“Beautiful,” Marcus says.
There’s a part of her that wants to take him right now, right there, in front of all these people. After all, she’s already had her soul laid bare to everyone present. And then she remembers the other man from her fantasy, the one sitting across the room from her. He wears a cockeyed grin and he’s shaking his head at her with feigned disapproval.
“Just for the record here, folks,” he says. “I have absolutely no desire to drown Emily Blaine.”
“Once again, you’re missing the point,” Lilliane says.
“Once again? Lady, we just met.”
“Someone please bring this man his clothes,” Lilliane says. Two radiants depart the bottom step to follow this order.
“No, really,” Jonathan says, his grin fading and his gaze finding Emily again. “It was sweet. I want to have ocean sex. It looks fun.”
“Really?” Emily asks. “You thought it was sweet?”
“Yeah, of course,” he says, a slight catch in his voice. He knows what she’s really asking, and for a few seconds, they don’t say anything because Marcus’s presence across the room is as undeniable as the floor underfoot. He’s mourning something, she can see. The loss of some illusion about himself, or who he thought he could turn into just for her.
Or maybe he’s remembering the sight of Ryan Benoit, gloriously naked, every inch of muscle a reminder of what truly causes his heart to race, his breath to come up short, his face to redden, his jokes to turn stuttered and silly. If the radiants used their trick on Jonathan now, there’s no doubt someone similar to Ryan would make an appearance. A lot of appearances. Or maybe a lot of Ryans.
Still, he’s saying good-bye to something, something confirmed by the glimpse he was just given into her soul, and it’s not her right, or anyone else’s, to take this moment away from him.
“You want to know the best part about being best friends?” he finally asks her.
“The jokes?”
“No breakups!”
“I see…”
And then, Jonathan turns his attention to the other naked man across the room—Marcus, who has watched this entire exchange with the intensity of a hawk.
“And you, mister,” Jonathan says, “if you ever decide to switch teams—”
“Shut the fuck up, dude.”
“I was just going to say I could roll out one hell of a porn career for you. I know people.”
“Please bring this man his clothes!” Lilliane shouts.
28
It’s dawn by the time they reach Ochsner Hospital, but there’s no telling it once they’re inside. Closed doors and harsh fluorescent lighting line the long hallway leading to Arthur’s private suite. The few nurses that look up as they pass are mostly preoccupied by the rituals of early morning shift change.
Marcus wouldn’t let them stop anywhere where they could shower or just change clothes; that’s how convinced he is Ryan is going to try to hurt his father. As a result, Emily and Jonathan are now forced to dodge the eye-watering chemtrail his swamp water bath leaves in his wake.
A few paces from Arthur’s room, the sight of Ryan standing over his father’s comatose body stops Emily in her tracks. Marcus pushes her out of the way with one hand, the other poised near his gun holster. But Ryan isn’t strangling the life out of his dad as Marcus feared. Far from it. He’s clasping one of the man’s withered hands, and when he turns at the sound of their slow, steady approach, he has to work quickly to chase the evidence of sadness from his expression. Finally, he releases his grip on his father and starts walking toward them, giving Emily a terrible glimpse of Arthur, intubated and on his back, the breathing tube jutting out of his mouth like something from a cheap science-fiction movie.
Ryan’s civilian clothes consist of designer jeans, some sort of form-fitting white polo shirt with a designer’s logo Emily doesn’t recognize, and a heather-gray hooded sweater from a different designer with a different logo Emily also doesn’t recognize and an apparent fetish for gold zippers. In this bland institutional hallway, Ryan’s agelessness is more unnerving than it was in the rarefied confines of Lilliane’s mansion. They all take a minute to survey each other before anyone speaks.
“You thought I was going to hurt him, or did you just come to tell him you’d done your job?” Ryan asks.
“Both,” Marcus answers.
Ryan nods. He seems drained of his anger, or maybe he’s on his best behavior for the nurses.
“Yeah, well, I thought it was strange he didn’t have a guard until I saw the guy sleeping in there. He’s still sleeping, by the way. I hope I don’t get him fired.”
“You will,” Marcus answers, “but that’s not a bad thing.”
“I left him a note,” Ryan says. “It’s on the nightstand. Just so he knows I was here when he wakes up.”
“You’re not coming back?” Emily asks.
“I’m thinking about it,” he says with the strained patience of someone who doesn’t like thinking about things.
“Why the change of heart?” Jonathan asks. “You didn’t exactly seem in the mood for a visit when we left.”
“Lilliane had many things to say about that.”
“Oh, yeah?” Jonathan asks. “Like what?”
“She reminded me that I slept with his wife.”
“Interesting,” Emily says. “After you ran out on us, she spent a lot of time explaining what a bad father she thought Arthur was.”
“He was a bad father. Let’s not get carried away.”
“I’m just pointing out that Lilliane seems capable of seeing both sides of every situation. That’s all. It’s a good idea to have someone like that in your life.”
“Well, she’s seen more than you’ll ever know.”
“I'm sure,” Emily offers.
“It’s sweet that you’re concerned, Miss Blaine. But I’m older than I look.” He seems to regret the sharpness of his response instantly. “Lilliane asked me to deliver a message.”
“We’re listening,” Marcus says.
“A lot of secrets were shared tonight. She hopes we’ll keep them all to ourselves. For everyone’s sake.”
“Sounds kinda like a threat,” Marcus says.
“I’m starting to get the feeling you’re the type of guy who thinks most things are a threat,” Ryan says.
“Good,” Marcus says. “Because that's my job.”
“Fair enough. How about a promise then?”
“We promise,” Emily says before anyone else can speak up, ignoring the quick, angry look this earns her from Marcus. Jonathan’s giving her a pretty hard look too. She returns it, then passes it on to Marcus. “We promise,” she repeats, and this time it’s an order to the both of them.
“Fine,” Jonathan says. “Then we won’t have to be the ones to explain to Arthur why his son hasn’t aged a day in ten years.”
“Longer than ten, but who’s counting at this point?” Ryan says. “And hence my…mixed feelings about coming back.”
“We promise on one condition," Emily adds, catching them all off guard, which was exactly her intention.
“I'm listening,” Ryan says quietly.
“You come back when your father’s awake,” she says.
The silence that falls is agonizing suddenly, maybe because Ryan refuses to look her in the eye as he considers her words. Then he looks over one shoulder at the half open doorway to Arthur’s room, as if he wants the sight of his comatose father, humbled by disease and old age, to guide his next words.
“Fine,” Ryan says. “I'll come back when he’s awake.”
“Then your secrets are safe with us,” Emily responds.
“Good, but let’s make it our last deal for a while,” Ryan says.
“Works for me,” Marcus says cheerfully.
“So I hear you all enjoyed some radiance before you left,” Ryan says.
“That would be me,” Emily says.
“Well…was it revealing?”
“Very,”
she answers.
“Helpful?” Ryan asks.
“I’ll say,” Marcus answers.
“Well, good, then,” Ryan says, and then his stare lands on Jonathan. “And what about you?”
“What about me?” Jonathan asks.
“You didn’t take a turn?”
“It wasn’t a condition of my release,” Jonathan answers.
“But you didn’t even ask? Even after you saw how good it could be?”
“Are you offering, Ryan?”
“Not here,” Ryan says, closing the distance between them. “Too many fragile hearts. But you know where to find me if you change your mind.”
“You're a sexy little beast, but I don’t need anyone looking into my soul to tell me what I like to do in the bedroom,” Jonathan says. “That’s not a room in which I’ve had a lot of problems, if you get my drift.”
“Yes I do,” Ryan says, “and people like you are the ones who need it the most.”
Before Jonathan can react to this challenge, Ryan makes a point of brushing his shoulder with one of his own as he turns to face Emily again, his hand extended. Startled by the gesture, Emily takes his hand and feels him press a small business card into her palm.
“I’m sorry if we weren’t able to answer all of your questions,” Ryan says. “But we did just meet, after all.”
“That’s true,” she says, and even though it feels like a small betrayal of the two men who have stuck by her throughout this whole strange affair, she pockets the card before either of them can see it.
“Goodnight everyone,” Ryan says, then to Jonathan he adds, “See you soon, Jonathan.”
Once Ryan’s a good distance down the hallway, Jonathan says, “I’m not doing it. I don’t care what he says.”
“Why not?” Emily asks.
“Sometimes it’s better not to know what your heart really wants. Less disappointment that way”
Marcus rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says. “Just sleep with him then.”
“Oh, I will, as long as he’s got skills in the bedroom other than, you know…altering the fabric of reality and stuff. In the meantime—” Jonathan spins on one heel away from the sight of Ryan’s perfect backside and points an accusing finger at Marcus “—you need a shower, dude!”
“Amen to that,” Emily says.
29
It’s exactly the kind of apartment she expected Marcus to have in exactly the kind of building she expected him to live in; a courtyard apartment complex just a few blocks from the Lake Pontchartrain levy. Inside the place is spare and utilitarian, with framed military-themed posters so compact they look like they’re about to be swallowed by walls he’s painted dark blue. The stack of magazines on the glass coffee table looks like it's been straightened with a ruler, and while not a single item in the entire apartment seems out of place, be it an envelope, coffee mug, or water glass, that might have more to do with the fact that there isn’t very much in the apartment to begin with.
She’s confident they would have fallen into each other’s arms as soon as they walked through the front door if he hadn’t smelled like a kettle of fish. Still, ever the gentleman, and despite his exhaustion, he let her shower first.
Now, while he takes his much needed turn under the spray, she sits at his desk, studying the strange business card Ryan Benoit passed her in secret. One thing’s for sure: the design on the card, an impressionistic logo depicting some sort of small candle flame, is almost the exact same design she saw printed on the giant rug in Lilliane’s giant foyer. Feu de Coeur, it reads. And that’s it. No phone number, no address. Just a small handwritten message from Ryan on the bottom, a message that makes even less sense than most of what she witnessed the night before.
It’s not always in the same place.
She assumes it is Feu de Coeur, which according to Google means “fire of the heart,” and which, also according to Google, has no website or Yelp reviews or any other Internet footprints you’d expect from a business that operated at some point after the Internet was invented. Ryan passed her the card while apologizing for not answering more questions about who he was, about what type of events could have changed him into a creature that didn’t age, so Emily has little doubt this is his idea of a clue. But it was a bad one, that’s for sure.
Unless that was the point.
As soon as she hears the water cut off, she stuffs the card in her purse and spins the desk chair to face the bathroom. A few minutes later, Marcus appears, resting one raised arm against the doorway and holding the back of his towel together in his other hand. He looks like he’s posing for a magazine shoot, or one of those Tumblr pages Jonathan likes to show her on his smart phone.
“How do you like my place?” he asks. “I mean, it’s no endless ocean or seven million dollar beach house, but it’ll do, right?”
“Drop that towel and I’ll tell yah,” she says.
“Uh huh. You first.”
“Are you kidding? I’ve been naked for, like, the past forty-eight hours.”
“Yeah, but there were always other people there. This time it’s just for me.”
She’d love to drag this part out, but after the honey test and her time as a robed customer of The Desire Exchange and the protracted naked negotiation with Lilliane, she just doesn’t have the patience for a striptease right now. She stands, drops the towel, and flounces down in the desk chair hard enough to send it rolling back into his desk.
Marcus grips the back of his towel as he crosses the room, as if he’s waiting for the perfect second to let it drop.
“Seriously,” he says, “you like my apartment?”
“It could use a woman’s touch, to be honest.”
“And how are we defining a woman’s touch?”
“Touch a woman and you’ll find out.”
He sinks to his knees on the floor in front of her, gazing into her eyes, his half-smile fading, caressing her knees with both hands. He lets the towel fall, but he’s bent so she can’t see his cock or any of the other parts of him she could only catch glimpses of in Lilliane’s house the night before.
“You’re really taking this patience thing too far,” she says. “Although, now that I think about it, it’s only been three days. You haven’t been that patient.”
“Three days of watching your every move,” he says, hands sliding further up her legs. “So, really. You gotta round up. You know, like dog years or something.”
“Ew. Dog years? Different metaphor when I’m naked please.”
“Oooo, the English major rears her…beautiful head.”
“Marcus, why are you stalling? We’ve waited three whole days for this moment.”
“Longer in dog years. Sorry. Alpaca years. Or maybe giraffe years.”
Her laughter has sleepless delirium teasing the edges of it.
“I’m nervous, Emily.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. I saw your fantasy, remember? And I did a really good job in that thing. I mean, there was like ocean waves and…I don’t even know how I was standing up during all that. What if I don’t measure up in real life?”
“You will,” she answers.
“How do you know?”
“Because the best part about it is you’re not just a fantasy.”
He cocks his head to one side and grins, and she can tell it’s exactly what he needed to hear, but for some reason he’s keeping up the shy-boy routine, even as his hands travel all the way up her thighs, adding pressure to his grip as he goes.
“But you know, there’s another thing, though,” he says, cupping her mound with both hands, kneading her inner thighs, ignoring her sudden, sharp gasp. “You could make the case that this”—he bends in and gives her a teasing lick—“is”—lick—“very”—“inappropriate”—lick—“given”—lick—“you might be”—lick, lick, lick, lick—“my boss someday.”
He gazes up into her eyes while he draws three fingers slowly across her clit.
“You get me, Miss B
laine?”
“Yeah, I get you, Marcus. You’re looking for a promotion, aren’t you?”
“For some reason, I thought we were going to start off sweeter than this.”
“We did sweet back in Florida. We did chivalry too, and it was nice. Don’t get me wrong. But it’s time for phase two.”
“Oh, yeah, and what’s phase two?” he asks, parting two of his fingers so he can circle the edge of her clit on his next firm pass down her folds.
“Own it,” she whispers.
She hooks her ankles behind his neck and drives his mouth against her sex, which is all the permission he needs to unleash seventy-two hours of frustrated lust onto her pussy. After days of watching his tense stare and catching his cautious, sidelong looks, the sight of him devouring her folds, his chin and jaw slathered in her juices, looks so delightfully, intoxicatingly debased, she can only gaze upon it for several seconds at a time for fear the dam holding up her pleasure will break before she’s tasted him as well.
Without warning, he slides an arm around her back and lifts her out of the chair while he rises to his feet. When he drops her onto the bed, she lands on all fours with a small bounce. He’s next to her in a flash, scooping one arm under her stomach to support her while his other hand travels the crack of her ass as smoothly as if it were gliding through honey. Once his fingers find her sex again, he works her insistently, his mouth finding her neck.
“Own it, huh?” he asks her again.
But he’s taken her earlobe in between his teeth, and he’s found her clit again with two fingers he’s working like a swimmer’s kicking legs, and now he’s rising onto his knees next to her body so he can drive his fingers deeper into her folds.
“Was I a good bodyguard?” he growls. “Did I take good care of you, Miss Blaine?”
He slaps his throbbing cock against the small of her back with a loud thwack. Her answer is in the stuttering groan that feels like it’s pouring out of her chest.