So close, p.12
So Close, page 12
My heart hammers steadily against my rib cage. What will I do if you reject me? How will I bear it?
Settling onto the sofa’s edge, I fidget with the sash of my robe. Perhaps I’m playing my only hand too soon. In a matter of hours, we’ll share a car, the walk to and from our “outing” with my doctors and the ride home. That could be a start, an opening to conversation, a suggestion that we might enjoy lunch out in the city. If I could just open the door, I could court, charm and seduce you. At least I could try.
But it’s also possible that you’re just waiting for me to have a clean bill of health. Perhaps your conscience won’t allow you to strain an infirm woman with discussions of separation and divorce. Maybe that’s why you’re accompanying me, to hear firsthand that it’s safe to end this farce of a marriage. If so, these hours are all I have before you cast me adrift, and I can’t squander them.
I don’t know how long I wait. Time slows to a trickle. My skin chills, and I stare at the fireplace, wanting to turn it on but reluctant to banish the darkness that shelters me.
Finally, the door to your closet is yanked ajar, and you enter the sitting room like a firestorm, enraged. Your feverishly bright gaze is locked on the opening to my closet, and your long legs eat up the distance in furious strides.
For a moment, I’m arrested. Black silk pants hang low on your hips. Your torso and feet are bare. The dark shadow of meticulously groomed chest hair sweeps across hard pectorals before narrowing into a satiny trail that dips below your drawstring. Your biceps are thick and hard, tensed by the fisting of your hands at your sides. Your abs are laced tight in deeply defined rows that taper into the deep grooves of the Adonis belt and highlight the narrowness of your waist.
You are nearly abreast of me when I manage to stand in an anxious rush, my breath held with cowardice. Your head whips toward me as you draw to a startled halt. Your chest lifts and falls in an elevated rhythm.
Raising my chin, I settle my weight back onto my rear heel, the practiced movement adjusting my posture into a sinuous invitation. Your jaw tenses in response.
Your gaze bores into me, sharp with indictment. “Who are you?”
Your words are singed and smoky. Like an inferno, you’ve whipped heat into the room. I was chilled before, but now I’m uncomfortably warm.
“Does it matter?” My voice, too, is lower and huskier. My mouth is dry, my throat tight. “I’ll be anyone you want.”
Your incisive gaze pins me for long moments. Your hands clench and release, the restless movement flexing muscles all along your torso. You are an erotic work of art, simmering with passion.
Cursing under your breath, you start moving again, slower, more methodical. A predator’s honed, focused approach. You round the corner of the sofa, and an instinctual prey reflex urges me to turn and maintain sight of you. Instead, as you slip beyond my peripheral vision, I keep my back to you, feigning courage and control. I untie my sash and shrug so that the peignoir falls and hangs on the crooks of my elbows. Your breath hisses, sharply indrawn.
My pulse races. My lips part as I gasp. Expectation and fear skitter up and down my spine. I can feel you behind me. Hear you. Smell you – crisp and briskly clean, powerfully male. It’s the worst torture not to see you.
“There’s only one woman I want,” you say hoarsely as you lift a dark curl of hair from my shoulder and rub the natural strands between your fingertips. I feel you lift that lock to your nose and hear you inhale. Your hand falls away. “Take the wig off.”
Your tone is clipped and cold. The heat that was building against my skin abruptly dissipates.
My throat closes, blocking the air I need so badly. Am I not enough, even when I look like her? Are you offended by the attempt or disappointed by my failure?
“Take it off, Setareh,” you say, softer yet inflexible.
I make a sound, a soft cry of pained hope. Fate. Destiny. The meaning of the name you use as an endearment. My eyes burn, and I shut them, trying to manage the overwhelming surfeit of emotion. Yes, my love. I am your fate. The universe has cursed you with me.
“It’s not that simple,” I say. It would take time to loosen the adhesive and more time to restore my hair to the glossy bob.
With a sweep of one hand, you brush the heavy mass over my shoulder, exposing my back. Your fingertips trace the outline of the phoenix’s wings tattooed across my shoulder blades. I shiver in response, every muscle straining with anticipation and alarm. Your lips press firmly to my bared shoulder. The heat of your kiss radiates throughout my yearning body.
Then the warmth, the scent, the energy of you moves away. My head turns, and I watch, horrified and incredulous, as you walk back toward your room.
“Kane …?”
You stop midstride, your hands again in fists, your breaths fast and shallow like mine. You keep your back to me when you speak. “If you want me, come to me with the truth and leave your lies somewhere else. I’ve had enough of them.”
The door to your closet shuts. The click of the latch echoes like a gunshot.
24
LILY
I stand on the corner of 5th and 47th, drenched in shadow, the warmth and light of the morning sun devoured by the crowded towers of Midtown Manhattan, a forest of glass, stone and steel. Goosebumps spread across my bare arms and legs. The chill originates inside me, then radiates outward. It isn’t far from here that I think I once spotted you. A glimpse, and then nothing, as if you vanished into thin air while I stood dizzy and petrified on the street. A nightmare I can’t forget or ignore.
Whenever I leave my apartment, I’m aware you can find me. In a borough whose population swells to nearly four million during business days, there remains the risk that facial recognition will betray my whereabouts.
Then again, am I even an afterthought? You discard people so easily but are enraged when others choose to distance themselves first. You’ve either discarded me altogether or are hyper-focused on finding me, with blindness to all else. You’ve never liked leaving anything to chance, and you covet wealth with a deadly hunger. Did you ever really love me? Maybe as much as you were able. Maybe insofar as I belonged to you. I was an accomplishment, after all.
Before me, grungy yellow taxis and black SUVs clog the city’s arteries. Behind me, New Yorkers converge into an impatient huddle on the sidewalk, waiting for the moment we can all scurry across the steaming asphalt like roaches. The traffic noise blares from all sides, but my heart is pounding louder. In just a few moments, I’ll walk right past the building entrance that lures me against all sense of self-preservation.
I could avoid that gleaming sapphire tower. Take the next street over. Leave the city, state, country. But the perversion of obsession drives me to risk. It’s simply irresistible. I’ve been hiding for years but am slowly becoming more careless. Fleeing hasn’t afforded me a new life. I’m dead in all the ways that matter, except for breathing.
Maybe I’m done waiting for that final farewell.
The light changes. I move without thought, my ridiculous heels finding every rut and dent in the street, keeping me literally on my toes. The other women around me are more sensible, wearing ballet flats or block-heeled mules. The odors of car exhausts and sidewalk food carts turn my stomach. No one makes eye contact. No smiles are exchanged. In a city so alive its pulse beats against our senses like a battering ram, we are all automatons.
My name explodes into the air like the crack of rifle fire. Shock floods me. I can’t breathe, can’t think.
Defiance has a price – discovery.
25
LILY
I’m awake before dawn, roused from a dreamless sleep. I reach for the tablet lying on the bed beside me, in the space I’d hoped would be filled by you, and I cancel its alarm. I don’t remember sinking into unconsciousness. I only remember weeping until my chest ached from it, wrecked by the swift withdrawal of your touch and desire. I took a gamble and lost, yet the possibility that you might have wanted me had I approached you as myself is a tantalizing hope. Now it’s morning, and I’ve weaponized my longing; it’s what pushes me out of bed.
In moments, I stand beneath the punishing shower spray, surrounded by massive slabs of marble covering the walls and floor. The black veining looks like spectral tree branches choked in spider’s webbing, and I couldn’t love it more.
Your bathroom mirrors mine, and I wonder at your choice to create a master suite that is split in half, a separation that belies your need to lie and rise beneath a photo of Lily. I can’t fathom why you chose to live on the opposite side of the penthouse when everything within it serves as a memorial to her.
With quick efficiency, I ready myself for the day. You’ve made that haste possible. You have cataloged so many minute things about Lily’s preferences, from the feminine care products she preferred to the flavor of her toothpaste. The natural-bristle cosmetic brushes are luxurious, and the well-worn handles betray them as favorites of their previous mistress. The makeup is the sole anomaly, all from ECRA+, with the colors I wear most often having names clearly inspired by Lily.
I feel perfectly at home here, as if I’ve always lived in the space. It’s astonishing and delightful and eerie at once.
Some women might not be able to handle an all-encompassing obsession like yours, but I’m not normal. The totality of your love is everything I want and need.
I’ve dressed and am contemplating my meager selection of jewelry when I hear Witte’s brisk knock at my bedroom door, a quick double rap. “I’m in here, Witte.”
I look up when he fills the doorway from my bedroom with his slim, muscular frame. “Breakfast will be ready when you are.”
The closet has the width of the massive bedroom since it acts as a pass-through between the sitting room and my room, so a sizable distance remains between us.
He takes a few steps toward me. Looking at my clothes, he touches one of the tags hanging from the neck of a hanger.
“Thank you for ordering them,” I tell him.
“A unique organizational method,” he murmurs, studying the postcard-sized lined cardstock.
There are two versions: a graphic of a sun or moon denotes day or evening. On the front, I write down which tops or bottoms pair well with that item. On the back, I note which jewelry, shoes, belts and purses would best accessorize. I’d discovered Lily’s cards stored neatly in a drawer – a stroke of luck – I just had to pair them with the right items. For the recent additions, I asked Witte to reach out to the printer whose logo appeared on the accompanying box.
There are now apps for organizing closets, but this method is in place, and it’s been invaluable.
“My mother used this system in her closet,” I offer. “She believed throwing an outfit together at the last minute was thoughtless. “Being well-dressed and properly groomed is armor for a woman,” she used to say.”
“Armor,” he repeats quietly as he examines my handwritten notes.
“She told me it isn’t in human nature to be kind to beautiful things; we want to possess or destroy them. She raised me to be vigilant and use layers of defenses. Clothing is one.”
“Sadly apt. Tell me about her, if you don’t mind.”
For a moment, I close my eyes, picturing her. The long, lithe body. The curtain of thick black hair. The cat eyes, keenly intelligent and brilliantly green. The wide, mobile mouth painted a lush red. I can’t even imagine what my father must have looked like since I can see nothing but my mother when I look in the mirror. When I was young, I believed she alone was responsible for creating me, and I didn’t care that I didn’t have a father like other children. I didn’t need one. I had her.
“To me, she was the most beautiful woman in the world,” I murmur, opening my eyes to stare down at my hands and the brilliant stone you gave me. I decide it’s all I need in the way of jewelry. Nothing else I own would suit in any case.
I wish I could dazzle you, my love, and fill you with the same pride I feel for you. Maybe I’ll get the chance someday. I can only hope.
“It seemed effortless for her to be that stunning,” I continue, resigned to my appearance in more ways than one, “but she worked hard on herself. She was self-educated. She was considered brilliant by those who knew her, and they were right.”
He moves on to the next card. “She sounds as formidable as her daughter.”
“She was definitely that. She told me beauty opens doors. That I would have a certain privilege just by virtue of being pretty, and I should use it.” I twist my wedding band with restless fingers.
Witte faces me. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
His gaze assesses my attire, from the sleeveless forest green pussy-bow blouse and leather skirt of the same hue to the nude patent leather Valentino Rockstud pumps. “Were you contemplating accessories?”
“Yes, but I’ll need to work on my collection.” Pushing the velvet-lined drawer in, I shrug off the feeling that I’m naked without earrings.
“If I may, I have something to show you.” Witte extends his arm toward the sitting room.
I hesitate only a moment, reluctant to face the scene of last night’s mortification and failure. But since I can’t explain to Witte, I take a deep breath and lead the way.
Once I cross the threshold, I slow so he can pass me. He heads to the console table nearest my closet and stands before the mirror, pressing his thumb lightly on a heretofore unnoticed fingerprint recognition pad embedded in the frame. The mirror slides upward silently, revealing both that the hanging ribbons are an illusion and that the mirror conceals a safe. Another thumbprint later, he’s pulling out hinged black velvet trays. The top tray swings upward and tilts down, revealing rows of jeweled earrings. The middle drawer showcases tennis bracelets in a rainbow of colors. The lower drawer tilts downward and displays necklaces that range from delicate to statement.
I exhale in a rush. Millions of dollars in gems glitter in front of me. “That’s … quite a collection.”
My voice is breathy; I can’t help it. The collection you’ve amassed could be called nothing but monumental.
“For every success Mr. Black has achieved, he’s purchased a piece of jewelry to celebrate.” Witte’s gaze reveals the depth of his affection for you. He feels pain on your behalf. “They were selected for you.”
“He’s had a considerable number of successes.” I intended to sound nonchalant but failed in that, too. I don’t move; I can’t. I can only clutch my aching throat and fight off more tears. Could there be more definitive proof of your commitment to Lily’s memory?
I cannot compete with your first wife. She will forever and always be unattainable for both of us.
“Wear the emeralds.”
Since I’m already vibrating with emotion too big to contain, the sound of your voice rattles me violently. I turn and watch you cross the room, striding toward me with the same singular, predatory grace you displayed when we were drenched in moonlight. You rake me with a searingly slow glance that is tactile and … possessive. I feel as naked now as I was then.
Deep and low within my body, I quicken for you. Nervousness and hope flutter in my soul like moths’ wings. You’re wearing black dress slacks, gray dress shirt, and suspenders and tie the same hue as the shirt. You have left your jacket elsewhere. The perfectly proper attire, expertly tamed hair and cleanly cut jaw only emphasize the rawness of your sexuality.
It’s all a pretty cage, but there’s a beast in there, dangerous and untamed.
The room’s decor has the iciness of a diamond, and your clothing palette is cool, but you bring the fire. The temperature in the room increases. I’ve seen how your dynamic sensuality affects those around you. Women are drawn helplessly into your orbit, lured by that potent virility. The universe expended a great deal of energy to make you perfect, then ensured you’d be irresistible so you could propagate those gifts into the future.
You come to me as Witte leaves us. The physical recognition is immediate and profound. My body responds helplessly, warming and softening. I can’t take my eyes off your face, adoring the devastating handsomeness you wield so casually.
“These are almost as beautiful as your eyes.” You reach for a pair of large rectangular emerald drops on diamond-studded leverback hooks.
The compliment makes me dizzy with relief. I don’t care if it’s said for Witte’s benefit. After last night, any sign of warmth from you is life-giving.
You take one of the stunningly beautiful earrings, tuck my hair behind my ear and slide it into place, securing the back. I’m burning with desire; the feel of your knuckles brushing my jaw and neck is as intimate as if your hand were between my legs. You’re so close you fill my entire field of vision. There is no one else in the world. Only you.
You repeat the process on the other side, your breath softly stirring the hair at my crown. The smell of you goes to my head. I feel languid with intoxication.
It’s strange, the sensation of borrowing another woman’s jewelry. Another woman’s home. Another woman’s husband. Strange, yet I’m intimately familiar with all of it, with you. I suppose it’s more dreamlike than anything. A place where everything is new, but I accept ownership after only a brief hesitation.
“And the bracelet,” you tell me, separating it from the peg it hangs on.
“Oh, why not?” Somehow, I manage to achieve the nonchalance I didn’t before.
You fasten it on my wrist, your touch spreading warmth throughout my body. Your thumb strokes over the scorpion tattoo guarding my pulse, and I tremble. I watch, breathless, as you lift my hand and lower your head to press a kiss to the crisply inked arachnid, your tongue flickering wickedly, tauntingly, over the eternal symbol and reminder of you.
