Chapter Thirteen
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Stella
I said I didn’t want him to break down in front of me. I was too scared I couldn’t handle it when he did, but he makes it easy—doesn’t ask me for anything but to be there and rub his back as he cries.
He’s had to be strong for Zarah, for the public, for his employees, for the company’s future and reputation, but he doesn’t need to be strong for me. I’m strong for myself, and I haven’t given myself enough credit.
I can handle more than I think.
Feeling weak and being weak are two different things. I can now, I think, spare him some of my strength. He cries for a long time. Misery and despair have built up, and he’s had no one to share them with.
A sad love song plays during the credits, and it floats around us. I knew I’d fall for him, but I wish it hadn’t happened so fast. His love swept me away, and I’m powerless to fight it.
He finally stops long after the credits are done and the TV has faded to black. Sniffling, he lifts his head. His eyes are bloodshot, his face splotchy. He looks tired, oh, my poor baby, he looks so tired.
I click off the TV and lead him to my bedroom. I know sex can’t fix everything. Zane’s tried to find peace between a woman’s legs and it didn’t work, but slowly, I think, no, I pray, I’ve come to mean more to him than a quick fuck.
Reaching onto my toes—without heels, I’m shorter than he is . . . by a lot—I brush my lips over his. He sits on my bed, and it’s easier to kiss him. I slick my tongue against his lips, and they taste of salt and sorrow.
Zane pushes his hands under my t-shirt and runs the tips of his fingers down my spine. I shiver, and he smiles under my mouth.
I want to go slow. Show him the difference between eating me out in his office and making love in my bed.
He cups my ass, and I move his hands to my waist. “Slow, Mr. Maddox,” I say, kissing him again, but not releasing his wrists.
Faint hints of ice cream and coffee linger in his mouth, mixing with his own flavor. I’m swollen and needy, and my breasts grow heavy, desperation humming through me.
After he accepted my invitation, I bought condoms. I didn’t want to worry about that part of it. I want to enjoy him and help him forget about all his responsibilities, even if it’s just for an evening. Unbuttoning his shirt, I whisper kisses down his neck and over his chest. At twenty-five, his body isn’t quite filled out—he still possesses a lankiness his youth hasn’t left behind—but I like his slim build, the way his flat belly trembles as I kiss his abs.
He looks sexy sitting on my bed, his white shirt hanging open.
“How slow is slow?” he asks.
“Slow,” I mumble against his lips, raking my fingers through his hair. I don’t want to stop kissing him, but an inexplicable need writhes inside me, begging for more. I pull my top off and he buries his face between my breasts. I wore the cutest bra I own. I didn’t buy everything I wanted at Donna Karan, and I’m glad it’s dark in here and he can’t see that well.
He seems more interested in what’s inside my bra, and his tongue teases my nipple through the lace. They harden under his touch, and smiling, he says, “I don’t think we’ll be going as slow as you want, Miss Mayfair.”
I skim my fingers over his jaw, and his whiskers scratch deliciously at my skin. I meet his eyes, and I know I will never tire of being with him, spending time with him, making love to him. We could be together for a million years, and I would feel the same as I do right now. Don’t get too ahead of yourself, I warn myself, and I focus on tonight. It’s nice to have time to enjoy each other.
Laughing, I say, “Probably not.”
He chuckles low and smooth, and my heart melts.
He peels my yoga pants off my legs, and I kick them aside. I don’t want to be the only one without clothes on, and I nudge his shoulder.
My impatience amuses him, and his mouth twists into a wry grin. He stands, and I unbuckle his belt and unbutton his pants. His cock strains against the fly, and my fingers graze his erection as I pull the zipper down. He shudders. I push my hand into his briefs and encircle him, the thick veins pulsing under my touch.
“God, Stella,” Zane moans and releases a deep sigh.
I know how he feels. Tonight will be special. Tonight will change things.
I can only hope for the better.
For both of us.
He wriggles out of his pants, tossing them near mine on the floor, and tugs off his socks. I kneel and pull his briefs over his strong thighs down to his feet. He steps out of them, and I throw them in the direction of our other clothes. His cock is thick and heavy, and gazing up at him, I lap at the pre-cum welling at the tip. Salty, like his tears, tangy like the rest of him.
He growls and tangles his fingers in my hair, but that’s all he does, and I relax.
Trying not to let my teeth graze his skin, I suck him into my mouth, and the tip of his cock touches the back of my throat. I pause, controlling my gag reflex. I want to make this good for him. I did this while he was sleeping and I could work at my own pace, but he’s awake now and in control. He doesn’t know I haven’t done this very many times, how inexperienced I am.
I caress his balls, and his cock surges in my mouth. His hands yank at my hair, encouraging me, but my jaw starts to tire, and reluctantly, I release his cock and lean away. I don’t want to disappoint him, but my face is starting to ache. “I’m sorry. I haven’t done that enough.”
He tugs me to my feet and devours my lips. “Never apologize. You’re perfect, just the way you are.” Unhooking my bra, he says, “I don’t want to think about you doing that to another man, anyway.”
“Zane...” I fade off. No one has ever said anything that sweet to me before.
He brushes this thumb over my cheek. “I know, Stella. Take your panties off. You won’t need them for the rest of the night.”
I do as he says, pressing my lips together against a cry.
We slide into my bed, and a streetlight outside the window offers us a little light. Under the covers, Zane cuddles me and nudges my legs apart. My breasts push against his chest. Our bodies are in line, and I’ve never felt so close to someone.
His fingers slick through my folds, searching, and in seconds, he discovers how wet and ready I am. Gently, he pushes his finger inside me, and I whimper into his neck.
“God, Stella, you feel so tight. So good. Do you like this?”
He fingers me, stroking me lazily, in and out, and the beginning of an orgasm starts building between my legs. “I love that,” I say, rocking my hips, pressing against his hand, needing more. Tentatively, he adds another finger. He’s scared he’s going to hurt me, and I find his concern incredibly sexy.
I let him play, but he stays away from my clit. He knows one light touch will send me over, and we haven’t started yet. Kissing him, his fingers deep inside me, I lick at his mouth and let my hands trace his body. I lightly run my fingers over the muscles of his ass.
He pushes me onto my back and pulls a nipple between his teeth. The painful pinch travels to my core, and I arch my back, offering him all of me.
“Do you have protection, baby?” he murmurs. “If not, I brought—”
Laughing, I give him a smacking kiss.
I love him.
“I bought a box, but I don’t know if they’re the right—”
“They’ll be perfect, Stella, just like you are.”
I grab the box out of my nightstand’s drawer and try to peel the top open but the glue is too strong. I guess I wasn’t savvy enough to anticipate how difficult it would be to find the treasure inside.
“Let me do that, or we’ll have to go to work before I’m able to sink into this heaven you’ve been teasing me with all night.”
Playfully, I huff and roll my eyes, and I surrender the box. He laughs and kisses me, his strong arms trapping me against his chest.
He frees me and a condom packet too, but I steal it out of his grasp. I want to do it.
“Lay back,” I say, pushing him on his shoulder.
He settles onto my pillow, the streetlight casting half his face in shadows. The king of King’s Crossing is in my bed, and I’m the luckiest girl in the world.
I roll the condom onto his cock, and I admit, his size scares me, even though he’s already been inside me once.
“Don’t be nervous, baby,” he says, running his hand up and down my arm. “As slow as you need, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Be on top. You can have control.”
I like the sound of that, and I hold his cock in my hand and rise over him.
Gradually, I ease onto him, inch by excruciating inch. My muscles stretch as he fills me, and he groans, trying to give me the time I need. His fingers dig into my hips, steadying me.
Just when I think I can’t take any more, he surges upward, and I cry out at the sudden rush of pleasured pain. He’s inside as far as he can go, and it’s so good. I rock back, getting a feel for him, and I begin to move up and down, my muscles tugging at him as my slick walls glide along his thick shaft.
“Sit still for a second,” Zane says, slowing me down.
I stop, afraid I’m doing something wrong.
“Touch yourself for me,” he says, rolling my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. Squeezing and pulling, the slight pain makes my breasts heavy and sensitive.
“Are you sure?” I’ve never played with myself in front of a man before.
“Fuck, yeah,” he breathes. “That’s hot.”
I reach between our bodies, and I love how I can feel him inside me, where we’re joined.
Wetting my fingers, I find my clit, huge and waiting. I moan and rock on Zane’s cock, the tip hitting my center. We’re as close as two people can be.
“Open your eyes, Stella,” Zane orders me, giving my nipples an extra squeeze.
My muscles clench around him, and my eyes fly open.
“I want to watch you come. I want to see it in your eyes how much you want me.”
“I do.”
“Prove it.”
My fingers swirl around the ball of nerves, engorged because his cock is inside me. My pussy feels different. Full. Swollen. I grind onto him and rub my clit, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Zane twists and pulls my nipples until it hurts so much I want to cry.
I come instead, the burst of pleasure exploding out of my mouth in a shuddering sob. I crumple on top of him to catch my breath.
But Zane doesn’t give me any time to recover. He flips me onto my back and pushes my legs apart, forcing my knees near my shoulders. I thought the way I was on top he couldn’t get any deeper, but my legs are spread as far as they can be, and I’m fully open and exposed.
He holds himself over my body and slides in so deep. “Stella,” he groans, hammering into me.
I cry out every time he hits my center, even more tender after my orgasm, and he comes, every muscle in his body straining. Sighing, he lowers himself onto me, resting his forehead against my damp shoulder. He drifts down from his high, and his cock is still inside me, twitching. I want to go on the pill so when we make love, nothing will be between us. I want to feel him. I want to know he’s leaving a part of himself inside me.
Zane kisses me, long and slow now that the anticipation is over, and I cuddle into him, sweat slicking his skin.
He scoots down and licks at my nipple. The sensation hurts, and gasping, I jerk away.
“I was too rough,” he says, and he cradles me, brushing his thumb over my cheek.
“No,” I say, but he hears the truth.
“I’m sorry, baby.” He licks at my nipple again, and he holds me in place, preventing me from wiggling away. He blows cool air onto my skin, and I relax. Gently, he tends to both of my nipples, soothing them, and I feel him growing hard inside me again.
I’m sensitive down there, too, but I don’t want to say anything.
Zane cups my breasts, and something stirs in my belly. I want him, too, but I don’t want it to hurt. Vulnerable and inexperienced, I turn away, trying not to cry.
“I hurt you.” Zane pulls out, and I whimper, the friction burning my delicate skin. “Shh, shh, it’s okay. We don’t have to do it again until you’re ready.”
“Zane...” I want to apologize, say I’m sorry. Do something because I know he’s had women who could probably go all night, or do things I can’t do, or maybe don’t want to do.
He rolls off the bed.
He’s leaving.
Tears run down my temples, and I press my comforter to my mouth to stifle my cries. I messed up.
The bed dips under his weight, and I meet his gaze, surprised. “I thought—”
“I had to clean up. Can I stay, Stella?” he asks, and he looks as vulnerable as I feel.
“I was hoping you would.”
He crawls between the sheets, slides an arm under my head, one over my belly, and spoons me.
“I’m sorry I disappointed you.” It’s easier to speak if I don’t have to look at him.
“Hey, what’s this?” he asks, wiggling away and giving himself room to turn me over.
“I’m sorry I disappointed you. I couldn’t do what you wanted.”
Zane anchors himself over me, a knee between my legs. His cock is soft against my hip. “Listen, you could never disappoint me. I’m the one who should be apologizing. I was too rough. I hurt you, and I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t, not really. I’m just not used...”
He kisses me, softly, nothing in his kiss but affection and understanding. “I’m happy you’re not. How we met...it’s selfish of me to be glad you don’t have a history like I do.”
“It doesn’t matter to me,” I say, cupping his jaw. Long past five o’clock, whiskers cover his face, and he’s sexier than hell.
“It matters to me. I want to be good enough to deserve you.”
“You already are.”
“No, I’m not, but I’m going to try.”
I don’t know what he means. I don’t know how he can be any better a person than he already is, but the conviction shining in his eyes leaves no room for argument.
Letting him cuddle me, I want to tell him I love him, but I don’t feel the timing is right. I have more to prove before I do.
He wants to be good enough for me, but I want to be good enough for him, too.
Zane wakes me in the middle of the night, nuzzling my lips.
“Are you okay?” I ask, trying to open my eyes. I haven’t always been a good sleeper, keeping an eye on my bedroom door, waiting for an uninvited guest to try to crawl into my bed, or hearing my foster parents screaming at each other in the middle of the night, or ignoring my foster siblings having nightmares. My nighttimes smoothed out during my years living with Maryanne, and when I finally moved into my own apartment, I slept well knowing I was in control of my own future and nothing could hurt me anymore.
I wonder how long Zane has been kissing me to wake me up. “Did you have another nightmare?” Pressing my hand to his cheek, I lean into his kisses.
He holds a condom packet, and the edge scrapes my arm.
“I want to make love to you.” Zane guides my hand to his erection, steel covered in velvet, strong, yet easily wounded.
Kind of like who he is. A hurt little boy hiding inside the man he needs to be.
I kiss him to give my permission, and he sheathes himself.
Nudging my legs apart, he settles on top of me.
Zane doesn’t take me fast and furiously, not like yesterday. He eases into me, and holds me close to his chest, kissing me deeply as he moves. This is what I always envisioned love to be. Passionate kisses and whispers of affection in the dark. I wrap my arms around his neck, and my hips match his tender rhythm.
There’s power behind his strokes, and I know he’s claiming me. But it’s more than physical. He’s taking my heart, and he’s giving me his.
“Stella,” he gasps, fisting my hair as he comes.
He screws into me until there’s not a centimeter of room left between us, and I let him, squeezing his shoulders, urging him to fall to pieces.
Shuddering, he relaxes, being careful not to crush my body under his weight. He smells of sweat, sex, and something scary only found late at night in the dark.
Desperation. Fear. Loneliness.
Confusion. Maybe even hate.
He hates whoever took his parents, like I hate whatever fate left me alone in the world.
“I need to clean up.” Zane rolls off the bed, and I burrow into the blankets.
There’s no wet spot this time. He wore a condom and I didn’t come, but I don’t mind. Zane’s more than generous, but he needed something, and this time, I let him take.
He stumbles back to bed, tripping over our clothes that are still on the floor. “Thank you,” he mumbles, and I barely hear him.
I roll over and rest my head on his chest. “Whatever you need, Zane.” I smooth my fingers over his ribs.
“Thank God I found you.”
He’s sleeping then, and I don’t respond but I listen to him breathe, my lips rubbing against his damp skin.
It’s late before I finally fall asleep.
My alarm goes off much too early, and I want to snuggle in bed with Zane, but we can’t be late. I force myself to get up and shower, and my nipples ache under the hot spray. I’m sore, but when Zane woke me in the middle of the night to make love, it didn’t hurt, and I’m glad I didn’t have to tell him no. I always want to give him whatever he needs.
Wearing his rumpled suit, his tie tucked into his pocket, he looks adorable sitting at my little table eating cereal and catching up on the news on his phone. He didn’t want to leave me behind, and quickly, I dress in another skirt and matching blouse I bought at Donna Karan. I slip on heels the right size, and my feet thank me. My hair is still damp, but I step into the kitchen ready to head to the office. Half an hour later, he’s kissing me in the elevator, his scruff scratching my cheek. “I’m going up to take a shower and change my clothes. I’ll see you later, okay?”
I nod, shifting into work mode. The first thing I’ll need to do is block out the first two hours of his day. Denton and Cramer won’t be happy.
My cell phone starts pinging the moment I sit down at my desk. RSVPs are pouring in for Zane’s party, and all morning I scramble to check people off the list. Finally, I ask Harper if she’ll help me. She’s a little resentful Zarah and I planned the party without her input, but she sees I’m in over my head and her face clears. Matching RSVP texts, emails, and phone calls to the guest list is a lot easier with her help. She’s personally met everyone, and she reminds me who they all are in relation to the Maddoxes.
I don’t see Zane all day, and Zarah doesn’t text me, either. It’s a little unsettling. I’ve gotten attached to them and being a part of their world. With no news and no plans, I’m strangely bereft at the end of the day.
The floor gradually empties and it’s time to go home. Zane’s on a conference call, the volume of his voice rising and falling through his office door at my back. I won’t be able to tell him goodbye.
Zarah could be with Ash, working, serving coffee, or fucking him, since that seems to be part of her job description, too. I shouldn’t feel superior, but I do. I don’t think she does any real work at Black Enterprises, but I shouldn’t judge her. I let Zane fuck me on his desk. I’m no better than she is.
I grab my purse and check my cell phone. The RSVPs stopped along with the business day. Harper leaves, wishing me a goodnight, and Denton follows her into the elevator, his eyes on her ass. I wonder if they have something on the side, or if I’m the only cliché on the twenty-fifth floor.
Not hearing a word from anyone, I ride the elevator downstairs alone. I glance at my phone again, double checking Zarah hasn’t asked me to meet her somewhere. She hasn’t.
I go home, and not even Bill and his cheerful demeanor lift my spirits.
After changing out of my work clothes, I eat a piece of the leftover pizza and make a fresh pot of coffee.
It feels odd to be alone, and I think about stopping by Maryanne’s to see how Jilly’s doing, but I don’t. I promised myself after I moved out of her house I wouldn’t intrude. I only visit if she invites me, and that’s maybe once a month or so. Other girls depend on her, and they need all her time. Some of them aren’t as obedient as Bethany or as even-tempered as Jilly.
I keep my phone next to me in case Zane or Zarah tries to reach me, and I log into my online classes and read through the daily course material. I’m a little behind, and I do homework all evening to catch up. I don’t want to waste the grant money that pays for my tuition, and I need to do better.
My phone remains silent, and I fall asleep watching TV. I wake up briefly to go to the bathroom and move to the bed. The sheets smell like sex, and pushing a pillow to my face, I breathe in Zane’s scent.
He might be mad at me. Maybe he realized I’m not the kind of woman he needs after all. I wish our lovemaking had gone better. He said he had a good time, but maybe I was too whiny. He’s used to treating women how he likes. He’s Zane Maddox, for Christ’s sake, and he grew up being handed whatever he wants.
He might have decided he doesn’t want me, and that would break my heart.
I’d miss his boyish grin, his sensitive soul.
Dressed in one of my old suits, I venture to work the next morning, apprehensive and unsure of what I’m stepping into. I look for Zane or Zarah, but I don’t see either of them.
Keeping an eye on Zane’s schedule, completing small side projects that Harper asks me to do, recording the RSVPs that started coming in the second I plopped into my chair, and resuming my MI 101 classes fills all my time, but I still don’t feel like I’m doing as much as an experienced person trained for the position could do. Harper’s patient, feeding me duties as she thinks I can handle them, and for a full three hours I don’t see Zane at all. Then suddenly he’s behind me, his hands gripping my shoulders.
“I’m sorry about last night. I got hung up here. I wanted to give you a kiss goodbye.”
I sag with relief. “It’s okay. I know how busy you are.”
“Never too busy to spend time with you.” He kisses the top of my head and slips into his office.
Reassured our relationship is okay, I go back to work. I hate feeling off, and it worries me how entangled with the Maddoxes I’ve become. It’s not healthy, and Maryanne wouldn’t approve. My job aside, Zane’s and Zarah’s friendships shouldn’t mean that much to me.
Zane signs my paychecks, and that’s all I should care about.
At the end of the day, when I don’t hear from him again, and still nothing from Zarah, either, I decide I need to put a little distance between me and the Maddoxes. I wish I had more friends, but while I was in school and working a day job, I didn’t have much mental energy left over to meet people or nurture relationships. Any friends and acquaintances I made during my time in foster care have dwindled down to almost no one.
I text Quinn, a girl I grew close to in one of my foster homes before I was placed with Maryanne, and use my old cell. Quinn would never answer a text from an unknown number, even if I say it’s me. I’ll give her my new number, and she can keep both since I’m reluctant to toss my old phone. It’s a link to my old life, a life I’m not ready to part with just yet. As much as I love the lifestyle Zane and Zarah have introduced me to, it’s shaky ground and every second it feels like it could be ripped out from under my feet.
She messages me back saying she’s working tonight and to stop by. Her invitation releases an amount of tension I didn’t know had built up. Before meeting Zane and Zarah, I felt okay knowing I didn’t have anyone.
Zane’s touch made me realize how lonely I’ve been, and Zarah’s friendship filled a void. I’d been yearning for companionship and didn’t know it.
I look over my shoulder at Zane’s door and log off my computer. He’s not in his office, but I say a silent goodbye. He must feel the pressure now that the party and press conference are in place. I wish he’d confide in me, but I have to give him time. He’s busy, and I don’t want my petty insecurities to distract him.
Quinn Sawyer works in an old warehouse located in one of the industrial parks along the river. The city bus won’t go too deep into that part of town, and the driver drops me off, frowning in concern. I walk a quarter of a mile, the gravel road crunching under my heels. The sun is starting to set, and I hug my trench coat to me. I’m not scared. If anything, I belong among these dark and dirty roads better than I do in Zane’s office. That should tell me something, but the pain in Zane’s eyes won’t let me walk away.
I hear the music a block from the warehouse, a pounding techno beat similar to what played at Temptations.
Quinn’s leaning against the side of the building, one boot anchored against the brick, smoking a cigarette. She’s not much taller than me, but she’s rail thin. Heroin chic. That’s what they called the supermodels back in the nineties grunge era. Quinn would have fit right in.
Her jeans have so many rips I’m surprised they stay together, and her cropped top shows off a bellybutton ring. I was with her the day she got it. She made me promise not to tell anyone she cried like a baby when the woman pierced her skin. I drool over her black leather jacket, and her newsboy cap looks cute. I’d never tell her that, though. She wants to look tough, and that helps her feel tough. It’s the only thing that keeps her going.
She pulls me into a hug and kisses my cheek, her lips lingering over my skin, and I breathe in cigarette smoke and a hint of vanilla under the scent of leather. She wants to do more, and in our foster home, we experimented. She liked it. I didn’t. We were able to stay friends, and it never bothered me she likes women. In fact, I wish I could have, too, or at least been bisexual. Whenever you can find someone who cares about you, you pray you don’t lose them.
“Hey, Stell. You’re looking good.” A note of longing tinges her voice.
“Thanks. You’re looking pretty good yourself.”
Trying to appear tough doesn’t take away the beauty from her face, and the cigarette adds to her allure. Clear blue eyes like mine, freckles sprinkled along the bridge of her nose, lush lips. Her hair is cut into a shag, but when we fostered together, she had to wear it long. Our foster mother didn’t spend money on haircuts, and we didn’t trust her to do it. Maryanne was the first to introduce me to the inside of a hair salon, and a trim every six months is all I can afford.
“Let’s go inside.”
The music blares as she opens the door.
Workers scurry around the cavernous space like little ants, and Quinn leads me to a corner in the back. A large table is full of purse pieces waiting to be stitched together.
A huge, burly man who has a thick beard lumbers by and shoots a warning glance at Quinn. “Thought I said no visitors.”
She rolls her eyes. “She ain’t gonna tell.”
No, I won’t rat on my friend who invited me into the biggest black market reproduction operation in King’s Crossing. The fake leather on a side panel of a purse is stamped with pastel-colored entwined Ds and Bs. They’re counterfeiting Dooney and Bourke bags.
Quinn lounges in a rickety chair, her feet propped on the table, the burning cigarette caught between two fingers. “What’s going on?” she asks, sizing me up. She probably pegged my cheap suit a mile away. What Quinn lacks in cash she makes up for in knowledge and intelligence. Street smarts. And a love of clothing that can’t compete with anyone’s. She would die if I told her about the clothing allowance that came with my new position. “Nice shoes. How can you afford those?”
Okay, so my Donna Karan pumps and Goodwill skirt and blouse don’t look quite right together.
“I’m trying the new high/low fashion,” I say.
She takes a drag from her cigarette and laughs long and hard, smoke puffing out of her mouth. “Nice try. Celebs don’t slum it anymore, sweetheart.”
I sink into a chair. “Do you want to grab a bite to eat? I’m starving.”
“I’m starving” could be taken quite literally with the way we grew up, but she knows I don’t mean for real. At least, not today.
“Sure. Luis! I’m grabbing dinner.” She stubs her cigarette out in an ashtray on the table and slams her boots onto the concrete floor.
The huge guy shoots her the bird.
“He loves me,” Quinn jokes.
She pulls a burner cell out of the back pocket of her jeans and connects to a number in her contacts list. A tinny voice answers, but I can’t make out the words and don’t know who she’s calling. She murmurs a response and then puts the phone to sleep. Looking quickly over her shoulder at Luis, she gestures for me to follow her. I grip the handrail as I hurry after her down to a basement and through so many narrow and dark hallways I lose count. If she left me down here, I’d never find my way back up.
Stopping at a thick metal door, she heaves it open revealing a bed and a battered dresser. The only places to sit are the bed or the floor, and I choose the ratty mattress and worn blanket.
I kick off my heels and wiggle my toes.
She sits next to me, crisscross, resting her arms on her knees.
It’s good to see her, but these past few years haven’t been easy on her. “You live here?” It’s better than sleeping on the street, but I wish she would find a real place to stay.
“It’s a roof over my head, and money in my pocket.”
“How have you been?”
Quinn reaches out and lets her fingers brush through my hair. “Not as good as you.”
I catch her hand. “You should go to school.”
She scoffs. “With what money?”
Even though Quinn qualifies for state grants and federal aid like I do, she would still need money for food and somewhere to live. Studying to be a fashion designer has always been her dream, and there are no online classes to do that.
“Besides, don’t change the subject. You and Zane Maddox?”
Her cell chimes, and I’m saved from answering her question. She scoots off the bed and slips out the door, letting it thump behind her. While I wait, I check my phone, but the only text I have is an RSVP for Zane’s party I’ll check off the list at work tomorrow. I type out a polite acknowledgement and shove my phone back into my purse. I can smell the Chinese takeout before Quinn steps into the room, and my mouth waters.
After all this time, Quinn still remembers my favorite foods.
I wish I could love her the way she loves me, and for just a second, I think it was unwise to come, but we pick up our friendship where we left off, poking through the boxes of rice, chicken and broccoli, and egg rolls.
I put her off for almost an hour, but eventually, the conversation drifts back to Zane. I can’t avoid her questions any longer, and I tell her about Zarah’s visit to the payroll department and kissing Zane in the elevator. Him moving me to the twenty-fifth floor.
“His parents were mixed up in some bad shit,” Quinn says, feeding me an egg roll.
My lips graze her fingers, and her eyes cloud over.
“Behave,” I warn.
“I can’t help it. You’re so fucking sexy.”
I slap her away, but I laugh, accepting the compliment. “What do you mean, bad shit? Do you mean the plane crash?”
She nods. “Kind of. Do they know what caused it?”
“Zane says the FBI and Homeland Security are still involved and the case is still open. So far, there’s no news.”
“There’s not going to be news. Do you know who runs the FBI?”
Quirking an eyebrow, I say, “The president of the United States?”
“You’re so na?ve.” She nibbles on a bite of chicken, holding the chopsticks with a practiced hand. “Don’t get hurt, Stella. You’re in over your head.”
“I wish you’d tell me what you know.” Living underground, literally, and working in the counterfeiting business, Quinn could hear things that someone else would never be privy to.
“Zane’s parents were dirty, and they were doing a bunch of illegal shit. Kagan Maddox pissed off the wrong person, and they made him pay.”
That doesn’t sound like what I know of Zane’s father. “I don’t believe that. Zane never said anything.”
She speaks around a mouthful of food. “Why would he know? Trust me, that’s the word on the street. Kagan Maddox thought he could get away with double-crossing the wrong guy, and he got caught.”
“By whom?”
Quinn chews, swallows, and laughs. “You’re so fucking proper. ‘By whom,’” she mimics me, teasing. “Information only travels so far, chickie, even down here. That’s all I got. There won’t be news about the crash. They may find someone to pin it on, but it won’t be the right person, or for the right reason. Then they’ll bury it.”
I can’t believe Zane’s parents were involved in something that would have gotten them killed. “There were other people on the plane,” I point out. “Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with Kagan or Lark at all.”
Quinn doesn’t care. “Yeah, right. They’ll use one of them as a coverup. Not everyone leads a perfect life. I’m sure there’s plenty of dirt to go around.”
I think back to the meeting. The cheating senator. The other passengers unaccounted for. Either someone was on the plane to take it down, or they’d be blamed, the FBI hiding the true reason for the crash. How would they defend themselves if they’re dead?
What would happen to Maddox Industries? Is Zane’s fortune built on dirty money? Is that what paid for my clothes? The idea makes me sick. How much do Zane and Zarah know? How much are they keeping from me? I should quit my job and never see them again. Quinn sewing fake purses is one thing. Drugs, murder, whatever Kagan Maddox was into, is another.
“Tell me how good he is in bed,” Quinn says, moving closer.
I pick at my food, my appetite gone. “I’m not telling you that.”
She moves a piece of my hair away from my face and tucks it behind my ear. Her way of life is already starting to wear on her. I could ask her to move in with me, help her find her path, but all she would do is bring trouble to my door. She likes how she lives. The danger of it. Quinn would never live the quiet life I live, that I want to live.
“Why?”
“Because it’s private.”
“I missed you.”
I let her lean into me, the supple leather of her jacket brushing my cheek. “I’ve missed you, too.”
Gripping my hand, she rubs her lips over mine. Even if we were together, she would insist on going her own way. We share a history, a painful one of disregard and neglect, and we’re coping the only way we know how.
“Nothing?” she asks.
Not the feelings she wants me to have. I kiss her knuckles. “No. Sorry.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“I couldn’t be what you want,” I say, squeezing her fingers. “You’re a wild child, and I’m on the straight and narrow.”
“Not so narrow if you’re hanging around a Maddox, but straight, for sure.” Quinn sighs.
I’m glad she’s not going to hold that against me. I need her friendship. I can’t forget where I came from. “Tell me about this set up,” I say, and we settle into a conversation about what we’ve been doing since high school graduation.
She didn’t have someone like Maryanne to show her the way. Quinn graduated with her own grit and determination, stuck in a foster home that used her as a babysitter. It killed me when we were split up. We were sent to different parts of the city, and we didn’t attend the same high school.
Her friendship, now that kind of life is behind us, means more to me than she’ll ever know. I lean my head on her shoulder and we talk past midnight, but I can’t spend the night. I don’t want to send mixed messages, and I need to go to work in the morning—a job she disapproves of.
“Will you be okay going home?” Quinn asks, gently gathering me into a hug.
“Yeah, sure. I’m not that soft.”
“Okay. Be careful, Stella. I don’t mean going home.”
“I will.”
Part of me thinks her fears are unfounded, but part of me knows people who have that much money and power come to feel they can do no wrong and do whatever they want no matter whom they hurt.
Maybe Kagan Maddox simply made a mistake or trusted the wrong person, and it cost him and his wife their lives.
I’m confident walking through the industrial park in the middle of the night. There’s more of Quinn in me than I want to admit, and she’s right. I need to keep my head on straight.
When Zane promoted me, I had to jump out of the kiddie pool and into the deep end. There are sharks swimming at the bottom and one could attack at any moment.
I don’t see Zane’s message until I’m home and plug my phone in to charge.
He tells me he’s thinking about me.
After what Quinn told me tonight, I wonder how true that really is.
I wear my sweater dress again. The one Zane stripped me out of to fuck me over his desk.
If Zarah doesn’t contact me soon, I’ll need to go shopping without her. What I wore in payroll isn’t good enough for the twenty-fifth floor. I tried to make the dress look different by wearing jewelry, new stockings, and a pair of knee-high boots. They aren’t as glamorous as they sound. They fit, but the style is a few years old and the leather is worn. I polish them the best I can, and they don’t look too bad.
The dress’s material isn’t bulky, and I add a blazer. It will work, but to represent Maddox Industries and my new position, I need better clothes sooner rather than later.
Zane’s already in a meeting when I sit behind my desk. Dating Zane Maddox may not be as terrific as people make it out to be. If I never see him, how can we have a relationship?
I fall into my tasks, collecting RSVPs, learning software, and Harper shows me more of what she and the other assistants do as part of their job descriptions. I catch on quickly, wanting to pull my weight, and before I know it, the morning is gone.