Chapter 18
CHAPTER 18
CHASE
“As you know, my dad was infamous for his romantic relationships.”
I was trying to choose my words carefully. I didn’t want her to think I judged any of my dad’s partners for what happened. “He was married three times, and in between divorces, he had countless girlfriends. My mom was his first wife, I was born in Canada, then we moved here. Joe’s my half brother, his mom was his second wife. But no one stayed for long. Every time Dad got a new girlfriend, she would move in after a few weeks, and he’d change everything to suit her. Dad couldn’t just date, he had to pull everything down and start a new life. Living with him was to be in a constant state of flux.” I sighed.
Just telling her this story made me feel like I was giving new life to his legend. But I didn’t know what else to do—the fact was, my dad chewed through women. They were disposable to him. I was never going to be like that. When things came into my life, I kept them. Cherished them.
“Dad was charismatic,” I continued. “And his business was very successful. There was never any shortage of women willing to ignore or unable to see the debris around him. My friend Roberton liked to joke that dad was the Bluebeard of Manhattan.” Too late, I realized how that sounded. “Just to be clear, no one died. Rob is melodramatic.”
“Wow,” Floss said. Not in an impressed way.
“Most of Dad’s partners were great,” I hastened to add. “A few I really loved—Marion was a great stepmom. Leni had a big impact on me too. She still always sends us birthday cards. But no one ever stayed long. Dad would get restless and the cycle would start again, no matter his current situation.”
He would cheat, which spawned the next stage, which was either screaming or crying or begging; then after that was the worst of all: Dad love bombing the new person.
“Dad was always trying to make me more like him. It was just because I resemble him physically. That’s what Joe never understood. It was never anything to do with me. I never had a tenth of Dad’s charisma. I hate crowds. I especially hate real estate. Dad traveled a lot with the Sanford Group and gave long speeches at conferences. I can’t think about a microphone without getting queasy.”
“Sounds grueling for a kid.”
“I was a teenager when I lived with him.”
Floss lifted her distinctive chin. “Sounds grueling for a teenager.”
Grueling . That was a good word. It fit better than some of the others that I’d paid a lot of money to be ascribed. There were far more horrific things for a young person to endure so it felt wrong to describe my privileged childhood as traumatic. The word held truth, but it felt too big, undeserved.
But playing a part in Dad’s endless cycle was fucking grueling.
“Appearances were important to my dad. They were tools of his trade. Everything was denim casual for Marion, then all-American for Zurri, and the bizarre Hawaiian shirt phase for someone else, I don’t remember who. Dad wanted us to look like a perfect family unit. Which meant new clothes, new pictures on the walls, new foods, and new routines. Even when I finished school and moved out, nothing was ever consistent.” I finished folding the last towel and stacked them on the sink. I knew I better say the next bit before she did. “What a spoiled rich kid to hate new clothes, right?”
She shook her head. “You like things to last. That’s not spoiled.”
I sighed. “Longevity is important to me. Joe mocks me for it, but yeah, I wear the same thing most days. Take this apartment,” I waved a hand at nothing in particular. “I paid a designer hundreds of thousands to comb estate sales and thrift stores for me. I know people do that themselves, but I didn’t know what I wanted or how to do it. I just wanted to have things people had loved.”
When her eyebrows bunched in the center, an expression of pure sympathy, I wished I could stuff the words back in my mouth. I didn’t deserve her sympathy. I had everything.
Just then my brother barged back into the room. Without my glasses, my sight was blurry, but the basketball shorts he had put on were so obnoxious I had no trouble seeing them. Of course Joe had brought his gym bag to a party.
“Nice shorts,” I teased, because before he hated me, we used to always tease each other.
He ignored this. “Jemima told me I should say thank you, Chase.” His expression made it clear he did not agree. “Thank you.”
“And Teddy!” Jemima’s voice came from the hallway.
“Yeah. Thank you too.”
I didn’t know if he wouldn’t call her Teddy because he believed me that wasn’t her name, or he was embarrassed, or both.
“And?” Jemima’s voice prompted, still in the hallway.
I liked Jemima and felt guilty about being quick to assume she was bad for Joe. Now, I wondered if he was bad for her . Jemima seemed clever and kind, and she didn’t come from money, if she used to be a nanny. This was typical of Joe—he dated women who either were eons more chaotic than him (Teddy) or had their shit together and had to mother him (Jemima).
But perhaps that wasn’t my problem to solve.
Joe sighed heavily. “I’m sorry for being a drunken jerk and ruining your party. And your rug. Which is fine now by the way. Jemmy used her skills.”
“Great,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to.
“There’s a car waiting for us,” Joe said.
More silence hung in the air.
“Joe…” I started but couldn’t figure out what to say after that. My brother waited in the doorway as I parsed possibilities. But there were too many choices, and I wasn’t quick enough.
“Don’t hurt yourself, Chase.” With a mocking salute, he left.
In the quiet, it was easy to hear the front door shut. I wondered if it would be another two months before I saw him again. Or perhaps never, if there wasn’t anything for me to fix for him.
“Chase?” Floss asked. “Are you OK?”
“I’m fine.”
For once, it was me lying to her.
She didn’t look convinced but started carefully squeezing her brown hair. I was pretty sure it was a wig, but asking her would get me nowhere. I put my glasses back on and carefully fastened my watch. “I think—” but when I turned around, the rest of the sentence died in my mouth.
Floss was in her bra and panties. Black lace intersected smooth pale skin, curved like a woman from one of her favorite old movies. My hands were itching to splay around her waist, then run down over those thick hips. She was supremely unselfconscious standing in my guest bathroom in only her underwear. She either didn’t know or didn’t care that my mental partitions were crashing down like dominoes.
Leisurely, she wrapped one of my fluffy robes around herself, then wiggled her hips, her fingers dancing over the soft cotton. My heart just about stopped when her panties dropped to the floor.
Her pussy was bare under my robe now.
And that line of thought illustrated how much trouble I was in when it came to her.
My heart.
My robe.
And I wanted that to be my pussy.
“Sorry,” she said, not sounding it. “I thought I could strip faster than that. Everything’s harder when you’re wet.”
I needed to say something, but just like with Joe, the pressure of selection was overwhelming. No one could think properly when they were standing in wet pants. So I didn’t think, I acted. I flicked a hand over my belt, unbuckling it.
Her eyes widened and she spun on her heel.
“Pass me a robe, please.”
She tossed it over her shoulder, and I stripped. I saw her shoulders tremble at the sound of my belt buckle hitting the tiled floor.
I brushed a hand over my cock, tucked inside my briefs and it jumped painfully. I imagined pulling it out and tugging it right there, letting her listen but not letting her turn around. I would jack myself hard. Fast. Then, when I was good and ready, she’d bend for me, and I’d paint that beautiful body and watch it run down her lovely back and over her ass.
I was a bad feminist. That was depraved. And I was a morality blogger, for fuck’s sake. I didn’t have any business developing feelings for a scammer, or imagining shooting my cum over her back.
Get it together Chase.
Because of how closely I was watching her, looking for any sign she was as affected as me, I saw when she physically shook herself.
“We should get out of the bathroom,” she said, turning around. Her smile was determined. “I snooped earlier, and you have a laundry closet here in the actual apartment. Fancy. We can run your jumper through the dryer so it doesn’t get ruined.”
Jumper . What a weird word.
But she was right to get us out of here. My thoughts had veered into dangerous territory. So even though my cashmere ‘jumper’ definitely could not go through a dryer, I was going to follow her to the laundry closet.
I didn’t see the wet patch on the floor until my legs slid out from under me.
Floss tried to grab me, but she overbalanced. My body hit the tiles first, and she landed on top of me, expelling the air from my lungs and narrowly avoiding landing on my semi-hard cock.
“Holy Carol Channing! Chase, are you OK?” Her hands clutched at my chest, at my arms. “I’m so sorry!”
Each touch was exquisite agony. I grabbed her hands before she could accidentally grope too far.
“It’s fine,” I wheezed. “I’m fine. Just give me a sec.” She rolled off and I carefully pulled myself up to lean against the cool tile wall. Robes couldn’t hide an erection like this, and I didn’t try. I saw the moment she noticed, but still, we sat side by side in silence on my bathroom floor. Each deep breath I took made her flowery scent dance in my nose.
This whole situation was messy as hell. I was angry at myself for not being able to control this feeling and, suddenly, angry at her for provoking it. Then angry at myself for being an unfair piece of shit. It was a whirlpool; a cesspit.
I took some deep breaths. Ultimately, I was annoyed that she could waltz into my life and turn it upside down with her lies, then be the one helping me pick up the pieces. She’d helped me with my drunk brother. Passed me towels. Expressed worry over my clothing.
A tiny part of my brain knew that what I was feeling might not be about her, it might be about me. But I wasn’t listening to that part because it didn’t have majority blood flow .
I’d given in to this feeling before at Lueur, but that had been without forethought. Now I was painstakingly making a decision. I was tired of doing the right thing. Tired of resisting the irresistible.
Our gazes met, and I could see my desire mirrored in her eyes. “Tell me your real name,” I rasped, desperate for the key detail I needed to make this whole thing feel less sordid.
She answered softly, “Caroline. Caroline Holliday.”
“Caroline.”
She squirmed. “Yeah.”
“Hello, Caroline.”