22. Daisy
Daisy
B y the time I realize Lorde was serious about the jet, we’re pulling up to the private airstrip in a car I’m fairly certain belongs to someone richer and more powerful than my entire family tree combined.
The driver hasn’t spoken more than a word since we left the house, and I’m not sure where Lorde even got him.
The part of me that thinks I should ask some questions is at odds with the part that is down for spontaneity.
“Please tell me this isn’t stolen,” I say as we coast to a halt in front of a sleek white Gulfstream.
Lorde’s already halfway out of the vehicle, sunglasses on, hair wild in the wind like she’s auditioning for an action movie because nepotism is wild in Hollywood.
“It’s not stolen!” she shouts over the wind whipping up around us.
“I leased it. For six hours. Legally.” She turns, grinning at me.
“And relax, the pilot’s union-certified and everything.
My accountant’s going to scream when he sees this bill, but we’ll all live. ”
I clutch my bag closer. Not because I’m nervous about flying. No. I’m nervous because I asked her to marry me now . I’m eloping with Lorde Sheen, an international celebrity kid who is one-part chaos and two-part softie with a sex drive like a Roman goddess. I declared love. We’re doing this.
It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating.
We board the jet. Lorde makes a joke about the champagne being “only mid-tier” and I roll my eyes so hard I nearly blind myself before I’m seated.
There’s no flight attendant, no one to judge us or offer warm nuts.
Just us, a stocked fridge, and about five feet of plush carpeting between us and the cockpit.
Once we’re seated, she finally glances over at me. Her sunglasses are off. “You okay?”
I laugh, but it comes out weird. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”
“Good. That means you’re alive.” She leans over to kiss my cheek. “I promise, no one dies in Vegas unless they ask for it.”
“Uh-huh.”
The jet lifts off smoothly. I press my forehead to the cool window and watch the coast of New England shrink behind us.
Somewhere down there, my parents are pretending I don’t have a mind of my own.
Somewhere, Cristiano is explaining to his parents why the heiress they tried to barter for decided to run away with a woman who once appeared in a magazine spread wearing nothing but smiley-face boxers and a sheer crop top.
Sorry, Daddy. Your Principessa is making deals with the devil, and her name is Lorde.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
Lorde doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re doing this because it’s what you want. You’re stupid but brave. And because you finally realized you’re way too good for a family that wants to sell you off like a Birkin in the store’s luggage department.”
“They didn’t want to sell me off,” I say, although yeah, okay, maybe they kind of did.
“They… thought they knew what was best for the family. For me. See, if Mama could find a man she chose, and Daddy signed off on a man who would live under his thumb, I’d be safe, right?
They wouldn’t have to worry about me.” I feel bad, thinking about it.
For all of my parents’ traditional values, there was a twelve-hour period there where they accepted Lorde.
Daddy met her and clapped her on the shoulder and said, “Sure thing, kid.” Even though she was a woman.
Even though I’ve never once heard my parents say anything nice about gay people.
It’s why I’ve never come out to them as bisexual.
Then again, they never said anything rude, either. Guess I thought it was them being polite and assuming it wasn’t any of their business. Until their daughter made it their business, you know?
“They wanted you to abandon the first person who’s ever made you feel this alive.”
Sudden tears sting my eyes. “And you’re that person?”
“Obviously. Did you miss the part where I leased a jet to marry you in front of a bunch of Elvis impersonators?”
I giggle through my blubbering lips. “I thought we were going classy. Like, understated wedding dresses and a tasteful bouquet.”
“Oh, baby,” she says, leaning in close, her lips brushing my ear. “We can get classy after I make you come so hard you forget what state we’re flying over.”
“Goodness gracious.” I wipe another tear, laughing. “Jesus.”
“No, it’s me.” She leans back. “But you can pray if you want.”
I shoot her a half-hearted glare, then glance toward the cabin door. “Are we alone up here?”
“Totally. Just us, a busy pilot, and the weight of your family’s disappointment. What do you say we make this jet ours?”
“You are not seriously trying to mile-high me right now.”
“Oh, but I am.”
Something inside me – something feral, feminine, and furious – doesn’t want to push her away.
It wants to dive deep into her dark eyes and remember last night, when she got on top of me and rubbed herself all over my back, my hips, my soul.
Maybe this is infatuation, you know? Maybe I’ll regret this in a year. But…
That same something inside of me remembers how Cristiano’s name sounded like a brand being forced on me. Something that remembers my mom scouring all of Italy for someone “good enough” for her baby girl. My father… thinking he can keep me being a girl for twenty more years.
Something that burns with the need to take all of that back and say, This is mine. This is who I am. This is who I choose.
I straddle Lorde’s lap with a breath that almost won’t leave my lungs. Her arms come around me, hands settling on my waist, possessive but reverent. She leans up, lips on mine, and for once she doesn’t joke.
“You sure?” she asks.
“I want to take my life back.”
Her lips crash into mine with all the hunger I’ve come to love. We kiss like the plane’s going down. My hands are tangled in her hair, hers slipping beneath my blouse. I gasp when her fingers find bare skin.
“How the hell are you always this warm?” I tease.
“Sexual tension,” she groans, kissing me back. “And pent-up devotion.”
I laugh, breathless. “That sounds fake.”
“Shh. Let me worship my future wife.”
I melt into her. There’s no space between us. My hips grind down instinctively, rolling against her thigh. Her hands slide beneath my skirt, tugging my undies aside with ease. She growls against my mouth as her finger slides inside of me.
“Yes,” I whisper, body clenching around her. “God, yes.”
We move in sync. For a second, it’s pure bliss.
I ride her fingers slowly at first, savoring the way she moves. She kisses down my neck, murmuring things I can’t even process, just possession . My shirt slips from my shoulders, bra undone in a blink. Her mouth finds my nipple and I moan, head falling back as I almost lose my balance.
I forget about the plane. Vegas. My last name. Who I fucking am.
All that exists is her. And me. Us.
It builds too fast. I try to hold back, to stretch the moment out, but she knows exactly how to wreck me. Her thumb finds my clit and it’s over. I come, hard, grabbing her hair and gasping her name.
She holds me through it, stroking my back, kissing my temple. When I finally slump against her, she blows hot breath against my ear.
“Daisy DeMonte,” she whispers, “you are the hottest, most daring girl I’ve ever met.”
“Shut up.”
“I mean it. You should hijack private jets more often. It’s totally your brand.”
We stay tangled together for a while, wrapped in this strange cocoon thirty thousand feet above our old lives.
“What if I call my mom tomorrow and she tells me she’s cutting me off?”
“Then I guess we live off our trust funds and pray my mom is more understanding.”
“And if she tells me she’s sorry?”
Lorde shakes her head. “Tell her it’s okay, but not if it means crawling back into a closet. This isn’t their era anymore. Trust me when I say we’re gonna be okay.”
“You’re really not going to let me run, are you?”
“Baby,” she says, arms tight around me, “I’ll chase you to the ends of the earth. But if you run in heels, I’ll be doubly impressed.”
This time, I don’t cry. Not because I’m not overwhelmed. Not because I’m not scared.
Vegas is two hours away. And for the first time in my life, I will completely own who I am.
Daisy DeMonte, scandalous heiress.