Chapter Nineteen
Somehow, I manage to resist Alistair’s offer to see the apartment. Everything in me is begging for him, begging to spend any time with him, in any proximity.
I know it’s a bad idea. Already, every second I spend with Alistair draws me in more. Especially when I already know how good he is in bed.
When I met Jordan, I had an immediate attraction to him, too. An intense drawing-in. But it was like our souls were connected, and they always had been and always would be. This isn’t that. I felt like I was supposed to be with Jordan forever. Partners. Parents together, maybe. Grow old together. But also have gorgeously hot sex with good communication.
I just want to fuck Alistair again. Very, very, very badly.
It’s not just that. With Jordan, I never had to yearn. There was nothing to forbid our lust. We took a few months to get together because we weren’t in the same country, but there was nothing truly stopping us. Just logistics.
The logistics are not the problem with Alistair. With Alistair, it’s about pure desire and the taboo nature of it.
I don’t get the feeling he’s necessarily a good guy. I don’t get the feeling we could stay up all night talking. But I do get the feeling that his teeth clamping down on my nipples would send me straight to climax.
I shake my head. No. He’s right. I will be the one who loses their job if I’m caught in an inappropriate relationship with my donor. Nothing will happen to him.
I can’t risk my job. It’s a risk for only me.
My thoughts briefly go to one of the young dancers I forgot about at NAB who was fired on the spot when the wife of a donor went to the director and accused the dancer of seducing her husband. She accused her of being a sex worker, who set out to manipulate men like her husband.
The dancer was nineteen. And she was a total wreck. I knew the story behind it—she had been pushed by the ballet to be charming and to dance with the man at a gala. It was he who pursued her , sending flowers constantly, and when she tried to stop him, he even threatened to get her in trouble if she wasn’t nice to him.
But none of the facts mattered when his wife found out. He threw the girl under the bus and she got fired.
I shake my head as I think about her. I can’t even remember her name.
I used to feel so lucky, never having any of this donor drama, but now, I am more than making up for it.
We sit in the back of his car on the way back to Arabella’s, and the chasm of space between our knees, though quite vast, feels charged with a hot, pulsing energy. Fuck, this is difficult.
Spanish guitar plays on the speakers, and I stare out the window, trying to distract myself from the heat between my legs.
I feel his eyes on me and turn to look at him, but when I do, he’s looking straight ahead.
My heart squeezes and more heat fills my chest. The space between us tightens, and I find it hard to breathe.
No. No. No.
We get to the building, and the car slows to a stop.
“Thanks,” I say as I rush out. “It was very nice of you to get champagne for us.”
“I’ll wait here, make sure you got in okay. Text me when you’re inside with the door locked. I don’t like this area for you.”
I nod. “Okay, will do.”
I need to get out of the car and away from him. He puts a complete spell on me.
I’ve never had someone worry about my safety like this. Jordan is so relaxed, so unruffleable, he never seems worried about something like an unsafe area. He just seems comfortable.
“Jesus,” I say to myself, going up to the building door, collecting myself. Someone is walking out when I walk in, so I don’t have to worry about trying to get Arabella to answer. Which is good, because I don’t know what her mood is going to be like after earlier.
I walk up the steps, go to the door, lift the mat, and—
The key isn’t there.
Oh, hell.
I try the knob, but it is, of course, locked.
I knock on the door. Once. Twice. Three times, and loudly.
No answer. But I can hear people on the other side. I press my ear to the door. It’s laughing.
“Arabella, can you let me in, please?”
There’s no answer, and I hear someone say shhh .
God. What are we, teenagers?
I’m not sure what to do.
My phone buzzes, and it’s a text from Alistair.
All ok?
I knock on the door one more time. “Arabella, this isn’t funny, can you just let me in? This is so fucking—ugh, Arabella!” I pound harder.
Nothing.
I step back and stare at the door. No wonder she didn’t give me a key. This is her way of keeping control over her harem.
I look both ways down the corridor, not sure what to do. But then I see my canvas bag in the corner. I open it and see that almost all of my clothes have been smashed into the bag.
What a bitch.
I go back downstairs and to the car. Alistair rolls down the window. “Problem?”
“She locked the door and hid the key. She won’t let me in. She’s there, but she won’t let me in.”
“That girl. Get in.” He opens the door and slides over.
I hesitate and look up at the window. I see a face vanish and a curtain close.
What the fuck is her problem?
I get in the car, really hoping she doesn’t go spreading this around to everyone. She locks me out, forcing me to get back in the car with my donor, then tells everyone I’m fucking him or something. I can see it. It’s not my first time dealing with a psycho ballet bitch.
He tells the driver where to go, and then, after a nod, the driver closes the partition between the front and back again.
“It’s all right,” says Alistair. “This is why you should stay at my spare flat. You need a place of your own. You can’t be depending on someone you can’t trust.”
“Can I trust you?” I ask.
Our eyes lock, and I feel an electric current go between our gaze. Like if I don’t break it, he might see into the deepest corners of my mind.
I avert my eyes, blushing.
“Of course you can,” he says. “You can ask me for anything you need. You can tell me to stop. You can tell me you want more. Anything. I’m here to make your life easier. Not harder. Even if you are making things harder for me.”
It’s clear what he means. He means he wants me, too.
A deep relief washes through me.
I’ve never been taken care of. I’ve never been protected. No one has ever said they wanted to make my life easier. And to know that he’s tempted by me, too—it makes me feel less crazy. I’m not making up this chemistry. It’s there.
I take a deep breath.
“Jocelyn.”
He says nothing more, so I nod quietly, my heart pounding. “Okay.”
He looks out the window. We pull up to a building with a salmon awning that says, in an old deco font, IVORY TOWERS .
“We’re here.”
I feel overwhelmingly happy suddenly. I have a gorgeous place to live. I have a wonderful job dancing again. Even if Alistair changes his mind in a few months about the flat, this will give me more time to decide what to do about Mimi. I still need to figure that out, but at least I can start saving everything.
The driver opens the door for me and I get out, Alistair ready to lead me into the building.
“Mr.Cavendish,” says the doorman, opening the glass door.
“Tobi, good to see you.”
I wonder if Alistair has come through here with other women. It’s probably the classic story of the wealthy guy with the secret apartment he uses for scandalous rendezvous.
“I’m surprised he remembers me,” he says. “I’m never here.”
It’s like he read my mind.
We get in the gold-clad elevator, and he pushes the button for PH. Penthouse. I look up at the mirrored ceiling and then catch eyes with Alistair again.
We laugh and look away, like nervous teenagers.
There is a crystalline ding and the doors open.
“Oh my god, are you serious?” I say, immediately.
The place has soaring ceilings and massive windows, not unlike the studio at RNB. It smells like fresh linen and roses. There is a huge white sofa that looks like it’s never been touched. There are shelves filled with Taschen books and expensive, delicate-looking ceramics.
“This place just sits here?” I ask.
Fuck the rich, I think. Then I remember that my mother used to say that all the time. She meant it as a double entendre. I suppose I do, too.
“You know, I grew up with nothing. My father and his father didn’t get along. He wouldn’t let him have any of the family money. My granddad thought my dad would gamble it all away. And he probably would have, to be honest, as that’s how he tried to make up for it. At horse races, in casinos.” He walks, hands in his pockets, to the center of the room, where he looks up at the soaring ceiling. “My mom made money working down at the local pub. I worked doing odd jobs wherever I could for people in the village. My dad drank himself to death after too many bad bets. My grandfather gave the money to my mother. Said he thought she deserved it. He was right. She was a good woman.”
“Is she still alive?” I ask, getting closer to him.
He shakes his head. “No. Neither’s my granddad. It’s just me and my younger sister. She’s inherited my dad’s bad decision making. God knows where she is. If I’m honest, when I bought this place, I bought it and designed it thinking she might come stay here. Might get herself together. But she’d rather wake up in the middle of the afternoon, party ’til daybreak, and find men to fuck and give her drugs. Once she got her inheritance, it ruined her life. She lost her ambition. I’m pretty sure she’s partied it all away.”
“I thought you got this place because you and Clementine were on the rocks,” I say. I’m not trying to catch him in a lie, but I realize suddenly that it might sound that way.
“That was part of it. Especially once it became clear Marian was never going to set foot here. I have a lot of trouble pleasing the women in my life, for some reason,” he says. “My mother was never happy. My wife and I are separating. She rarely wants anything to do with me. My sister would rather rely on strangers than on me.”
“Maybe it’s them, not you,” I say. “I don’t know, I haven’t known you long. You might be a monster. But you don’t seem like it.”
His eyes find mine, and he smiles. “If it’s me, I can control it. If it’s not, then…well. I can’t. I guess that’s why I keep thinking if I do a bit more, work a bit harder, try to be better, then maybe I can change things.”
For the first time since I met him, his guard seems down. He’s vulnerable. My draw to him starts to deepen, to crack into something more as I watch him.
I tend to run from vulnerability. To hide from intimacy. I’m not the type to be drawn in by a sob story. I heard my mom spin a million lies to get what she needed. I know people just say what they need to in order to get by. I know people don’t like to admit the power of pity. But I believe Alistair. I feel like there’s nothing he could possibly want from me. And for some reason, he’s dropped his cold exterior.
“You letting me stay here is such a huge gift,” I say. “I really appreciate you for that.”
“I just want to help,” he says. “You stay here as long as you want. I hope you stay for as long as you’re with the RNB, or until you meet some nice guy and you decide to move on. It’s yours as long as you want it.”
I don’t know what to say, so I just nod and say, “Thank you.”
He takes his hands out of his pockets, puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve got to go.”
He doesn’t explain any further and I can’t help but wonder where he’s going.
“Oh, of course,” I say, feeling a little shy now. “Definitely.”
“I hope you don’t mind me not giving you the tour. I’m sure you’ll figure it out. I’ll have some groceries sent over in the morning while you’re at rehearsal. Just leave a list in the kitchen. If you don’t, I’ll just send over some salmon.”
I look at him, thinking he’s serious, but I can see that he’s kidding. Maybe he’s not as dour as he seems. Maybe he’s just very dry.
“Okay. Thank you.”
He gets in the elevator, and as the doors close, he says, “Good night, Jocelyn.”
“Good night.”
And then I’m alone.
Holy shit.
I look around for a few minutes, then figure out the sound system and put on a radio station made for Alistair. Hidden speakers throughout the flat start to play “Rock On” by David Essex.
There are two stunning bedrooms, but it’s clear which is the primary. It has a creamy duvet on a plush, king-sized bed and fur rugs on either side. For some reason I feel strange about sleeping in that one, so I choose the ever so slightly smaller—yet equally gorgeous—one with the enticingly warm-looking velvet duvet in dusty rose. I drag my bag to it, then change into my pajamas.
As I head back to the kitchen I pass a darkly wooded office with books and encyclopedias and priceless-looking tchotchkes.
The whole place is worthy of Architectural Digest . Back in the kitchen, I open the glass-doored fridge and find bottles of San Pellegrino. I help myself to one, and then as I’m opening it I hear my phone buzz on the marble counter. I lean over to see a text.
I don’t have the number saved, so I don’t know who sent it, but when I see the text, I freeze.
Don’t trust him.