Chapter 7 #2
Hair pinned but slipping softly out, away from the confines of that night.
Bare neck that my fingers caressed. But her eyes.
That’s where I lost the most hours. Trying to capture the glassy sheen of tears that hadn’t yet fallen.
The strength and defiance are buried beneath the heartbreak.
The way she stared at the floor, like it might offer a version of her life she could still believe in.
I didn’t rush this one. I shaded every line with care.
Used my softest charcoals for the shadows at her jaw and beneath her collarbone, right where the fabric dipped low.
Just enough to hint at the inches of silky skin she hides so well.
Even the light falls around her like she’s untouched by the world and drowning in it at the same time.
I tried to be honest. More honest than I’ve ever been with her.
She looks like a woman someone should have worshipped.
Should have chosen. Should have protected.
But she stands alone. Steel of spine. A woman who learned too late that none of those things were coming.
I stare at the image until my chest burns and my mind races.
I shouldn’t have drawn her, but deep down, I’ll never delete it.
Never destroy the original. Because with this one sketch, I got it exactly right, even if it tears me apart every damn time.
“Is that me?”
The cadence in her voice is light, airy, almost unheard over the noise of the city around us. I jump, clamoring to lock my phone when her delicate fingers cover mine, trapping the screen open for her to see.
To judge or condemn me for what I’ve done. I study her while she studies herself. Her profile is rendered in soft black and bruised gray. The sweep of her jaw. The haunted slope of her eyes. The elegant devastation of that night, captured in smudged lines I drew at 3 a.m. like a man possessed.
My heart hammers in my chest waiting for her to say something. Instead, she angles the phone down, never taking it fully into her hands. Content to let hers cover mine and burn into my flesh. The same as I had done to her that night.
I hold my breath waiting for her to scold me. Say something cold and cutting, like how dare you or you have to get rid of that. To remind me who she is and who I’m not allowed to be in relation to her. Yet she doesn’t do any of that. Instead, she slides her hand away slowly, leaving a weird void.
“You got the mouth wrong.”
It takes me a second to register the words. I look down at her. She’s standing close. Eyes dark and endless. Not angry. Not horrified. Just looking, not at the phone anymore.
At me.
“It does this thing.”
Her voice is almost apologetic. A sadness in her expression.
“Where it fights to stay composed. Even when it’s already lost.”
I swallow hard. The champagne’s gone flat on my tongue. My mouth is dry. My brain short-circuits while my mouth fumbles for words. For wanting an explanation yet knowing I won’t get one.
“I tried to get it right.”
She glances at the sketch again, my phone still lit in my hand. Then, almost impossibly, she smiles. Not the tight, public kind. Not the one she wore for photographers with Dom a bit ago, or wears for old money wives at charity luncheons.
A real one. That reaches something inside me.
That stirs up the same feeling I had that night and in the parking lot when I wedged myself into her car door.
A feeling so foreign and uncomfortable that I hate it because it scares the shit out of me.
She takes a step back, smoothing her flawless dress.
Her composure returns like a shield of armor. I hate that even more.
“You see too much, Hollister.”
I grab the step she gives away, keeping the distance close. I am pursuing her as I always seem to do, which is an oddity for me. Usually, I’m pursued, not pursuing. Another uncomfortable position to be in.
“Maybe I see the real you. The one you keep hidden from everyone else?”
I lock my phone and shove it into my breast pocket. All actions that don’t escape her scrutiny.
“And who is the real me? Do you know?”
It’s a bitter statement. Followed by a hollow chuckle. It reminds me of her son. That’s not a good thing.
“I think I know more than most. I’ve always paid attention to you.”
She arches a perfectly drawn brow, and I see the flash of challenge in her eyes.
“You remember that Christmas party you had? I must have been thirteen or fourteen. One of those boring fundraisers for the Ambassador. Dom bailed an hour in, saying his head hurt, and went to bed. I didn’t want to be there either, but my parents refused to leave.
I found the back stairwell. Sat with my sketchbook while everyone else got drunk on spiked cider. ”
Her expression falters. Just slightly.
“You came down the stairs for some reason. Some senator was being an ass. You muttered it under your breath. I was sketching him. You saw it and said I made his chin too flattering.”
She blinks with realization. I see her remember and continue.
“You said, ‘Give him a rat tail. That’s what he is.’”
The corner of her mouth fights not to smile.
“You stayed there for ten minutes. Asked questions. Told me I had an eye for humor. That I drew people like I saw them, bare, but not in a vulgar way. Just unarmored.”
I take a breath.
“You’ve always seen things too. Even if you hate it. Even if it scares the hell out of you.”
She looks at me now, not past me, not around me. At me. I’m finally breaking through her armor. The heat between us isn’t the kind that can be shaken off or drowned in champagne. It simmers in silence. It’s history. It’s knowing. Yet it’s still not going anywhere.
She shakes her head. Her demeanor changes. Shying away from the chemistry that crackles between us.
“And that, dear Hollister, is the problem. I do remember that young man. It’s why I’ve given it a lot of thought and know we can’t proceed on anything either of us might be feeling.”
Her voice is calm and perfectly modulated. Every word is dressed in practiced poise. My jaw clenches. She’s retreating. Not physically. Her heels haven’t moved. But everything else about her has pulled back into the fortress of restraint she wears better than any ball gown in her closet.
I nod once, but I don’t let her leave. Not without having the last word.
“Because you remember. Not in spite of it.”
She neither argues nor agrees. Just watches me like she’s waiting for me to do the decent thing and stand down. But when have I ever done the decent thing when it comes to women?
“I get it. You’ve thought about it. You’ve probably outlined every consequence. Every risk. Every headline and whisper. It’s why my phone has been dry for two days.”
Her eyes flash.
She hates that I’m not wrong.
I take a step closer. Not enough to be a threat. Just enough to remind her this thing between us isn’t something I dreamed up alone. That she feels it too. Wants it too, despite knowing me when I was a kid. But I’m a man now. Capable of knowing precisely what and who I want.
“But while you were busy thinking through all the reasons we shouldn’t,” I lean in, my breath against her face. “Did you once think about what it would feel like if we did?”
My fingers close around her hand, grabbing it and forcing it against my cock.
The hard throbbing shaft to remind her that I’m not that kid on the stairs anymore.
That’s what I want, what we want is not wrong, illegal, or immoral.
Plenty of men and women at her club and mine have affairs with younger people. We’d be no different.
Her lips part slightly. Her eyes are wide.
Her palm remains trapped against the front of my pants.
Time stops, waiting for her to slap me across my face for what I’m doing.
To call me a rogue or some garish term that suits me to a tee right now.
She does nothing. Doesn’t pull her hand away and doesn’t say a word.
My heart thuds in my chest like it’s trying to knock its way out. I swallow the lump in my throat. All the things I want to say. All the ways I want to touch her. To show her this isn’t just some stupid rebellious phase. It’s not lust. It’s not novelty.
It’s her.
And I’ve never been this fucking sure of anything in my life. If I’m going to fuck this shit up, then I might as well push her even further. My hand stays cupped over hers, the other captures her chin, and raises it to my lips.
Our eyes lock. Our breath intertwines. Her soft scent fills me as I allow my intentions to be known. Prepare her for what’s next. If she doesn’t want this, she has to make her body say no. Not just her words.
Right there under the moonlit sky, I kiss her.
Kiss my best friend’s mom.