Hidden Seams Page 19

  “I’m not trying to fuck you tonight.” I’m getting no credit for this. It’s as if the universe doesn’t give a shit about how hard I’m trying to behave.

  She ignores the response and holds my eye contact as if she can literally see the truth in it. I reach down, peel back her fingers, and she releases her grip on my arm. I could run. I could get to that door before her, sprint through it, and slam it in her face. I could run, like a scared little boy who doesn’t know how to have a conversation. It’s tempting, and I look to the door without meaning to.

  She straightens, her foot unhooking from mine, and when she crosses her arms, her breasts sit on her forearms as if up on a ledge. I look. No red-blooded man in the world could have kept himself from looking. “You’re not gay.”

  “No.” I can’t help the word, which falls out on its own accord, but I don’t regret it when it lands. I can’t do this anymore, not with her, and I’m not certain how I will continue doing it with everyone else.

  “Did he know?”

  “Vince?” I choke back a laugh. “Yeah. He knew. It was why he picked me. Our relationship—despite what you may have seen in a magazine, was not a romantic one. He was—” I hesitate. “Almost like a father to me, but more like a friend. A very rich, very talented, very wise, friend.”

  “And you pretended.” She has trouble saying the word, as if it is sticky in her mouth. “You pretended to be together.”

  I see the moment hope hits her face, her gaze snapping to me with the hopeful eagerness of a child. “He wasn’t gay either? This was all a front? For the… for the fashion world?”

  I know what she’s doing. She’s thinking that if I’m straight, and Vince is straight, then her mother isn’t crazy, and at that concert, he could have pumped her so full of semen that she could have had three Averys. “No.” I cut her off before her hope grows roots. “Vince was definitely gay. Ridiculously, whole-heartedly, helplessly, gay. Trust me on that.”

  She steps back and stumbles a little when she does, her weight hitting the closed door. “Then, what—” She sighs. “I—I don’t understand, and I don’t think it’s because I’m drunk. I think this is a clusterfuck, and I don’t know if you’re lying to me, or telling the truth, but it doesn’t make—”

  “I’m not lying to you, but I can’t tell you everything right now. We’re a dozen hours from finding out if you’re his daughter. If you are, I’ll tell you everything about the situation. But if you’re not?” I shake my head. “Then I’ve already told you too much. I shouldn’t have told you any of this.” I think of John, and the conniption he’ll have.

  She lifts her hands to her face, her fingers digging into her forehead and groans. “I wish I wasn’t drunk right now.”

  I step forward, my hands sliding around the side of her waist, and I pull her toward me, her hands falling from her face. “Go to bed.” I lean forward and kiss her on the forehead. “Go to sleep, and we can sort this out in the morning.”

  I shouldn’t have kissed her on the forehead. It was too intimate, too tender, and when I pull away, she grips my shirt and keeps me in place. “Wait,” she whispers.

  Chapter 34

  AVERY

  He looks down on me, and I’ve never seen so much emotion in a man’s face before. I tug on his sweater, and his eyes drop to my hands, then drag to my breasts, avoiding my face. Is he lying to me? I can’t think of a reason for a man like Vince to have a fake relationship. He could have had a dozen boyfriends, could have had his pick of every gay man in North America. I also can’t think of a reason for Marco to lie about it.

  This close, I can see how thick his eyelashes are, the small wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, the perfect blend of features that now contort into a frown. “I can’t—”

  I lift my face to his and tighten my grip, pull him closer, and when he stumbles forward, I can feel the hard press of his arousal against my thigh. “You can’t what?” I whisper.

  “You’re drunk.” His hand slides from my waist to my hip, and he loops a finger under the side of my panties and twists the cotton around the digit, pulling the thong tight.

  “So are you.”

  “I’m trying to be a gentleman.”

  I reach down and free his finger from my thong, pulling his hand up and placing it on my left breast. “Don’t be.”

  “Avery…” he pleads, and his hand squeezes, the warm heat of his palm closing over my nipple. I lift on my toes, my hands clawing up his sweater and wrapping around his neck, and when his eyes drop to my lips, his other hand finding my other breast, it’s over.

  The dam of resistance breaks and the floodwaters churn. His mouth hits mine, and it’s less of a kiss, and more of a claiming. I dig my nails into his hair, we make it to the bed, and I yank off my sweater and reach for his belt.

  It’s different, this time, from what it was in Spring Creek. Then, he was a bit of an asshole. A dominant, sexual, pleasure-delivering, pound-out-my-orgasm, asshole. Now, he is softer, more reverent. He kisses along my stomach, pulls down my panties, and takes his dear sweet time with his mouth. I come and he moves to my breasts, his movements patient, despite the stiff ridge of him bobbing against my inner thigh. He leaves me, pulls a condom from his pocket, and is back, my legs wrapping around his waist. His kiss is soft against my lips and I love the look on his face, the dark tightening of his features when he pushes inside me.

  I could fall in love with him. The realization comes as quickly as my orgasm had, and is as blinding, my mind flipping through a dozen images of what I want. Him, in a tuxedo, at the alter. Him, my child in his arms. Him, with grey hair and a scowl.

  He looks down, to the place where our bodies meet, and thrusts slowly, almost worshipfully, his hands on my hips, his eyes flicking back to mine. I hold his gaze, he stares back into mine, and in the eye contact, my second orgasm comes.

  * * *

  He sleeps naked, and I’ve never seen a more perfect specimen. I lay on my side, curled against him, my head on his arm. He is stretched out, his head turned away, his breathing heavy and constant, in tune with the noises of the city. I run my hand over his chest and look past him, at the window, the curtains now open, the room softly lit by the city.

  If I fall asleep now, morning will come faster. The call with the results will come faster. The answer to the question that has pounded through my head for three days—finally delivered. Maybe that’s why I’m fighting sleep. I’m afraid to get that answer, afraid of a situation I have absolutely no control over. I’m afraid of how I’m starting to feel about Marco. I’m afraid of what I felt last night, afraid I might be falling in love with him. Afraid that any future between us is impossible, given the circumstances that exist.

  I feel sleep coming and I struggle against it, widening my eyes, forcing my gaze to move around the room, trying to stay awake. I’m not ready. I need to figure this out, need to wake up in the morning with some sort of a game plan. I need to arm myself, emotionally, for whatever outcome might come and figure…

  * * *

  There is a knock on the bedroom door and I feel the sheet move across my body, Marco’s leg sliding in between mine, his hand wrapping around and pulling me flush to his chest.

  “Go away!” Marco calls out, and his breath warms my neck, his teeth sliding along the skin, a gentle nip taken before he kisses the area. “Don’t wake up,” he whispers.

  “Too late.” I smile.

  “Damn.” He yawns against my neck. “I’d ravage you again, but I have a splitting headache right now.”

  I roll over and face him. “Poor baby.”

  “Don’t give me that. You’ve got to be hurting too. You had more to drink than I did.” He pulls the blanket higher, covering our bodies and winces at the sunlight, coming in through the open curtains. “I wonder what time it is.”

  I stretch forward, crawling far enough to reach my phone on the bedside table. I look at its display. “It’s ten.”

  He grunts in response.

&nbs
p; Ten o’clock. Three more hours until we hear the results of the test. I unlock my phone and look for a missed call, or a text, or an email. Nothing. I turn my head. “Will you check your phone? Just in case they called you?”

  “Yeah. But my phone died in the night.” He doesn’t move, but raises his voice and speaks in the general direction of the ceiling. “Kmart, I need a butler.” He pauses, and before I have the chance to ask him who the hell he’s talking to, a voice responds, the sound seeming to come from all directions.

  “Calling a butler.” The voice is highly precise and modulated, the sort that comes from a robot.

  I laugh. “What is that?”

  “It’s the virtual butler,” he said. “We named her Kmart. We had to pick a name that no one would say in natural conversation, unless—”

  “Excuse me. I didn’t catch that command.”

  He grimaces. “See? When you say her name, it causes her to listen. It’s like the Alexis thing from Amazon, except we had the technology installed ages ago. In fact, she—” He glances to the ceiling, then lowers his voice to a playful stage whisper. “She’s a little outdated.”

  “I have still not heard a command.”

  “Kmart, go away.”

  “Certainly. Your wish is my command, Master Marco.”

  I start laughing. “Oh my god. Tell me you didn’t program her to say that.”

  He scoffs. “Of course, I did. She can learn your voice too. Here, watch this. Kmart, add a new user.”

  “New user.” She intones. “For voice verification and learning purposes, please repeat the following sentences after me.”

  I shoot Marco a wry look, but wait, feeling as if I’m about to audition for a role of sorts.

  “Vince Horace is the greatest fashion designer in the world. There is no rival to him. He makes all of the other fashion designers his bitch.” She pauses, and my chuckle turns into a full-blown laugh.

  “Repeat it,” Marco urges and pokes me in the side.

  “I—” I giggle. “I can’t remember it.”

  “Kmart, repeat.”

  She repeats the ridiculous mantra, and I state it back, the repetition occasionally marred by a series of laughter. I roll my eyes at Marco and he smiles. “What?” He says, raising his hands in mock innocence. “That was all Vince. He’s the one who programmed her.”

  I hope he’s my father. The thought hits me so unexpectedly that I’m caught off guard, my defenses down, and I’m struck with the sudden pain of being reminded that I will never have the chance to know him. I will never know the man who named his virtual butler Kmart and required that all new users praise his talents to gain entry.

  “New user recorded. What is your name?”

  I start to say my name and Marco clasps a hand over my mouth, lifting his head and speaking to the ceiling. “Sexy Bitch.”

  “Sexy Bitch is already taken.”

  I laugh harder, the sound muffled beneath his hand and he grimaces. I work his hands free of my mouth. “Goddess Sugar Tits,” I whisper, fairly certain that no one, in the history of the Vince Horace database, has ever been described that way. He peeks under the sheet at said sugar tits with an appraising look, nods in approval, then repeats the name.

  “Welcome, Goddess Sugar Tits,” the voice intones. “You are now saved in my database of users. Is there anything that I can assist you with?”

  “No thank you,” I call out, and a tone sounds, indicating her exit.

  “Goddess Sugar Tits,” he repeats, pulling the sheet down, exposing my breasts. “I like that. Though, we may have to restrict the use of her in mixed company.” He leans over and presses a soft kiss on the closest nipple.

  A knock sounds and he pulls up the sheet with a regretful look.

  “Should you hide?” I whisper.

  “Fuck no.” He relaxes back against the pillows. “Come in,” he calls, and the bedroom door opens. It’s a person I haven’t seen yet, dressed in the all-white dress suit I’ve come to recognize as the house uniform.

  “Good morning, Mr. Lent.” If the man notices me, he doesn’t react, his hands clasped before him, his tone one of complete respect. He’s young, mid-twenties, and has the build of a gymnast. “How may I help you this morning?”

  “I need a charger for my phone. Clear this floor of all staff, except for the salon and dressing room and let the kitchen know we’ll be down for breakfast shortly.”

  “Certainly.” The man leaves, closing the door behind him, and I roll to my side, sandwiching my palms together and tucking them underneath my head.

  “Don’t you get tired of everyone kissing your ass?”

  He chuckles. “No, quite the opposite. I hated it when I first moved into the house. But after a few weeks, anything different became unacceptable.” He glances at me. “Except with you. You’ve never kissed my ass. In fact…” he leans forward and presses a kiss to my cheek. “You’ve been a rather big pain in my ass ever since you first jumped in front of my car.”

  “Hey,” I scoff. “A girl’s got to get a man’s attention any way she can in this city.”

  “Not a girl like you.” He moves his kiss to my mouth, then rolls out of bed, finding the pajamas from last night and tossing them toward me. “Here. Let’s get some breakfast.”

  “You don’t get served breakfast in bed?” I grimace. “Wow. How positively civilian of you.”

  “We aren’t cavemen.” He emerges from the closet in clingy boxer briefs and pulls a T-shirt over his head. “Plus, it’s a bitch to wait on items to travel five floors. You ask for butter, and you’ll wait five minutes for it.”

  “Ah. The truth comes out.” I stretch, then work my hands through the pajama top and pull it over my head. Scooting to the end of the bed, I look for my panties from last night.

  “Here.” He holds out a new pair.

  “Thanks.” I pull them on and sneak a glance at him. “Not to make everything awkward but…”

  “You want to know where we stand.” He runs a hand through his hair.

  “Yeah. I mean… it’s not like I’m trying to have a relationship conversation with you, but it seems like we’ve done a complete one-eighty since yesterday.”

  “Yesterday, when I was being a dick.”

  “Yeah. A complete dick.” I squint at him. “Like, huge. Gigantic dick.”

  He nods and coughs out a smile. “I accept that.” He sits next to me on the edge of the bed. “And you should know, first off, that I am a dick. Being one has been my MO for the past—” he grimaces. “Dozen years. And it was something that Vince liked. So, part of it is just habit. But the other part—” he sighs. “I’ve been pretending to be gay for a long time. And what I did with you in Spring Lake? That exposed me—and Vince—in an alarmingly negative way. And that exposure got worse, once I realized your potential connection to the estate. So, any cruelty I showed was a fucked-up attempt at damage control.” He tilts his head, wincing.

  “Plus, you’re a dick,” I add, and he smiles.

  “Exactly. But I promise to be less of a dick, where you’re involved.” He reaches over and grips my knee, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’m surprised you agreed to dinner last night, after everything that I’ve put you through.”

  I shrug, sliding my feet into the pants and pulling them up. “I think I went for the same reason that you started off being an ass. Damage control.” I turn and look back at him. “If Vince is my father, we should, at a minimum, get along with each other.” I pull my hair into a ponytail. “And… just to confess something? I’m relieved to hear that you and he were just friends, and not … more.”

  He rests his weight back on his hands, and his t-shirt stretches tight across his chest. “That’s not too much of a surprise to hear.”

  “Yeah. I was a little creeped out with myself, after that first night, for sleeping with my potential father’s lover.” I snort. “God, I hate that word. Lover. It sounds so medieval.”

  “Yet you did sleep with me.”

&nbs
p; “Well.” I lift a hand and gesture toward him. “You’ve got a tempting package kicking. And it had been…” I blow out a pained breath and plop down on the bed next to him. “A while.”

  He studies my face. “That seems impossible. How do you not have half of Detroit under your spell?”

  “Excellent question.” I widen my eyes and throw up my hands. “Total mystery. Maybe it’s my fourteen cats.”

  He groans and stands. “You don’t have cats.”

  “Or…” I bring up my feet and sit cross-legged on the bed. “It could be my propensity to turn batshit crazy on the third date.”

  “You turned batshit crazy on our first date,” he points out.

  “Well.” I shrug. “Sometimes, if the potential is high, I pull out that card early.”

  He strolls to the closet, and I admire the muscles in his legs. “While we’re being friendly…” I call out.

  “Yeah?” He reemerges, a pair of drawstring pants in hand, and unfolds them.

  “What do you really think? Do you think he’s my father?”

  “Honestly?” He steps into the pants and shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t think that you’re ridiculous for asking the question.” He gives me a sheepish look. “Despite the things I said before.”

  He walks over to where his pants lie, still in a heap from last night. Reaching down, he pulls out his cell, and his wallet, pocketing both. “But things were a lot cleaner when Vince didn’t have a child.” He avoids my gaze, moving to the bedside table and lifts his watch, checking the time. “I’m hoping you’re not his daughter. It would make my life a lot easier.” He glances back at me. “And yes, I realize what a selfish ass that makes me.”

  “It’s okay.” I shrug. “I hope that I am his daughter, and that’s going to suck for you, so I guess we both want what it isn’t good for the other person.” I examine the bottom of my foot. “But… is it really going to suck for you? I mean, I signed that contract. Why do you care if he’s my father?”