I chose a seat on the top level of an empty car. I wanted to be alone.
I closed my eyes and listened as a garbled voice announced each stop. I knew this route well. Growing up, I used to ride the train from Chatham into the city. I had like-minded “friends” there. We drank and went crazy together.
And nothing has changed
, I realized as I emerged into the crowds of Penn Station. For me, the city still rumbled with madness. A sea of tourists. The end of the line.
My phone rang for the seventh time—Hannah and Nate were alternating calls—and I shut it off. They knew what I was up to, clearly. Hannah must have mentioned my “business in the city,” Nate must have remembered my desire to “smooth things over” with Seth, and together they must have realized …
I caught a cab to the Plaza Hotel, where Nate had told me Goldengrove was staying.
As the cab inched through traffic, I stoked my anger.
Seth got Chrissy pregnant. Seth fucked Chrissy. Seth pursued Hannah. Seth fucked Hannah’s hand.
Seth came in her hand.
Seth tried to sleep with her.
Last month, when Hannah and I got back together, I’d made her explain what happened with Seth—in great detail. Then I wrote the scene into
Last Light
. Then I asked her to tell me again and again, until she lost her temper.
You’re obsessing
, she’d said.
You’re scaring me.
She was right—and no matter how many times she painted that scene in the Four Seasons suite, describing her agency and guilt, I saw her as a victim. She was my sweet little bird, addled by our breakup, drunk, drugged, falling into Seth’s clutches.
A victim of circumstance.
Just like Chrissy.
“Happy summer,” said the cabbie as I climbed out of his car, and I registered vaguely that it was the first day of summer. I shrugged off my thin blazer and slung it over my shoulder. Hannah and I should have been celebrating summer together. Good wine for her, a nice meal for both of us, outdoor sex. I wasn’t upset with Hannah for keeping the truth from me. Not very upset, at least. She must have been worried about my reaction.
She was right to be worried.
My brother seemed to be waiting for me, standing by the Pulitzer Fountain. His hair looked lank, disheveled. He wore torn jeans and a T-shirt. I drew closer.
Tourists shuffled around, taking pictures and heading toward the park.
I watched sunlight shimmer in the fountain.
I watched Seth.
He scanned the crowd, missed me, and checked his phone. He was perspiring lightly.
“You’re high,” I said.
His eyes jerked to mine. Cocaine, I guessed, because New York is a blow town, and because Seth had the jagged, jittery look of one-too-many mornings spent getting high before coming down. He pocketed his phone and shrugged.
“Mm, you can’t really hide that from me.” I stood close to him so that no one else could hear us. I took him by the shoulder—gently, kindly—and turned him toward the fountain, buying us time. How long before someone recognized M. Pierce, the author, or Seth Sky, the lead singer of Goldengrove?
“Were you high when you fucked Chrissy Catalano? When you got her pregnant? No protection handy, or were you too far gone to care?”
My voice came out soft and sickeningly warm. My fingers tightened on his shoulder.
“I know,” he said. “Nate called me. I just found out. I know she’s pregnant.”
So it was true—or it might be true—that mysterious e-mail I received yesterday.
Who’s the proud daddy? It’s Seth Sky!
“Why couldn’t you stay away from them? Hannah, her sister.”
“You’re no fucking saint.” He tried to jerk his shoulder from my grip, but I held on tight. And he was weak. He’d lost weight since I’d seen him last, three months ago. Even his anger was diminished. I smiled and rubbed my mouth. I let him go. I tried to unbutton my cuffs, with some passing idea of rolling up the sleeves, and then I hit Seth in the face.
He sank, catching himself on the edge of the fountain. Bystanders danced away like startled pigeons.
Get the fuck out of here
, I thought, and I hit my brother again.
This bastard. This fucking bastard.
He twisted and scrabbled at my neck, sputtering. He kicked my legs out from under me and the ground rushed up. My cheekbone grated on stone.
Get the fuck out of here.
This fucking bastard.
With one powerful hand, I grasped Seth’s hair and dunked his head in the fountain. I leaned my weight against his body and held him under. His arms surged wildly. He tore at me and at the fountain ledge. Bubbles billowed around his face.
I should kill you,
I thought.
I could.
Adrenaline welled in my body. My face throbbed; something wet dribbled down my cheek. Water splashed my shirt, my hair, and it felt good.
Seth’s body went slack slowly.
My rage grasped at thin air.
If I summoned the image of Hannah and Seth, the way I did sometimes when I wanted to feel angry, I might have held him under too long. But I wanted a fight, and the fight was gone. I dragged his wiry body back. He gasped and crawled away from me, over the heated stones. Just like an animal.
I left before I could feel pity.
I jogged away from the hotel, tasting iron and salt, turned onto Eighth Avenue and ran all the way back to the station, back into its cement belly, into a crowded train.
HANNAH
Matt returned to the hotel at five.
I was there, sitting on the couch, watching the door.
I heard the metallic slip of the key card. The mechanism unlocked with a clack.
“Fuck,” I whispered as he stepped into the room.
Dark blood congealed around a gash on his cheek. His shirt was halfway untucked, clinging to his torso, his blazer nowhere to be seen. Sweat matted his hair.
“You’re back,” he said.
“Yeah…” I stepped closer to him. He eyed me warily, as if he might run. “Nate, um, drove me back. We’ve been calling.” Another step.
“Mm.”
Another step, then another. Matt let the door fall shut and smirked. Despite his disheveled appearance, relief coursed through me.
He’s here
.
I cupped the undamaged side of his face. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
Wild Matt … he filled me with excitement, even now.
“Baby.” I stood on tiptoe and kissed the skin near his wound. “What happened?”
“Don’t you know? I think you know.”
I slipped my arms around him, and after a moment he returned the hug. He exhaled, then fit my body to his in a way that was classically Matt. Possessively, impatiently. With a touch of irritation. Cupping my ass, bringing my groin against his thigh. Pressing the small of my back, making my spine flex and my belly nuzzle him intimately. He curled my shoulders into his chest. He cradled the back of my neck and pushed his fingers through my hair.
I shivered.
That hand in my hair … could bring pleasure or pain.
“What am I going to do with you?” he said with a sigh.
“I’m sorry.” I clung to his shirt. I desperately wanted to know how Matt had found out—
Seth got Chrissy pregnant
, the unspoken bombshell—and what happened in New York, and what Seth looked like right now, but those questions could wait.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said. “This new honesty thing goes both ways.”
“I was afraid. Look at you. I knew what would happen.”
He gave me a wry look. I winced at the sight of his injury.
“And did you stop it from happening, little bird?”
“No,” I mumbled.
He tilted up my chin. I swallowed and flushed like a guilty child.
“It would have been better to hear it from you.” He held me awhile longer, and I waited for him to tell me how he
did
hear it, and finally he said, “I’m tired. We’ll talk about it later. I need to—” He frowned, thumbing a smudge of his blood from my brow. He started to unbutton his shirt. I brushed away his hands.
“Let me.”
He glared, but he let me undo his shirt and lead him to the bathroom, where I cleaned the gash on his cheekbone. New blood dampened the washcloth.
“Crazy boy,” I whispered. I kissed his knuckles. They were red.
“Your crazy boy.” His strong hands enfolded mine. We stood like that for I don’t know how long, touching one another tenderly, a counterpoint to violence I could only imagine. If I thought about Seth, my mind flashed over images of a body strewn across the floor. Blood. Stillness. So I didn’t think about him.
My fianc
é
wasn’t violent by nature …
right?
He kissed my ring finger.
“You still want to marry me?” he said, half-smiling and half-serious.
“Always.”
He took a quick shower and I changed into one of his T-shirts, which was voluminous on me. I removed my new pearl earrings but kept on the necklace. I felt pretty with those heavy spheres resting against my throat.
Mrs. Hannah Sky …
I lay on our bed and mouthed the words.
Our engagement should be a magical time.
Would
be a magical time. I refused to let Seth or my sister’s news overshadow our happiness. Now that Matt knew everything, we could handle the situation together.
He strolled into the bedroom, a towel banded around his waist. I licked my lips and sat up.
Damn … that body.
“I like your shirt, bird.”
I plucked at his shirt and smiled shyly. Matt’s eyes were dark, his expression unreadable. Serious-discussion time.
“Matt, I—”
He silenced me with a gesture.
He sat on the edge of the bed and beckoned. I crawled to him, suddenly hyperaware of my naked body beneath his T-shirt. The way Matt looked at me told me he was aware, too. His gaze lingered on my nipples, which stood stiff against the thin cotton.
“I bought you this,” he said. “We’ll use it now.”
My gaze dropped to his hands. My mouth formed a small, speechless O.
Matt held a metal plug—large, teardrop-shaped—with a sapphire gem in the stopper. He tipped it into my hand. It was heavy and cold. Intimidating, yet pretty.
Okay … he wanted sex. Now. After whatever had happened in the city. And he wanted to put a plug in my ass. I returned the toy to his hands.
“Chrissy is pregnant. Seth is the father.” He spoke calmly. “And you’ve known that, haven’t you, Hannah?”
I nodded, flushing. What the hell was this? Sexy time, or serious-talk time?
“I want to punish you,” he said.
“Punish me?” I spluttered.
“Mm. Bend over my lap.” He patted his thighs. When I hesitated, he cupped the back of my neck and guided me down.
I spread my arms across the sheets and lay there quivering. He brushed the T-shirt off my bottom. I tensed, expecting pain, but he only stroked my skin lovingly.
“Gorgeous,” he murmured.
Something cold and blunt touched my sex—the plug—and he dipped it into me, then drew it out, in again, out again. I groaned.
“Lubricating it,” he explained. “You’re very wet.”
I tried to relax when he slid the plug up my crack and began to apply gentle pressure. I’d taken
him
there, after all; I could take the plug. But my mind refused to cooperate. I kept picturing the raw gash on his cheek and remembering the things Katie said:
Too rough
.
He’d hit her. Really hardcore stuff. Whips.
The plug popped into my bottom and I gasped. The stopper nestled against my skin. It felt … foreign, full, but pleasant, a cool and heavy pressure.
Matt moaned and kissed the tail of my spine. I felt him hardening beneath his towel.
I am not afraid of my fianc
é
,
I told myself.
I love this man. I know this man.
But I didn’t know this new bedroom etiquette—at least, not in the context of punishment. I’d hurt Matt by keeping a secret from him. Now he wanted to hurt me … physically. How did I feel about that?
He slapped my backside, jarring the plug. I jumped.
“Matt!”
“Shhh,” he crooned. “I had to, Hannah.” His touch immediately turned gentle—caresses, a finger inside of me, one on my clit. I sighed and panted, giving myself over to those sensations. Then he spanked me again and I yelped.
He moved me off his lap and left me sprawled on the bed. He stood and stared down at me. “Play with yourself,” he said. “Make sure I can see that plug while you do.”
I fumbled onto my knees, my ass in the air. Matt made an appreciative sound. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his towel drop—a flag of surrender spiraling to the floor.
He can’t resist me
.
Feminine pride bloomed inside me and I spread my knees. Let him get a good look at my sex. I began to finger myself, grinding on my hand, and I rubbed my clit in a slow circle.
“Ah, Hannah…” His voice was strained.
I stripped off the T-shirt and glanced over my shoulder.
Matt stroked himself—a sight that made my body clench—and stared wantonly at my backside, at the skin between my legs. There, I felt an acute ache for him. Arousal slid down my fingers. My blood turned to fire.
“Please,” I whispered.
He shook his head.
“Don’t come, Hannah.”
I balked, my hand going still.
Don’t come?
“Keep going,” he snapped.
The edge in his voice made me flinch. My fingers resumed their motion, my body trembling. What is it about denial? I suddenly wanted—needed—to come.
Matt pleasured himself at a leisurely pace. Once, he grasped my hips and brought his mouth close to my sex, his breath fanning over the heated skin. I felt incredible tension in his hands. The strength of restraint.
“You’re hard to resist,” he hissed. He climbed onto the bed and flipped me over. Wild for release, I spread my legs invitingly and lifted my body, but he pressed me down. With one hand against my abdomen and the other stroking his length, he came.