Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MONTY
M onday mornings are poorly regarded by members of the working class, but they’re my personal favorite. Not only am I well rested after the weekend and far more optimistic than I am by Friday, but Mondays are also when I get to read my newest Ask Gladys mail. Since all the lead columnists at the Cedar Hills Gazette write under pseudonyms and those who write to us do so anonymously, the best time to turn in questions is over the weekend when the office is closed and our drop box is open. Monday means ample entertainment, sometimes even terror, over the queries I receive.
Yet there is one thing I’ve come to dislike about Mondays lately.
How far away they are from my next weekend session with Daphne.
I force this sentiment from my mind as I arrive at the Gazette for my workday. Such mental meanderings can only lead to more meanderings, and soon I’ll be recalling the feel of her sleeping form against my chest and the curvature of her ass under my palm?—
Swine .
That’s what Daphne would call me if she knew how often that memory has looped through my head.
I settle in at my desk, my newest stack of Ask Gladys mail in my hand. A bustle of activity is already underway outside my closed office door and its frosted glass window. As one of the lead columnists, I’m afforded a small private office attached to the main newsroom. The room features exposed brick walls decorated with paintings of kittens, piglets, and cherubs. An enormous floral arrangement crowds the doily-laden side table beside my coat stand, filling the room with the fresh fragrance of roses and daisies. One might assume the feminine touches were already in place when I inherited the Ask Gladys column and took over for the previous Gladys, but that would be false. I added the hideous doilies and painfully sweet paintings because the décor helps me get into character. Otherwise it would only be me, my wide oak desk, and clouds of lavender-scented smoke.
I light a cigarillo and open my mail one piece at a time. From there I read each letter and separate my papers into different piles. One for fan mail, which I’ll reply to. Another for letters with the potential for a feature. And another for letters I have no intention of answering via my column. Finally, I read a query so amusing it doesn’t go into any pile. Instead, I lay it open on my desk, extract a fresh sheet of paper, and refill the ink reservoir of my fountain pen. I rewrite the letter in the proper format for publication in the column, editing out any extraneous information.
Dear Gladys,
I’ve recently taken a new lover, a sea serpent. Our sex life is rather fantastic, but there is one thing I’m not confident about. You see, my lover has two penises, and I never quite know what to do with the second one when we have intercourse. I’ve used my hands, but often the angle is all wrong, or I end up focusing so much on performing that I forget to enjoy myself. If I ignore the second member, I fear I’m neglecting his pleasure. Can you help?
Sincerely,
Perplexed by Plural Penises
My grin stretches wide and I take a drag of my cigarillo. I read my edited letter a few times over and deem it publication-ready. Then I pen my reply.
Dear Perplexed by Plural Penises,
My darling, I can do more than help. I can open a whole new world of pleasure for you both. It is time you discovered the joy of ass play. Yes, I understand the concept is shocking for the faint of heart, but I promise you will thank me later. I am not suggesting you take an anus full of sea snake cock in one go, dearest reader. I’m implying you simply learn to play with your ass. Start with a finger and go from there. Never work with a dry canvas and always communicate your comfort and safety needs with your lover. Enjoy!
Forever yours,
Gladys
I fucking love my job.
I finish my cigarillo and my perusal of my mail, selecting four more letters to feature in upcoming issues of the Gazette . None inspired quite the same level of excitement to immediately answer, but I have plenty of time to ponder how to reply. For now, I can work on penning out the details of my case study with Daphne thus far.
From inside one of my desk drawers, I extract my copy of my manuscript. I flip through it to determine where I should insert the first anecdote regarding the study. Certainly somewhere in the chapter about Lesson One. On a fresh sheet of paper, I begin to scribble out some of the details about Daphne’s lesson. To keep her identity anonymous, I refer to her as Miss D. I drum my fingers over my manuscript, considering the best way to spin Daphne’s ploy with Araminta so that it sounds encouraging to readers, something they can replicate on their own. I scrawl out my idea.
One of the key components to socializing and fun is accepting invitations. Miss D, who normally opted to remain home and refuse all offers of social engagements, finally agreed to an outing with a friend. She had no inkling that the potential for romance awaited her on the other side, yet lo and behold?—
A knock sounds at my door. I halt my sentence, noting I’d begun to dig the nib of my pen a little too hard into the paper as I was preparing to summarize Daphne’s meeting with Conrad. Fucking Conrad. He doesn’t even deserve to grace the pages of my book.
“Come in,” I call out, and the door swings open.
One of the Gazette’s secretaries enters, a fae female named Sally with a mousy voice and round gray ears instead of the pointed ones you more commonly find on seelie fae. “You have a visitor.”
I frown. I never get visitors. Neither at work nor at home. “Who is it?” A potential option occurs to me, and I rush to stand, my chest warming and my pulse quickening. “Does she have short black hair?”
Sally’s eyes widen at my burst of excitement. “No, her hair is light brown and quite curly. Even curlier than yours. I assume you’re related? She says she’s a Miss Phillips.”
My mind goes blank. Sally can only mean one person, but I’m surprised my sister would come to my work. “Where is she now?”
“In the lobby. Shall I send her away with a message, or would you like her to come up?”
I probably shouldn’t take personal meetings at work, but I haven’t seen my sister in months, and I’m concerned over what could have brought her here. “Please send her up. Thank you.”
As soon as Sally closes the door behind her, I scramble about my office, putting away all evidence of Ask Gladys . Not only are columnists tasked with keeping the identities behind our pseudonyms private, but the last thing I want is for my little sister to catch snippets of sentences like Perplexed by Plural Penises and ass play . Angela may be twenty years of age, but she’ll always be my baby sister.
I manage to hide all damning evidence—save for the décor belonging to a geriatric female, of course—by the time Sally returns with Angela. My sister is barely through the door before she leaps at me, a wide smile on her lips as she crushes me in a hug.
“It’s been so long,” she says. I nod at Sally over my sister’s head, and the secretary closes the door. I return Angela’s embrace before she breaks away to look me up and down. Then at my office. “What’s with the décor?”
“Good question,” I say, and thankfully she just frowns instead of asking me to elaborate.
“I’m glad to see you’re hale and whole,” she says.
“I am, and I’m glad to see you are as well.”
Her cheeks have a healthy flush and her state of dress is neat and fashionable like always. She wears a tartan skirt and matching jacket, her light-brown curls pinned beneath a dainty maroon hat.
She lifts her chin. “If you’re so well and good, then why haven’t you been writing to me every week?” As she says the last part, she swats me with her beaded purse.
I grin at her fiery confidence. She was always such a shy and reserved girl, even more so when she was at boarding school, where she was shunned by her peers due to her perfect grades and well-known affluence. Maybe being named our father’s heir in my place has been a boon to her self-image. If so, I’m glad. It’s part of the reason I got myself disowned by our family.
“I’m sorry I haven’t written enough, Angie. I have missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too. It isn’t the same at home without you. Not that I’m there much now that I’m in college.” Her expression falls and she worries her bottom lip. “I still don’t understand what happened between you and Father. He won’t say a thing. Was he truly so angry that your engagement to the princess fell through? You can’t be blamed for that?—”
“Angie.” My tone comes out sharper than I intend. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“Then why don’t I ever hear from you? Why did I have to find out where you work from Thorne?”
“Thorne told you where I work?” I’m surprised she found out through my best friend and not Father. Even though I go through great pains not to communicate with the asshole who sired me, I know he keeps track of my movements. Where I live. Where I work. He probably thinks he does it out of love, and even if that’s true, it’s a twisted, controlling love. I’ve considered leaving Jasper and the Earthen Court altogether just to place distance between us, but I stay close for several reasons. Sheer stubbornness. Proof that we may live in the same city, but my life is my own. And Angela.
If I ever catch even the slightest whiff that he’s pulling the same bullshit with her that he pulled with me, I will end him. His reputation, his position in the government. I’ll end all of it with the secrets I keep.
But ruining my father means ruining the whole Phillips name, Angela included.
Which is why I chose to leave the family yet remain close by. To stay quiet. To bear this burden alone.
“Thorne is the reason I had to hunt you down,” Angela says. She removes a letter from her purse and hands it to me. “He wanted to ensure you received this in person, so I offered to deliver it.”
I open the envelope and pull out the letter inside. The script is messy and slanted in expression of my friend’s displeasure.
Greetings fucker,
Why haven’t you RSVPed to my goddamned wedding yet, you prick? Oh, I know. It’s because your answer is so obvious you’ve decided a response would be superfluous, right? Right. You’re my best man, you asshole. Get your pathetic ass to the Cyllene Hotel by Friday afternoon next week or my soon-to-be wife will haunt your nightmares, and I’ll bake you into a pie.
I’m serious.
I will kill you.
Best,
Thorne
I glance back up at Angela. “You didn’t read this did you?”
“No, why would I? It’s quite rude to read one’s personal correspondence.”
“Good. Thorny boy uses quite a lot of expletives when dealing with me.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m in college now, dear brother. You wouldn’t believe the colorful language I hear on the daily. You don’t have to be so protective.”
I read the letter over again, guilt sinking my gut. To be honest, I forgot about the wedding invitation I received several months back. Between establishing myself at a new job and fretting over loan payments, I left my best friend’s wedding in the back of my mind. I didn’t realize the time had already come. Now that it has, I’m not sure what to do. If I’m expected at the Cyllene Hotel by next Friday, I’ll have to leave the day before. I’ll have to miss one of the fixed matches and, in turn, my weekly payment. Furthermore, if the wedding is on Saturday, I’ll be gone all weekend. I won’t have any case study lessons or modeling sessions with Daphne.
“So,” Angela says, “are you going to go? You can’t refuse.”
I give her a scolding look. “You said you didn’t read it.”
“I didn’t, but I know what it’s about. I’m going to the wedding, after all.”
Of course she’s going. She’s always considered Thorne Blackwood a second brother, and most of the time she seems closer to him than she is to me.
She wrings her gloved hands. “Well, in truth, I can only go to the wedding if you’re going. Father won’t allow me to travel so far unless I have a proper escort.”
“I doubt Father considers me a proper escort,” I say under my breath.
“He said so himself. If you agree to act as my chaperone, he’ll give me permission. He’s just outside if you want to confirm?—”
“He’s here?” My lungs tighten, my eyes darting to the closed door to my office. The blood leaves my face with every panicked pulse of my heart. I can’t stand the thought of seeing his face. Hearing his voice.
“He’s at the café across the street,” Angela says, her expression pinched with worry.
I heave a breath and take a cigarillo from my silver case. My igniter trembles between my fingers as I light it. After a deep inhale of the herbal smoke, my nerves begin to calm. I return my attention to my sister and find her eyes on me.
“What happened between you?” she says, her voice soft. “What happened to our family? What are you and Father and Mother not telling me?”
I take another drag while I consider what to say. I hate keeping such a secret from her, but she can’t know the truth. She can’t know because Father has ensured I can’t tell a soul. It’s his fault I can never get close to anyone. His fault I bear life-altering secrets bound in a bargain of silence. His fault my sister considers my best friend more of a brother than me.
Yet that’s the way it must stay.
I blow out another breath and force a wide grin. “It’s nothing to be concerned about, Angie. I’ll consider my attendance at the wedding, and I’ll write to you by next Monday if I decide to go.”
She studies my face for several quiet moments before she gives me a sad smile. “Very well. I hope you choose to go. Not just for my sake but for Thorne and Briony’s. They want you at their wedding.”
My chest warms at her words. She’s right. Thorne wouldn’t have used quite so many expletives if he didn’t. It fills me with equal parts gratification and guilt. There were several years when my relationship with Thorne was tense. I’d pushed him so far away that he almost stopped considering me a friend. I’ve managed to mend our relationship somewhat in the last few years, enough that he truly wants me at his wedding. Yet going to his wedding means missing a loan payment. Which means my lender will move my loan’s due date another week forward. Another week sooner that my family’s secret is set to be revealed. Do I risk it?
I reiterate my promise to consider the invitation and give my sister a parting hug. After I’m left alone in my office, I simply sit and smoke and stare and think. No answers come to me, and when I gather the will to return to my work, not even my love for Mondays can replenish my mood.