Chrysalis, p.14
Chrysalis, page 14
“You were behind what happened with Huck?”
Shit.
“Officially? No. Unofficially? Yes,” I admit. And for the first time, I see her smile. “I’m not out to break her heart. I’m out to win it. And it would be nice if you and me could be friends. Because what I want with her is permanent. And it’s never good when the best friend and the boyfriend don’t get along.”
“You had me at ‘unofficially yes’,” she quips, her smile melting into an approving look. “And if you want it to be permanent, you’d better be more than her boyfriend.”
“She doesn’t believe in marriage.”
“So you’d marry her?”
Now Anne is testing me.
“I would propose today if I thought she’d say yes.”
“Things aren’t always what they seem with her,” Anne says cryptically. “Being with you changed her. She’s open to more than you think.”
And before I can ask Anne to say more about that, the sound of a deep voice speaking Darby’s name rips my eyes back over to check on her. Ben has just arrived.
As I approach Darby and Ben, I don’t like the stab of pain that rips through me as I witness their intimate hug. I know everything romantic between them is long since done, but it’s their amazing connection that hurts. If a friend is all I can be to her right now, I selfishly want to be the best.
But I discard these thoughts as I approach, feeling guilty about them already. This will no-doubt be one of the most difficult times in her life, and I should feel grateful that so many people love her. Ben had been in some remote locale in Alaska for a story. It had taken two days to get a message to him, but when he’d received it, he’d come.
“Tami wanted to be here, but she’s past her fly date,” Ben is saying when I arrive. “The airlines make you stop getting on planes at around seven months.”
“How’s the baby?” Darby smiles a little.
“Babies,” Ben clarifies with emphasis. “Twins.” Ben shrugs in that nonchalant way of his, a second before he notices me. “Before long, I’ll be calling your house to get advice from this kid.”
Darby blinks. Ben is a sneaky bastard, one who knows good and well that I live in Australia. He’s insinuated that “before long” Darby and I will be together. All before I’ve even had time to say hello.
“Hey, Man.”
I step into him and we do the man hug thing, patting one another’s backs and all. Rich has disappeared and for the next half hour, we are a united front, helping Darby manage a steady stream of mourners wanting to personally pay their respects. It’s a mixed bag of some distant cousins, the Chicago elite and political heavy-hitters—everyone from the mayor, to a cast of Congress people from both sides of the aisle, to top leadership within the RNC. Most of them, she doesn’t even know.
The mourners deliver their expected condolences, sharing anecdotes about Frank or uttering comforting words. But, away from us, tongues wag in hushed whispers, speculating on the outcome of what is surely the political upset of the year. Sanderson himself is in attendance and is garnering at least as much attention as Darby. But I’m watching on the fringes—keeping my eyes out for Sweeney, and observing who Darby pointed out as police detectives quietly eavesdrop around the room.
When I turn my full attention back to Darby, she is speaking to a woman who looks like neither a politician nor a Chicago socialite.
“Who was that?” My eyes follow the woman as she walks out the door.
“I stopped paying attention to the introductions an hour ago,” Darby mutters tiredly.
I can tell her stamina is waning, and I’m seconds away from rescuing her. Before I can, Anne is there, insisting that she and Darby go for a walk. Ben is suspiciously quiet as we head to the bar.
“Did you know that Darby and I broke up five times?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t.”
“We officially broke up the summer before Freshman year. But then we’d see each other here and there. We kept hooking up and then we’d have to remind ourselves it wasn’t a good idea.”
I say nothing.
“It took me a long time to admit that it was over for real. And, to this day, letting her go was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.” He gives me a pointed look.
“This is the shittiest pep talk you’ve ever given me.”
Neither of us cracks a smile. If he’s saying what I think he’s saying, he’s telling me to leave her alone.
“When it was really over,” he continues slowly, “I made her a promise. That I would be her best friend and her protector—that I would be the man in her life—until she met the person she was really supposed to be with. And I promised her that, on her wedding day, I would kick Frank to the curb and be the one to walk her down the aisle.”
Ben takes a long sip of his drink as I set mine down. Realization is setting in. He’s not warding me off. He’s giving me his blessing.
“We both know you’re never getting her in a white dress. And this may be the closest I’ll ever get to giving her away. You’ve already filled my shoes in all the other ways. Now go make her happy.”
The second we step back into the limousine to return to her house, her head finds my chest and I wonder whether she will cry. When I kiss her hair, she squeezes my hand even harder. I get the sense that she barely heard the words spoken at the church, could not feel the cold at the cemetery, and barely registered the countless condolences offered by the other mourners. The only evidence that she was present was the fact that her hand barely left mine, that her body never failed to seek me out. I am glad that the repast is over, grateful that she is mine again.
I think back to what happened at his graveside. Frank’s coffin had been lowered into his final resting place at her family’s private cemetery. Form dictated that Frank be interred in the mausoleum that bore her mother’s name. Her mother had been cremated, but the crypt had been built in her memory, and it was where her father was intended to be laid.
That he be buried elsewhere was the one thing Darby had insisted upon. She’d made certain that the grand sepulcher remained pristine and bore only her mother’s name. She had chosen for Frank to be buried in a far corner of the cemetery with a simple tombstone, not in a vault, but deep in the ground.
The other mourners had gone. We were alone save for the limousine driver who stood, unseeing, by the empty road. Only then did Darby turn her back on Frank’s grave and walk to put the single flower in her hand on her mother’s tomb. The only tears I saw her cry were shed when she placed that pink rose.
Back at her house, she flops down wordlessly on her bed, still strangely catatonic, I silently remove her clothes. First one shoe, then the other, then each leg of her panty hose, then I tug down the zipper on her dress. Even like this, she is unimaginably beautiful. After running the water for a bath, I add some jasmine-scented salts before easing us inside. We sit that way for more than an hour, shoulders-deep in the just-hotter-than-warm water. I pull her against me, skin to skin, her back to my chest, my arms tight around her, and my cheek touching hers.
I’m dreaming. Her soft breasts are pressed against my chest and her fingers stroke the back of my scalp in a way that is giving me shivers. I can feel her breath on my lips as we nuzzle our noses, and a moment later, her tongue is slow-dancing with mine. When her delicate foot runs up the length of my calf, I shiver again. It is then that I notice my arms are around her, and I pull her closer. I pull away from her juicy lips long enough to trail kisses down her jaw, and when I find that spot, I bite it and she whispers my name.
I don’t have dreams like this often, but when I do, they are delicious. This is, by far, the best one yet. This is usually when I wake up a little, slide my hands down to my dick and hold on to the dream as much as I can while I let myself finish. But this feels so good—so real—that I hold off, not wanting it to end.
I whisper her name. When she echoes mine, it sounds so close by that I do open my eyes.
“Michael.” This time it’s not a whisper. It’s a delicate moan.
My lips are, indeed, on her neck and I’m dazed and blinking to get my bearings. Then I hear her next words.
“Don’t stop.” It’s breathy and pleading and when she says it, she wraps both of her legs around one of mine and rubs herself against me until I can feel the dampness at her core. She’s soaking through her panties and the way she’s sliding herself against me has my neglected dick rock hard. It’s so good that I lose my grip. The beast I know how to restrain when I’m awake has caught me unaware and wrestled free from his leash.
I do bite her again then, harder this time, groaning as my teeth sink into her neck, some strange fury coursing through me. When she answers with her own violence—her teeth tugging my ear and her nails digging into my shoulders, I know this will be nothing like the last time.
“Now,” she commands, joining me in tugging down my boxers. My free hand palms her breast through the sheer camisole she’s wearing and when my boxers are off, I slip the strap off of her shoulder. I’m so impatient to get my mouth on her that I begin to suck her nipple through the fabric—but only until I can slip the neckline of the camisole down. As I suckle her bare skin, she hisses, and her fingers grip the back of my skull. I am relentless in teasing her with my lips and teeth as we fumble to get her underwear off.
She pushes me away long enough to rise onto her knees and her nipple breaks free of my mouth with a soft little pop. I mirror her motions pulling my own shirt off as I see her do the same. Before I can dive back in, she turns her back to me, catching my eyes from over her shoulder for a moment before she drops down to all fours.
It breaks me. And, a second later, I’m fucking her the way I know she needs it. Her body guides me to that angle, to that rhythm, that will have her undone. Her breath commands me to keep her there until she aches for my permission. And when she surrenders to me in these sacred moments—rough or gentle, fast or slow, desperate or patient—she breaks me all over again.
We are insatiable. I’m hard again by the time we crawl our way into her shower, stopping on every wall, and every surface, to touch, and bite and kiss. Her soft screams match my loud moans as they echo off of her walls. No other woman has ever made me feel like this.
We don’t slow down until the sun has risen. I could go again, but she’ll be sore and I want to be able to do this again later. Her lips are swollen and her hair is wild and we’re both marked from nails and sucks and teeth. Before we sleep, I hear her whisper, “You’re mine.”
On Friday, two police detectives come. They had questioned her briefly on the day I spent on the plane, but the investigation is progressing and they seem eager to know more about Darby’s personal life.
“We’re sorry to bother you again, ma’am,” the first detective says, “…but given the circumstances of your father’s death, we need to ask you a few more questions.”
“Okay,” Darby says listlessly. She’s been warm with me, but the detectives have turned her cold. And, despite all the sleep we’ve gotten, she still seems tired.
“Let me start out by saying that you’re not a suspect—”
Darby interrupts with eerie calm. “So you’re ruling it a murder?”
The detectives look at one another. They’re wondering why she doesn’t know.
“We’ve been steering clear of watching the news,” I explain, giving her hand a squeeze.
“Did your father have any enemies?” the first detective asks.
Darby’s mouth melts into a subtle smile and she raises an eyebrow. “He was a politician,” she says in a voice that indicates that fact alone should have allowed them to answer that question themselves.
“Can you name anybody in particular?”
“My father and I barely spoke to begin with. We had an agreement. He could call on me to attend social functions no more than three times a year. Several months ago, we had a falling out and stopped speaking entirely.”
“What was the falling out about?”
Her lips set into a thin line and her voice fills with tension. “When I was fourteen, a colleague of his attempted to rape me. He covered it up. It was one of many reasons why we haven’t been close. On the night of our falling out, he had asked me to attend a wedding to help him land some big donors for his presidential campaign. When I found out that one of the donors he wanted me to court was that old colleague of his, I told him to never talk to me again.”
“I’m sorry I have to ask this, but who was his colleague?”
“Charlie Sweeney. His current Chief of Staff.”
The detectives look at one another again.
“Do you know whether they had a good relationship?”
“I always assumed they did from the fact that my father kept him around. But, again, my father and I weren’t close.”
“Alright.” Detective number one seems satisfied.
“Did he ever try to contact you after that?” the second one asks.
“My father? No.”
“Did you ever contact him?”
“No. That was the last time I saw or spoke to him.”
“I was a witness to the falling-out,” I say then, concerned that even though they’ve said she’s not a suspect, she’s just admitted to a possible motive.
“What is your relationship?” the detective asked.
“We’re dating,” I say.
“Did you have any contact with the senator after that night?”
“No,” I say. “That was the first and last time I ever saw him. I moved to Australia a few months after that wedding. I’ve been out of the country for the majority of the past five months. I came back a few days ago for the funeral.”
This seems to satisfy the detectives.
“Did it strike you as peculiar that Charlie Sweeney did not attend your father’s funeral?”
“I didn’t notice that he wasn’t there,” she lies. “But I would’ve expected him to come.”
And then Darby does something I’ve never seen her do. She feigns innocence. “Is he a suspect?”
“We can’t track him down. We’re trying to figure out whether he should be.”
Darby takes a breath, then hesitates. She’s still acting. I can see it. But they don’t. And she’s brilliant. Because in that moment, I know she’s trying to frame Charlie Sweeney.
“If there’s something you think we should know, now’s the time to tell us, Miss Christensen,” one cop says.
She shakes her head a little. “You want facts. All I have is speculation.”
“Speculation about what?”
“All those years, I wondered why my father would stay friends with a man who tried to rape me. My father was not a forgiving man. He had a reputation for going farther than he needed to, to cut out people he didn’t like. I always figured he couldn’t cut Charlie Sweeney off because Charlie had something on him—you know—something big enough to end his political career.”
“You indicated that Sweeney was a prospective campaign donor. Would your father have kept him close for his money?”
“Maybe…” Darby doesn’t want to seem like she’s leading them too much. “But it was more than a financial relationship. My father was always appointing Charlie to pretty high positions—you know—making him his right hand everywhere he went.”
“Could Sweeney have been blackmailing him?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. ”I always got the impression that he enjoyed the status. But he wouldn’t have been able to accept an appointment if my father made it to The White House. Charlie ran for mayor once. They dug up so many skeletons, he dropped out of the race. He was unelectable. He’d never survive a major appointment vetting.”
Sweeney already had means and opportunity to kill Frank. Darby is hinting at motive.
“So you think he approached your father for an appointment and was turned down.”
“How well do you know presidential politics?”, Darby asks. She’s establishing her authority. “I’ve been around it since I was a kid. Promising appointments to certain donors is standard. Major donors with loose experience in politics rarely get appointments, but Charlie worked for Frank when he was the mayor, the governor and now the senator. He would see himself as a shoo-in for a cabinet appointment.”
“Vice Presidents don’t appoint cabinet members—Presidents do,” the other cop observes.
“Yes, but if my father landed major donors who helped the ticket, he’d have a say. It would have been on the table for them to talk about where Frank would put him in his cabinet.”
“If Sweeney was unelectable, wouldn’t he know your father would be reticent to give him a prominent position?”
“A normal person would understand that.” Her eyes turn cold then. “But some people are so entitled, they think they can have anything they want.”
Saturday night comes too soon, and with it, my return trip to Sydney. I want her to come back with me now—if I really needed to, I could take this next week off from work and Darby could squeeze the hospital for a lot more bereavement days. But she knows I have the Kensington presentation this week and the truth is, there’s still a lot more to be done with settling Frank’s estate.
Once we figured out Darby might own the steel plants, we had the reading of the will moved up to yesterday. As expected, Frank left Darby everything. Now Darby has Avi on an even bigger mission—to go beyond the steel plants and dig into all the companies Frank owned. She wants to know about all the ones that are illegitimate. I think she wants to find new owners—honest ones—for those businesses too.
Sweeney still hasn’t turned up, and from a longer-term surveillance system Avi put in, he knows the steel plants are closed. He has several days of footage showing employees being turned away at the gate. We had always assumed that Frank and Charlie weren’t a part of everyday management, so it’s not clear who would have halted operations, or why.
There are still enough unanswered questions to make me uneasy abut being gone. Darby has agreed to move into my apartment for now, and to do whatever else Avi tells her to in terms of security. But I’ll feel better when this is all over and she’s with me in Sydney.
