Cera
FIFTEEN
The Favor: A masker would hand a chosen partner a small token from the costume, a ribbon or a charm, proof of the person beneath the disguise. He hands her his mother, his brothers, the coordinates inked on his ribs, pieces no costume was covering.
Wells' arm is draped across my waist, and his breath brushes against my shoulder. It's hard to believe it's barely nine in the morning and Wells has already been out working, I've almost finished our project, and we've slept together for the second time since I started working for him.
The first time we fucked, I could call it an accident, just heat, a thing that got away from us. This time is a choice, and choices are how I get attached, and attachment is what leaves me alone in a room everyone else has already walked out of.
"Well, that was amazing," I say, staring up at the ceiling. Weren't we just talking about graphs and breakfast and flight times?
His palm rests flat against my stomach, fingers spread. Each one is its own tiny conductor, sending heat from his body through mine.
"You're quite spectacular, Ms. Simum."
I shift, turning toward him, curling my right arm under my head. I notice the black ink on his ribs, dark against his pale skin, for the first time. I don't know why I'm surprised to know that Wells Stone has a tattoo under that perfectly fitted Armani suit.
"Look at you, bad boy." I trace the edge of it with my fingertip. It's not large. Just a single line of numbers, tiny circles and dashes, running down his ribs.
"Is this a secret billionaire treasure map or something?"
His chest rises and falls under my hand.
"Coordinates."
"I figured. Of what?"
He turns his face toward mine, and the edge of his mouth turns up. He doesn't answer right away. His gaze holds mine, and I wonder if he's deciding whether to tell me at all. Maybe it's some top-secret location.
"The house I was born in, the one my mother restored."
My hand stills. I didn't expect to learn a quiet piece of him, sentimentality.
"My brothers and I decided to get a tattoo before one of us, Reeves, left for the Navy. Everyone got their own design, but we did it together. I liked the idea of a specific location that belonged to all of us."
"How many of them are you? I know there's Ridge and Reeves. Are there more?"
"There are six of us."
"That sounds like the beginning of a joke. Six brothers walk into a tattoo parlor…"
"Technically, it was five of us. The youngest wasn't even in high school yet, so he didn't get one. At least at that point."
"I like that." I commit the numbers to memory, how they trail down his ribs in a perfect line, the sans serif font, clean and precise, just like Wells.
"You don't talk about her much."
"No."
I curl closer into his chest, and he pulls me into him. That's all he has to say right now.
I settle back down, my fingers tracing idle patterns across his ribs
"Tell me about them. What are their names?"
He doesn't answer right away. I wait, not pushing, just letting the silence sit between us.
"What do you want to know?"
"I'm an only child, so I like to hear about a house full of siblings. What are they like?"
"Ridge, who you know, is the oldest.”
"What little I do know of Ridge, he's like you, a man of few words."
"Yeah, something like that. He's got a God complex."
I laugh.
"Reeves was a Navy SEAL. He's out now, living an hour from the city with his son and his partner. He's happiest when he's moving, or throwing a punch at someone bigger than he is."
"Oh, so you're an uncle."
"Three times over. Reeves has his son, Keller, a baby girl, and Cain, a girl, too."
"I always wanted to be an aunt. But, with no brothers or sisters, I will have to rely on someone else to make that happen." I stop there. Relying on someone is my Achilles' heel, and I don't want to open that door with him.
He rubs a hand through his hair and then puts it back at the curve of my waist.
"Who else?"
"Keller runs a high-dollar, private card table. He's probably the softest of all of us."
I grin against his chest. I can tell he's proud of his brothers, even if he won't say it.
"Cain's the bald one. Came back from New York last year. He's the family clown."
I understand that impulse. Keep it light, keep it moving, never let anyone see what's underneath.
"That's four. The last one?"
"Rhodes. He's the baby, in college at Loyola. He's the one you have to keep an eye on."
I try to picture all six of them in one room. The noise, the energy, the sheer volume of testosterone.
"That must have been chaos, growing up," I say.
"It was." His voice doesn't change, but his arm tightens at my waist.
I think about what it means to carry coordinates of your family. I never lived anywhere or was close enough to anyone that I'd want to do that. It makes me even more in awe of him.
"Do you still go back there?"
"Sometimes."
"Is it the same?"
"Not really, since both of my parents are gone. Our housekeeper still lives there, and it's like it's always been, but it isn't. As far as I'm concerned, it's her house now."
Locke told me about Wells's father, that he was mugged at night somewhere in the warehouse district. His fingers keep moving through my hair, and I let myself sink into the warmth of him, into the steady rhythm of his breathing, into how easily his body fits against mine.
Wells rolls onto his back, pulling me with him so I'm half draped across his chest. His hand moves up my spine, then back down, fingers tracing a slow line along my ribs.
"What about you?"
I blink up at him.
"What about me?"
"Your people."
The question catches me off guard. Not because it's invasive, but because no one usually asks, and because I keep these cards close. I don't like people feeling sorry for me, or sizing me up by where I came from.
I hesitate, not sure where to start.
"You'll laugh, but my people are my yoga people. There's Locke, my best friend since college. He's a lovable lunatic. And the kids at the rec center where I volunteer."
Wells nods, his fingers still moving along my back.
"And your family?"
I tense, just a little, and I know he feels it.
"I'm not really close with my family like you are."
I keep it simple and factual because the rest of it is buried under something I never say out loud, the real reason that house stayed so cold, the thing the three of us lived on top of and never once named.
The empty rooms, the nights on the roof, how early I learned no one was coming to check on me are my burden to bear.
Lying here with his heartbeat under my ear, there's a pull to hand all of it over, the way he handed me his mother out on that balcony, and it scares me more than anything we did in this bed.
I've spent my whole life making sure no one got all the way in to protect myself. He's the first person I've ever wanted to let through, and I have no idea what to do with that.
Wells doesn't ask for more. His thumb keeps brushing the small of my back in a steady rhythm. We're quiet for several minutes, him rubbing slow circles, me with my eyes closed against his chest, until his phone vibrates on the nightstand.
He shifts beneath me, reaching for it. His other hand stays on my hip, fingers pressing just enough to hold me in place.
He reads the screen and exhales dramatically.
"What is it?"
"Looks like I do need to go by the terminal before we head to the airport."
He sets the phone down and turns his head toward me.
"You can stay here while I run out or come with me on our way out. I don't think I'll be more than an hour or so. Either way, your call."
Calculating the timeline in my head, I'd prefer not wasting time going back and forth. "How about I go with you and I'll work in the car while you do whatever it is you have to do?"
"Okay. I'm going to jump in the shower. Do you think you can be ready to head out in forty-five?"
"You bet."
I roll off him, giving him space to get out of the bed, but he doesn't move yet. Instead, he shifts, rolling slightly so he can reach me, and then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is unhurried, tender. His hand cups the side of my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone.
When he pulls back, his gaze holds mine for a beat longer than necessary. Then he gets up, reaching for his pants on the floor beside the bed.
I stay where I am, watching him dress, and try to convince myself the kiss doesn't mean anything.
The car ride to the terminal is quiet. Wells sits beside me, laptop balanced on his knee, and I watch the flat stretch of Florida coast blur past the window.
He doesn't talk much, but his hand rests on the seat between us, close enough that his knuckles brush my thigh when the car turns.
At the terminal, he disappears inside while I wait. Twenty minutes later, he's back, sliding into the seat beside me without explanation.
"All set?"
"Yeah."
The driver pulls back onto the road, and we head to the airport.
The flight home is smooth. Wells works for the first hour, then closes his laptop and leans back in his seat. I do the same, letting the drone of the engines fill the silence.
By the time we land in New Orleans, it's early afternoon, the sun still high over the tarmac.
He walks me to a black SUV idling nearby, my ride home, I assume. He doesn't say much, but carries my bag and opens the back door for me when we get there.
I wonder if whatever happened between us, the sex, and then in the bed after, stays in Florida. I don't want expectations, like Locke's always warning me, but I'm not sure how you open up to someone without starting to want more from it.
"See you Monday," I say, looking for a sign.
"Yeah. Thanks for your hard work on the Rotterdam stuff. Don't do anything else this weekend. We're close. We can finish it next week."
Looks like we are back to business as usual.
"Of course. Thank you."
At home, I shower and change, order takeout, and settle on the couch with the book I've been failing to finish for weeks.
My phone rings just after eight.
I glance at the screen to see that it's Wells.
"Hello?"
"You get home all right?"