Chapter 5 #2
“He did. I spent the last few holidays with him, you know. His own children couldn’t stand him. Probably because he was divorcing wife number six, and she was younger than all of them.”
“He had terrible taste in women.” I have to grin, because Marty always joked about it.
“I would agree, except he always thought the world of you. Told me I was the luckiest man in the world to have you by my side.” He opens his mouth like he’s going to say more, then hesitates.
“He thought the world of you, too,” I say.
“He did, God knows why. He bet on me. Put his money behind me.”
“He believed in you.”
“More than my own father did.” He licks his lips. “Wellesley, I… we need to talk about that night.”
That night. The night of the funeral.
“I remember.” Piers and I were in Marty’s home office, presumably to pack up some of his final documents. Piers found a bottle of scotch in a drawer. Marty outbid the Brians at All Cap for this. Couldn’t wait to drink it.
He drank half the bottle himself. He looked so devastated, so alone, and I felt his hurt like my own pain. I went to him, took the bottle out of his hands, and helped him drink the rest.
“Do you?”
“Sorta.” I wrinkle my nose. I remember the scotch burned in my throat, but the fire was nothing compared with wanting Piers.
I wanted to be close to him. I wanted him to let me in.
And suddenly the bottle was empty, and we were kissing.
He kissed me so hard, he bent me backward over the desk.
For a moment, I was ready for him to rip off my black tights and take me right on Marty’s desk.
“Did you feel it?” he asks me now, his gaze molten on mine.
I duck my head. I can’t look at him and confess this. “Yes,” I whisper to the cats on my HoudZou.
He touches my chin with gentle fingers. “Wellesley.”
I’m so tired of holding myself back. Of fighting to be apart from him. I hate the inches of air separating us. I can’t stand them and want them gone. I want to lunge into his arms.
So I do.
The fork goes flying. The cake stand tips over.
Gooey cranberries are getting everywhere, smearing red on the perfect white sheets, and I don’t fucking care.
I need him to hold me. Right now. I let my weight rest in the circle of his strong arms while our mouths meet.
I might be crying. I might be laughing. I might be a messy puddle of emotions, but it doesn’t matter because he’s holding me together.
Do you feel it?
Yes. I feel it too.
“Finally,” he growls. He clutches me to him, his hands squeezing my arms like he’s reassuring himself I’m real. His fingers clamp down, holding me for his kiss. I can’t get away. I don’t want to get away, but it’s overwhelming, the feel of those perfect lips on mine.
I break away, panting. “I don’t understand. I don’t understand what’s happening. We kissed, and then you pulled away. You never mentioned it again.”
And Sandra walked into his office the next day.
Sandra, his therapist. Not his lover.
“I never should’ve kissed you like that.”
“Oh.” That hurts.
“Oh my darling.” He cups the back of my head and pulls me close, and even though I’m stiff with hurt, I let him. I just love it when he calls me darling. “No, you misunderstand. Not because I didn’t want to. Do you know what Marty told me, right before he died?”
“What?”
“I shouldn’t tell you. You think I’m mad as it is.”
Mad, as in crazy.
“I don’t think you’re mad. I don’t know what to think.” I realize I’m leaning a hand on his abs. I trace a finger over his happy trail. He’s so beautiful, I ache. “You never let me in.”
“I’m trying, Wellesley. Believe me.”
I glance down at the bed, cranberries smashed and staining the coverlet red. “We made a mess.”
He rips the coverlet out of its hospital corners and bundles up the mess, pushing it out of the way. He’s covered the chaos with a pretty white blanket, but I know what’s underneath.
He turns back to me and sees how I’m curled up, with my knees against my chest, in a HoudZou fortress. His face shutters.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m…” I don’t know what to think. It’s too late to run, but I can still hide. I have to. If he knew how much I’ve fantasized about him, he would think I’m pathetic.
“Have I lost you forever, then?”
“I don’t know.” I wish I did. The smartest plan would be to escape him, but… I’m not going to escape my fantasies of what-could-of-been, even if I run all the way to Addis Ababa.
He kneels beside me on the bed. “You’ll miss me.”
I nod, my chin knocking against my knees.
“So let me in. Just this once. Let me make you feel good.”
I don’t want it to be just once. But this is Piers Lord. He doesn’t do relationships. He’ll get his orgasm and go.
But maybe I can fulfill a few of my fantasies before he does.
I slide my legs down the bed, unfolding a little. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
“Just you, Wellesley. Beautiful, perfect you.”
“I’m not perfect.”
“You are though, darling. Let me show you.” His hand encircles my ankle. He’s waiting for permission.
I should say no.
I should tell him to fuck off. I should scream and cry and let him know that I erected walls like his and buried myself behind them because of him.
I don’t. I open my legs and give him a glimpse of paradise.