Chapter 9 Fawn #2
HJ raises an eyebrow. “I always thought you wanted to get me killed. Keep it up, Miss Harlow. The next whiskey you have will be at my wake.”
“Sir would never kill you.” Downing my whiskey, I nod for the manager to pour another. Just one more. “You can close one eye,” I offer. “I have to see my body from every angle, and you have to guard me. You can’t guard me with both eyes closed, can you?”
He knows I’m teasing.
I don’t want to parade around in front of anyone besides Sir, but Sir isn’t here. He should be. He should be here with us, but he isn’t! I feel a stir of resentment and bitterness tickling my stomach as the thoughts come to me.
HJ narrows his eyes. “You have always been trouble. I assure you that my ears work just as well as my eyes do.”
“Great! Then we’ll toast to your dobber rat ears,” I declare, taking another sip. “To whiskey, macarons, and Henchman Jeeves’s fantastic hearing.”
Finishing my whiskey, I peruse the racks over the next fifteen minutes, and admittedly, my brain definitely feels fluffier. Like, less heavy with concerns and anxieties, less bothered, more… fluffy.
They should call it influffy, not intoxicated.
On a whim, between bites of macaron and the sound of HJ and Jasmine chatting, I slip into the dressing room and glide the satin curtain across, enclosing myself.
The light is bright but flattering. The mirrors are full-length, wiped to shiny perfection by an obsessive hand.
I strip off my jeans and favourite maternity blouse before slipping into an eggshell-coloured lace lingerie set with little Gs embroidered into it.
The stitching and straps are fine and dainty.
It’s very revealing—my nipples show through the tiny translucent lace triangles covering my vulnerable baby-feeding breasts, and the crotch is stitched open so there is no need to remove it.
I slide on the matching stockings, suspenders, and thigh garters.
I stare at myself.
My pussy gets wet instantly, thinking about what he will do to me in this.
What he’ll take from my body, demand from it…
I want it. Now. I am still his little deer, his sweet girl who needs to be fucked and pampered, not just a wifey, right?
A wifey doesn’t have to be alone when she shops, right?
A wifey doesn’t have to do everything on her own just because she’s independent and titled, right?
Is this the beginning of my wifey-hood—straight up the worst fucking hood I’ve ever lived in.
Ugh.
“I need my phone, please.” I call out from inside the private dressing room. “Jasmine?”
She opens the curtains and gasps. “Hot.”
“Fuck.” I blanch, gaze jerking to HJ’s reflection in the mirror as he spins to face the wall, but he definitely got a flash of my main-street and downtown. “Jasmine!”
“Sorry!” She passes me my phone. “I didn’t think.”
I take the phone and pull the curtain shut, closing myself inside again, heart in my throat now.
Breathing calmly, brain influffy and heart yearning, I snap some pictures from different angles. From behind, lifting my shoulder, looking over it. From the front, placing my foot on the satin stool so the image captures the slit that exposes my pussy and blonde pubic hairs. He loves my hair.
I know the rules, and I know Clay's rules like I know the shape of his smile or his steady, commanding nod: send nothing digital that might distract him. But I'm reckless with longing and whiskey and hormones.
So, I thumb the photos straight to him before my better judgment can even clear its throat…
Fuck.
I stare at the screen.
Double fuck.
Blue ticks appear.
Triple fuck.
Oh God, I’m sweating, I’m so excited.
His reply comes in less than a minute, a single word, no-caps:
Clay: pretty
I blink at it.
I blink again, my stomach dropping and rising at the same time. Pretty? That’s it? Part of me wants to throw the phone across the dressing room. Part of me wants to send another, more revealing photo, to touch myself, show him how wet I am from the mere thought of him.
Is that it? Just pretty? Like I'm some random girl he saw at one of his Friday night Family meetings? I feel the heat rise to my cheeks, equal parts embarrassment, whiskey, and something else—disappointment.
Anger.
Betrayal?
I can't tell which emotion is winning as I peel the lingerie off with trembling fingers and climb back into my jeans and shirt.
Walking slowly from the dressing room, I’m torn between texting him back and pretending it never happened.
"Are you ready to leave?" Jasmine asks, eyeing my fully clothed form. "You're dressed."
"I'll take this one." I hold it out for the manager, hating myself for allowing so much of my self-worth to be wrapped up in Clay Butcher’s approval. Even if he is the most powerful man in the city, in the world, in the universe. Like, it’s not as if I had self-worth before him, cause, nah, I didn’t, but at least I knew what I was. I was ready to take on the world alone.
My stomach drops.
What happens when the novelty wears off? When he sees me as just another obligation, another piece of his empire to maintain? The thoughts come unbidden.
"We have it in other colours." The manager folds the lingerie with practiced hands. "Plum, perhaps?"
"Sure." I shrug, picturing his face lighting up at a different shade. Would that have earned more than just "pretty"?
"You look pale," HJ observes.
No shit.
"I'm fine." I grip the stroller handle like it's keeping me upright, gazing down at my sleeping boys. Their perfect little faces blur as my vision swims. Maybe that's all I am now—a vessel. The mother of his heirs.
But that can be enough.
It has to be.
A conversation comes back: Fawn has already given me two sons at only nineteen; my line, my legacy is real. I will have many children. My sons and daughters will be unstoppable. No one will ever question the leadership of the Cosa Nostra in the District again.
Well, kudos to my ovaries.
I guess.
That is what I wanted, right? To find my accomplishments in being a good mother and wife. That was my dream? Does a good wife allow her husband to fuck other women as long as he comes home to her? I’m getting so ahead of myself, but I can’t help it.
Bile fills my throat.
My hands shake.
Why am I so fucking emotional right now?
Your period, silly girl.
Jasmine grabs the pretty Gucci-branded bag, and I steer the stroller back through the store. “Oh, wait.” I stop and look at the store manager. “Don’t I need to pay?”
“It’s on the tab, Mrs Butcher.”
“Not yet,” I blurt out.
He looks nervous. “Excuse me?”
“We’re not married yet. I’m Miss Harlow.”
He smiles, displaying an odd curve to his lips as if he doesn’t know what to make of my comment. Neither do I. I don’t know what to make of it either, to be honest.
Embarrassed for the second time today, I spin on my heels and stride from the luxurious store, literally feeling HJ’s suspicion dripping down my spine as he follows me to the awaiting black SUV.
His voice comes from behind me. “Need to talk about something, Fawn?”
“Nope,” I grumble, popping the p.
Jasmine and I strap the babies in and climb inside.
Sometimes Jasmine’s self-absorbed personality is annoying, other times, it’s exactly what I need.
Like right now, as the car smoothly joins the city traffic, she sits opposite me, completely clueless about my internal turmoil.
It’s nice to be granted the space to fester, to fume, without Sir or HJ reading me like a billboard on The District Square.
I'm still sulking about Sir’s underwhelming response when I notice HJ’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, just before we switch lanes in a rather aggressive manoeuvre.
A car honks.
“I see him,” HJ says into the microphone on his collar, and changes lanes again.
My pulse quickens.
"What's wrong?" I whisper.
"Nothing to be concerned about," he says, but his head is moving as if his eyes are scanning methodically behind his sunglasses. "Just someone speeding.”
That's when I hear it.
The rumbling of a motorcycle, not just any, but a cruiser. I would recognise that growling sound anywhere; it’s the same sound Max and I followed when we walked through a burning forest to meet my father and the Stockyard Bikers.
Then I see him—a biker in a shiny graphite-coloured helmet and leather jacket—speed past us.
"Is that—" I begin.
“He is not patched, Miss Harlow. It’s okay.”
“Who is that?” Jasmine asks.
I realise I’m on the edge of my seat and force myself back into the cushion. “No one.” Ugh, I don’t sound convincing at all.
A flash of movement catches my eye in the side mirror. Another motorcycle weaves through the cars behind us, gaining ground, filtering through the traffic with arrowed intent.
"HJ," I say, trying to keep my voice level and failing miserably. “There’s another one.”
The muscles in his neck tense as he checks the rearview mirror. “Yep. A motorcyclist. Not to worry, Miss Harlow.”
But I am worried.
The bike edges closer.
Are they tracking us? They’re matching our turns, maintaining a precise distance that's close enough to follow but not close enough to prove they’re a threat.
My babies… It hits me like a backhand to the cheek—my sons are always going to be targets. I knew this, of course, in a na?ve way, simmering not boiling, not in a heart-thundering, race for survival sort of way.
"The twins…" I whisper, glancing at their sleeping forms in their car seats, so innocent, so clueless.
“Are perfectly safe,” HJ confirms. “We have four Cosa Nostra vehicles surrounding us, and we’re all watching them. You’re safe.”
I twist in my seat, squinting out the rear window of our bulletproof black SUV, noting the two matching ones to my left and right.
I watch as the motorbike takes a turn behind us and one of our cars follows it, both disappearing down a city street, the growling noise curdling into the distant city clamour.
I exhale with relief. “Fuck.”
“See, nothing to worry about.”
“Why did we follow?” I ask.