by Ella James
Dash raises his back.
“Come out here, I want to show you something,” he says, waving me toward the door that leads into the hallway.
I’m bracing for the awkward conversation when we step into the empty hallway, already holding my breath as I wonder which of the rooms he’ll pull me into while he asks me why I left.
So I’m unprepared, completely stunned, when, after the door is shut, he pulls me into a tight hug and then…just holds me. His arms are wrapped around me, tucking me against him, with my face against his chest, like he’s going to shield me from a falling sky.
Like I’m fragile.
Like he is my protector.
For a mad second, everything around me tilts and I’m going to hyperventilate because he’s not…
The discord in my brain is just too much; I can’t reconcile this man with Dash who left so callously with no good explanation.
Then he brushes his lips over my head, and New Dash wins.
I buy it…for right now.
I let my breath out and relax into his arms—and even though I wait for it, he never says a word, he never asks a single question. He loosens his hold on me after a moment, brushing another kiss over my forehead and then nodding at the studio door with his brows raised.
I nod.
He pushes the door open, and we aren’t alone again until the day is over.
We were in the room the last few hours with just Adam, Meredith, and Carrie, the two of us sitting side by side at the long desk, drinking some Fanta Dash made Mallorie go buy, allegedly so he could animate the bottle.
When we make it to his car, my mouth still tastes like orange and childhood. Dash’s hand brushes my back, and all I want in life is to bite him right over that little t-shirt pocket.
Instead, I steal his glasses.
I don’t know why. I just do it.
He blinks at me a few times, giving me a sideways smile as I hold them behind me.
“What’s this all about?”
“Since when do you wear glasses?” I smirk.
“College,” he says, his mouth tightening a little.
“Prescription?”
“I don’t know. Negative one or something?”
I look down at his hipster glasses. “Negative one? That’s it?”
“We can’t all be blind, Amelia.” He smiles sadly, reaching for a strand of my hair.
“I’m not. I had surgery and now I’m 20/20, baby.”
He runs his hand over my throat. “Figured you must have.”
“Long time ago,” I tell him, pinching his nipple. “August the summer I turned sixteen. I’m sure you don’t remember it.”
He runs a finger over my lip, giving me the saddest look. A look that I can’t handle, so I kiss him hard—to hurt—and am rewarded with a bark-groan sound. Then we’re in his car; I’m spread out on the back seat, Dash is lording over me, his body crowding the small space, his mouth and hands more frenzied than usual.
He makes me come hard, twice, and then he kisses my cheek, helps me put my clothes to rights, and pushes the car door open. One look at his tented pants, and I want to do something about it…
But I get in the front seat anyway.
“Your eyes look nice,” he says as he backs out. “I always loved your glasses, but your eyes are even better.”
I give him side-eye at the use of the word “always.” Dash has the good grace to look down, then at the road. When we get back to our building, he walks around and opens my door. I get out, laughing when I notice the party in his pants.
“Looks like you’re having a hard time there.”
“Har har.”
“Maybe you should carry me inside. Sort of in front of you?” I giggle.
I shrug, and Dash throws me over his shoulder. He carries me all the way to the elevator, and when we reach the seventh floor, he picks me up again. He’s still hard when he drops me on my doormat.
I eye his impressive tent. “Pretty sure there’s something in your pants there.”
“You think?”
I nod slowly. “Definite trouser snake. Too bad you can’t get someone to help you…let it out.”
“Can’t I?”
Then his mouth is on my neck; my key is in the door; the two of us are on my foyer floor…and Dash is in my mouth.
When I was at his apartment, I poked around. I wouldn’t call it full-on snooping…but I looked. At night in bed, when I’m staring at the ceiling, it’s his place I’m thinking of—and what I saw. How it fits with Dash the man; what might be left of Dash the boy.
He cooks enough to have the right kind of oven mitt: one of the super-insulated, silicon ones. He doesn’t just have one; he has one that has heat marks.
Over his big, plush, dark brown leather couch, framed in thick mahogany, is a color print I’m pretty sure is from Disney’s Sleeping Beauty. It features a blonde with long, slightly curling hair, looking demure in a lilac gown-with-shawl, standing in a forest face-to-facing it with a brown owl.
On his end table, a stack of Miyazaki coasters.
I remembered so many little things about him that day he had the migraine. The way Dash swore off regular black pepper in favor of peppercorn when he was twelve; he’s still got peppercorn in the cabinet. His love of flavored soda. His size thirteen shoes.
I found a hand-written checking account ledger with a balance of $57,000. A still-full bottle of Zoloft in the bathroom cabinet, the prescription dated March 2015. I’m ashamed to say I counted them; it seems he just took two.
Why?
Is it weird I want to know? What happened in March 2015? What happened in March 2014, 2013, 2012…?
What happened to Dash?
He’s got a telescope in the kitchen, by the two-seater table. The magnets on his fridge are Star Wars themed.
What happened to the boy who used to sit out on the roof with me?
It’s so strange that I know how he tastes and how he feels in my hands, but I know next to nothing about his head and heart.
He’s really good at hugs.
His hands are big but gentle.
Is that enough for me?
Is this enough—even for right now?
Sometimes I feel like I’ll go crazy and I tell myself I have to stop. Then, like any addict, I go back. Just one more kiss.
Is this what love is like for everyone: the feeling that it’s dangerous but irresistible? Fear mingled with lust.
Or is it just us?
Is the price of Dash this clawing, wanting feeling—this feeling that I’ll never get enough?
And is it worth it?
My lips curve in a would-be laugh as I fade into sleep. None of this matters…because I just can’t stop.
Seventeen
Dash
It’s Thursday after work, and I’m sitting on my balcony smoking a cigar and looking at the city as dusk descends like fuzzy pixels over everything. I was supposed to go out tonight, but I wasn’t feeling it.
Tomorrow’s Friday, our meeting with Imagine’s marketing team, where we’ll get the formal green-light on production of Dove. And then she’s gone. For a whole week, we take off. It’s a summer thing: Imagine does it every year. Nobody works. (They have to kick people out of the building, because a lot of us freaks hate time off).
I know Amelia’s going to Southampton. It’s a long tradition for her and her friends from high school.
I’ll be here—fucking my hand.
I tell myself there’s shit that I can do. I’ve got some private projects I could work on, a woman from our hometown who wants a painting—anything I want to paint—and is willing to pay $10,000 for it.
I’ve got friends here. Could do something with the crew from Dove. But I know I won’t. I’ll probably sit out on this balcony the whole damn time and watch the traffic crawl between high-rises.
I’m well aware that Ammy’s doing something she feels bad about. Mostly because there’s no way she could possibly feel good. Not with what h
appened. Not considering she won’t hear my apology. Not considering I don’t have one to give her.
What really happened—she can never know.
It’s mine. Other than the few people who know already, no one else is finding out. This shit going to my grave with me. That’s what I deserve. When everything is said and done, that’s why this will never last with Am. I can’t tell her what she needs to hear. I can’t make it right, what I did. Lexie says it was so long ago, maybe Ammy’s over it, but I can see she’s not. I can see her looking at me when she thinks I’m absorbed in something else. The way her eyes dig into softer pieces of me, searching for her answers.
Anybody would be fucked up by what happened, but especially a woman. Sex is so damn different for them. It’s never only physical. Maybe with some women…but not fifteen-year-old girls.
Christ, she could have had me hauled to jail for statutory rape. I would have deserved it. Instead she’s fucking me again. (Well, she fucked me once…and then she bolted; which is how I know she’s acting against what she views to be good sense). She’s fucking around with me again, and it’s got to be backsliding—in her mind.
She’ll go off to Southampton and spill the beans to someone. One of her posse will tell her she’s lost her fucking mind, and she’ll see sense. And that will be the end of it.
That’ll be the right thing.
That’ll leave me…where I was before.
I stub out the cigar and lean against the railing. I remember Ammy with the big, round glasses. I can still remember her the day she fell into our pool. Is it possible she’s had my heart since that day? Is that how it works? You don’t get a fucking choice? It’s one and done—and then you’re ruined for life?
I know a lot of dudes would laugh at that idea. And I don’t give a fuck. For me, it’s true. I don’t go around shouting it from rooftops, but for me, there has only ever been Amelia. God knows I tried to fix things so it wasn’t that way. Fucked my way through half of New England. And…no dice.
I’m lighting another cigar when I hear my doorbell.
I put it out...walk through the apartment, check the peephole…
Ammy.
Well, shit.
I get hard just looking at her through the fucking door, and have to squeeze my dick to get it to stand down.
I pull the door open and find Am with her hair pulled up all messy on her head, wearing blue and white sky-patterned pajama pants and one of those cotton girl shirts that’s got the really skinny shoulder straps. The shirt is gray and stretches snugly over her chest. I pull my gaze away from there and notice that she’s holding a brown bag. And not wearing any shoes.
She smiles. “Sooo, I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is, I have Chinese. Bad news, I’m locked out of my apartment and maintenance says it’s going to be an hour.”
“Oh, I see how it is.” I give her a shaming look. “You just want to use me.”
I can see the slightest rise of color on her cheeks, and that just makes me laugh. “Amelia. What’s going on in that dirty mind of yours?”
She shoves my chest. “Maybe I’ll just take this food and go.”
I snatch the brown bag from her easily and hold it out of her reach, trying to smell the food while keeping it out of her grasping hands.
“This smells good. Moo goo gai pan?”
“Same ole same ole,” she says, wrapping her hand around my elbow. She squeezes, and I chuckle. I step inside, dragging her with me, so when I stop abruptly in the foyer, she loses her footing and stumbles into me.
“Sorry.” I smirk.
“You ass.” She swats me, and we head toward the kitchen.
Ammy tries to get her food back, but I pull out a chair for her and make her watch and wait while I serve both of us. Which makes her call me an ass again. Which prompts me to throw a fortune cookie at her.
“So how’d you get locked out?” I ask her as she eats her cookie.
“I have no idea!” She does this thing when she’s worked up where everything is an exclamation. “I went down to the lobby to get the food. I thought I had a key and then I didn’t! I guess I must have left it on this table I have by my door.”
“Wearing your evening best?” I tease her, as I set her bowl in front of her.
“Oh my gosh, you gave me all the water chestnuts!” I grin as she beams down at her bowl. “You remember.”
“Of course.” I try to smile as I sit down across from her, but I’m not sure I pull it off. I want to add, I remember everything about you, but of course, I can’t. Or—won’t. I’ve been on the fence about how to treat Am, and I realized it’s not possible to treat her with anything less than adoration, but she probably doesn’t need to know the real depth of my feelings. What’s the point? More so than that… If she knew, she’d be confused. She’d ask more questions.
“They’re so amazing. It’s a texture thing, but mmm.” She chews one, and this time, I have no trouble smiling at grown-up Amelia sitting, chomping water chestnuts at my table.
“You want something to drink? I’ve got some wine.”
I see her face shutter for a moment—I wonder if she’s remembering our drunken kisses at the work party—but then she nods. “Sure thing. Anything is fine. I like white and red and all the different shades.”
“A real drunk,” I tease.
“Oh yeah, that’s me. Total studio drunkard.”
“You are a sorority girl.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not like that.” I feel her eyes on my back as I get two glasses out and pour an off-dry Riesling. “Were you in a fraternity?” she asks.
“Not the kind you’re thinking of.”
“Oh, yeah, I guess I should have said a ‘social’ fraternity.”
I set her glass down.
“Thank you.”
“It’s a German Riesling. Mosel valley.”
She takes a sip. “That’s good.”
I watch her as she eats. I know it’s rude, but it’s not often I’m seated right across from her. At work, I’m usually trying not to stare too openly; all the other times, I’ve got my face between her legs. Amelia hasn’t spent a lot of time one-on-one with me, and I get it. But I’m going to enjoy this while it lasts, for the whole hour.
“So,” she says after another bite, “you have another place in California?”
“Yep.”
“Apartment?”
“House.”
“Ohhh. Fancy.”
I wink.
“What’s it like?”
I shrug. “Walls and roof. It’s got a garden.”
“Does it?”
I nod, chewing. “I’ve got a few raised beds.”
“Wow, so you grow food?”
“A few things, yeah.”
“That’s awesome.”
“It’s relaxing,” I confide.
“What’s it like, your job? Do you enjoy it?”
“We work together,” I tease. “You remember that, right?”
She sticks her tongue out. “Yes, you jerk. But I’ve never asked you if you like it.”
“I hate it. Makes me want to die.” Something hits me on the arm. “Hey…” I pick the small, white paper off the table and unfold it. “You threw a fortune at me?”
“Read it,” she says cryptically.
“Your luck will take a turn. Tread cautiously. Well, that’s kind of cryptic.”
“I know, right?”
I nod. “What about you, Am? You liking working under me?”
She rolls her eyes, and I snicker.
“It’s hard to stay on top of things sometimes,” she says, smirking. “I’m still learning all the ins and outs.”
“It can be hard to wrap your hands around the meat of this job.”
“Oh, totally. Luckily, you’re not too rigid or anal about things.”
“Hey, I’m rigid.” I flick the crumpled fortune back at her. Amelia bats it with her palm, and we both chuckle.
“So, what are you doi
ng next week?”
I tell her about the commission from the Georgia woman. “She’s an author, actually.”
“Oh yeah?”
I tell her the woman’s name, and Ammy says she’s read her. “Very poetic. I liked her first book. That’s the only one I’ve read.”
“Do you ever read your mom’s books?”
I can see the shock on her face, and immediately I feel bad for asking. I watch as she composes herself; finally, when her face is scrubbed of emotion, she nods once. “I do. I’ve read them lots of times. And it’s okay that you asked. You look like you just found out you killed a kitten.”
“Shit.” I rub my forehead. “I should have thought before I spoke.”
“It’s okay. I won’t break.”
“I know.” There was a time when Ammy talked about these things with me. A time long ago. But it doesn’t feel like that long.
“It’s weird to read them,” she says, then pauses to drink. “There are themes that repeat in each book, you know? Little things she clearly liked enough to feature more than once. Like spiral staircases and bird baths. Certain numbers, like the number five. I think writers leave behind a lot of clues about themselves. Like artists, almost.”
“Of course.”
“I wish I’d known her longer.” Her eyes meet mine for one warm moment before falling to the table’s surface. “I feel like I still remember the gist of her...you know? She was generous and fun. She wanted me to feel loved and included. Special. I remember her enough to know that for sure. The way she was always buying me clothes and purses just like hers and listening to my long, ridiculous, made-up stories… And you know, I used to wonder if she would have left. But now I don’t. Now I like to think she would have gone back to my dad. From what I’ve gathered over the years, they weren’t really out of love, they were just having a rough spot. Anyway,” she shakes her head, “even if she had left him, I know she wouldn’t have left me.”
“I’m glad that doesn’t bother you the way it used to.”
Ammy picks up her bowl and stands, trying to seem casual—but I can tell she’s uncomfortable she just told me all that shit and wants to put the distance back between us. She sets her bowl in the sink and lingers for a moment beside the refrigerator. I can’t see her very well from the table, so I stand, and I realize what she must be looking at.