way will I be shamed. “You know, you keep asking me that question like I don’t know how to work a vibrator or use a showerhead or my own hand. But I assure you I am quite proficient at all three.”

It takes him a moment to respond. “Fair enough.”

“As for bringing other people into the equation, I found a couple of reputable male escort agencies in the area. Meeting at a midrange hotel is apparently the way to go. Then when he arrives, you assess if there’s chemistry, and if you feel comfortable before—”

“Absolutely not,” he says adamantly, his accent thicker than normal.

“What?”

“You can’t have thought this through.”

“I assure you I have.” I just wait. And wait some more. Given his cranky gaze, he dislikes me using his own silence tactic. Sucks to be him.

“I just... There’s no need for you to be having sex with strangers.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not safe, Lilah.”

“It’ll be as safe as I can make it.”

“I don’t like it.”

I scoff. “You don’t need to like it. Signing off on my sex life is not your job.”

He stares at me, and I stare at him, and apparently no one is going to win this competition. Not anytime soon.

“Let’s talk about something else,” he says. “It’s your turn to ask a question.”

“Fine. Do you grill your other friends about their sex lives?”

“I’m not answering that. Ask me something else.” He drops some books on the floor. Poor books. “You wanted to know about my lunch yesterday. The best way to get the paparazzi off your back was to be seen with someone else. Constance has retired from modeling and is about to announce her new line of athletic wear. She was happy to have the press shadowing her to help get her name trending.”

“Wait.” My face is pure confusion. “You went out with her to...”

“To divert attention from you.”

“It wasn’t really a date?”

“No. She’s just a friend.”

“Is she just a friend like I’m just a friend, or is she a special friend?”

He just looks at me.

“Ignore the last question. It’s none of my business. Thank you for doing that for me.” I lick my suddenly dry lips. “I am a little surprised, is all. It’s just that some of the photos looked a bit... What’s the word?”

“Intimate?” he asks. “I never touched her ass. I know it looked like it in the photo, but that was just the angle.”

The conversation has turned awkward. Awkwarder. It’s all his fault for bringing up sex again. I thought we were just friends. We agreed we were just friends. Now I don’t know what’s going on.

A low, sonorous chiming sound fills the house.

I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. “Guess that’s the food. That was fast.”

“Can’t be,” he says with a frown. “I haven’t ordered yet.”

Next comes the distant sound of fists banging and someone yelling. And what they’re saying is “Open this damn door. It’s time for Thursday-night drinks, you fucker.”

Said fucker just sighs.