So close, p.5
So Close, page 5
He slides a hand into his pocket, casual as you please, and he’s instantly both sexier and more accessible. “Witte tells me you’ve been coming to sit with Lily a few times a week.”
I start to shrug that off – I’m just a good person doing a good thing – but then I think that’s too blasé for the circumstances. “I wish there was more I could do.”
“You’ve been reading to her.” It’s a statement, not a question.
Reaching into my bag, I pull out an e-reader and some gossip mags I picked up at the newsstand on the corner. “I don’t know what she likes, so I try for a little bit of everything.”
The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile, but his gaze is cool. “Romance novels.”
“Oh …” It would be my luck if Lily were another one of Suzanne’s fans. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Good to know. Well, there’s been a few in the rotation. I’ll add more.”
I’ve also told Lily dozens of stories about the many lookalikes Kane has fucked, running through the participants in my study with meticulous detail. If it’s true that the subconscious is always aware and recording info, I’ve given plenty of juicy particulars for Lily to use in divorce court.
Then again, she left him for some reason. Maybe she already knows exactly what kind of man she married. If so, perhaps she returned because she can’t stay away either.
Damn it. Not knowing her story is driving me crazy.
Kane steps closer, and I suck in a quick, surprised breath. I catch his scent, that unique blend of cedar and the beach. It’s bespoke, Witte told me when I asked. And addictive. I keep breathing in to smell him, trying not to look like I’m gulping air.
I’ve avoided being near him or even looking at him for so long, living off memories instead of the flesh-and-blood man. It’s the only way to prevent making a fool of myself.
There is nothing safe about being this close to him now. Adrenaline floods my bloodstream. Fight or flight. Or better yet, fuck. My nipples harden into painful points, and my clit swells and begins to throb.
“I appreciate it,” he says, his voice low, the words unhurried. He reaches out and gently surrounds my arm within the circle of his hand, sliding down the silk sleeve of my blouse to grip my wrist with the barest of pressures.
It’s intimate. Sensual. Dominating. And I’m here for it. Totally. I’ve dreamed of this moment for nearly two years. I sway toward him in open invitation. I want to tear into him, gouge that dusky skin until bright red drops glisten. He’d like it. He likes sex rough and animalistic – rutting like a beast who enjoys the kill as much as an orgasm.
His gaze drops to my chest, and he bares his teeth in a lightning-quick smile. It’s boyish, mischievous and utterly disarming.
“Sometimes it’s good to have family,” he murmurs absently. And just like that, Kane’s arm drops back to his side, and he withdraws. I’m dismissed in an instant.
Family?!
My horrified stare brings a spark of derisive amusement to his eyes. A split second there, then gone.
“Mr. Black.” Witte stands at the top of the two stairs that lead down into the sunken living room. “Dr. Hamid has arrived.”
Arousal turns to rage and boils up from my gut to burn my throat. I want to scream but swallow it back. Everything that’s gone wrong in my life results from crossing paths with him.
“I’ll see her in my office,” Kane instructs Witte, turning away from me.
It’s all a damn game to him, the sadistic bastard. The world is filled with people who are just tools or toys, things to be used when it suits him. Physically, he’s a big man, but his body isn’t his weapon. He doesn’t raise his voice or swing his fists. No, his chosen implement of destruction is more insidious – he prefers to mindfuck.
Fine. I like games. I built my business off gaming algorithms and perceptions to my clients’ advantage. If I can’t fuck Kane in bed, I’ll fuck up his life. I was going to do the latter anyway; I just got distracted remembering how good the former was.
If only I understood what Lily is to him, what she means to him. Is she a vulnerability? If not, can I turn her into one? His obsession with her is his weakness, but in what way? I don’t care if she can break his heart or just drag his public image through the mud. I don’t care if his personal life falls apart or Baharan takes a hit. One way or the other, he’s going to suffer. It’ll be a bonus if I can make Lily suffer. And I fucking deserve one.
My mouth curves at the thought of Kane pushed off his pedestal and broken.
I head toward the hallway leading to the room where Lily lies, oblivious.
“Amy,” he calls after me, halting my exit.
Glancing over my shoulder, I catch his eye. Anticipation bubbles up as if I hadn’t just corked it and swore it’d be the last time I did so. My brow wings up, questioning.
“Thank you.” He looks and sounds sincere.
I don’t buy it. Not at all.
9
AMY
Lily Black lies in a luxurious bed big enough to make her tall frame seem childlike. The room is so spacious that even the bulky medical equipment can’t make the space feel cramped. The walls and headboard share the same cobalt velvet damask, leaving the bed and the pale woman unconscious in it as the only bright spots in the hushed gloom.
Against ice-blue silk pillows, Lily’s coiffed hair is inky black. A clear, thin oxygen tube bisects her face, but her lips are painted a lush red, as are her perfectly manicured nails.
It’s creepy, the beautician said to me when I’d arrived in time to catch her working. Like working on a cadaver.
Yeah, creepy. And crazy. The whole room looks like a mausoleum for her carcass. The sky has darkened outside, giving the impression that it’s dusk instead of noon. The floor and table lamps are all on, the slender silver bases topped with indigo drum shades and chandelier crystals that throw prisms of light against the dark walls.
I’ve wondered if Kane fucks her while she’s unconscious, but when I mentioned it to Darius, he told me I’m insane even to think that. Whatever. The entire family is delusional, and I refuse to be gaslighted.
Sheer curtains hang from brushed nickel rods. Heavy velvet drapes the same hue as the walls flank the windows and pool on the polished sodalite floor. In a navy armchair with silver tacks, Frank – the nurse – sits quietly with a tablet. He glances up with a smile when I step deeper into the room, then stands, knowing the drill. When I show up, he gets to take a break.
The moment he leaves the room, I dig out my flask and unscrew the cap with shaky fingers. I’m still so pissed at Kane; I want to break something. I study Lily as I lift the cool aluminum to my lips, but my eyes close when I toss my head back, and the welcome warmth spreads through my stomach. My tote slides off my shoulder and hits the royal blue rug with a thud. The other flask is still full. Thank God.
Kicking off the towering heels I wore to approximate Lily’s height, I walk toward the bed as I take another drink, my fingers gliding over the various pieces of furniture as I pass them. While the depth of color aligns with the rest of the penthouse, there are textures in this room and patterns within the textures. It almost feels like swimming deep underwater, at the point where sunlight is a faraway shimmer. Bouquets of stargazer and black lilies fragrance the air, clearly defining the space from the rest of the condo, which smells of Kane.
The decor could easily be termed masculine, yet the result is sensual bohemian femininity. The room is opulent. Expensive. Faux animal hides draped on chairs and crystal obelisks on marbled tabletops. On the vanity in front of one of the windows, a set comprised of a silver hand mirror and two brushes with LRB etched into the backs waits for its owner to wake the fuck up and use them. The pen and notepad on the nightstand bear the same initials.
Someone put thought into this room. It doesn’t seem possible that it was created overnight or even within a week, filling me with questions. Was it Kane who styled this for her or Witte? Maybe the decorating was hired out to a professional. I hope that’s the case, and Kane didn’t care enough to design it himself.
Distantly, the darkening sky rumbles a warning.
Looking toward the lifeless figure in the bed, I eye the jewelry she wears on her left hand, safely below the intravenous line providing her with liquid and nutrients. At first, I’d scoffed at the wedding ring Kane had given his precious Lily.
A ruby. Really?
I don’t care how big a gemstone is; a wife should get a diamond, for fuck’s sake. And not a halo of small ones but a big fat “love of my life” statement stone. Even Darius had known that.
It wasn’t until I’d tried the ring on myself that I realized the stone changed color with the light.
An alexandrite, I’d discovered after research. Far rarer than diamonds, especially in the size Kane had given her. And far more expensive per carat than pretty much every other stone on the planet.
“You’re an asshole, Kane,” I mutter, licking vodka off my lips. “And you’re a bitch,” I tell her.
I return to my bag, shove the flask away and pull out a magazine. I take the chance of checking the nightstand drawer and grin when I find a bottle of the polish used on her nails. I laugh when I recognize it as one of Rosana’s new ECRA+ shades. “Blood Lily.”
Of course.
I sit on the edge of the bed, reach out and run my fingers through Lily’s hair. The strands are glossy and vibrant with life. They slip and slide, settling neatly onto the pillow when I let them go. Her skin is like white satin. Flawless and smooth, soft as down feathers and free from the sun damage every other woman her age fights, including me.
Somewhere, there’s a bag collecting urine from her catheter. And she wears a diaper for shitting. So … maybe not so fucking perfect after all, huh?
“I’ve decided I want you to wake up,” I tell her conversationally. “I need to know how you fucked him up so badly.”
Because I really want to fuck him up, too.
The thin straps of her red negligee bare her shoulders and arms. Her nails are crimson spots on the ruched ice-blue silk of the duvet. The taped IV needle draws my gaze to her vein, which pulses visibly, a direct line to her heart and brain. I touch it, feeling how cool the liquid is that’s dripping into her, how it’s chilled her skin.
“You feel like a corpse,” I tell her.
But she doesn’t smell like one. I lean closer and sniff, catching the faintest trace of perfume, something floral with undertones of deep musk and tropical breezes. I like it. My face is inches from hers, taking in every detail. Her lashes lay like black lace fans against her cheeks.
Thunder cracks the sky and the penthouse quakes. Her eyes slit open, luminous green, staring with serpentine ferocity.
I tumble to the floor, screaming.
10
ALIYAH
“Virtual makeovers are ubiquitous, and we’ve maximized that feature with filters.”
Ryan Landon clicks a button on the remote in his hand, and the photo of Rosana on the screen instantly transitions from brightly lit to dark and moody. “By offering the option to see how their selections appear in daylight, candlelight, multihued nightclub lighting, fluorescent or LED, overcast or sunny, and many more, we increase the opportunity for the customer to expand their selections.”
Eva Cross smiles. “And since we offer customizable palettes, they could put together a work and after-hours kit or a wedding and reception kit.”
“The possibilities are endless!” Rosana exclaims with delight.
Ryan smiles, and we are all charmed. Kane’s closest friend is a handsome man with wavy brown hair and hazel eyes. They’ve known each other since college. And while Ryan’s LanCorp is best known for video games, the company was the only choice Kane considered to build a mobile app supporting our new cosmeceutical line.
Eva had objected to Ryan. So, too, had Rosana. Eva’s company, Cross Industries – built by her husband, Gideon – is considered an industry leader, more significant and with far more resources at its disposal than LanCorp. Other voices within Baharan concurred.
Insisting on Ryan – and getting him – was retaliatory, our counter to the Crosses’ strict morality clause. While such clauses in co-ventures are standard, the wording read like preemptive censure. A judgment of my family, of the way I raised my children, and of Paul’s untrustworthiness. Valid or not, it rubbed me the wrong way, so I tied Ryan in to rub the Crosses the wrong way. His participation also ensures we have someone at the wheel who is motivated to minimize the Crosses’ contributions and maximize ours.
The ECRA+ name already puts Eva’s initials first: EvaCrossRosanaArmand. The plus stands for the power of Baharan, the potent ingredients that elevate everyday cosmetics to the level of serums and elixirs. Eva is the media darling of the moment, and she came to the table with plenty of capital, but that doesn’t outweigh what Baharan’s research brings to the partnership. And while it was Kane’s idea to expand into the beauty space and approach Eva as a partner, I directly oversee every facet of the collaboration. And Ryan is a Baharan investor, even if he is too busy with his company to serve on our board.
As my thoughts turn to Amy and Lily, I try to ignore the sick foreboding that sits in my belly like an icy rock. Both of my daughters-in-law are liabilities. Either could be the force that knocks down the house of cards we’ve assembled so carefully.
Ryan catches my eye, and I nod my approval. The half dozen employees with him are the head architects behind the curtain that made the app what it is. In usual circumstances, they would be leading the presentation, not Ryan himself.
“An excellent idea,” I praise, “beautifully implemented.”
“Thank you. Now, for many of your customers, how the colors look on Rosana and Eva will inspire them to purchase.” He clicks the remote, and the side-by-side images of the two girls change again. “The app users will be able to see a variety of combinations with a quick tap on their screens.”
“Allowing users to make us over could be really fun,” Eva says with a huffed laugh, “or go really unflatteringly wrong.”
“We thought of that,” he assures her. “If a user tries to deliberately create an unflattering combination on either of you” – he demonstrates – “the app will default to barefaced photos. Once the ECRA+ skincare line is ready to launch, we’ll also rotate in those products as defaults.”
“Whoa.” Rosana laughs with delight. “That’s awesome.”
“And it’s individualized for each of you. While some combinations aren’t flattering on Eva, they can look pretty dynamite on Rosana and vice versa. See?”
Eva nods as his presentation switches between the example of her face to an instance of Rosana’s. “Impressive.”
“Keep in mind we also have thematic photos of you both throughout and the fifty models of various skin tones, ethnicities and ages you selected. The latter has turned out to be very popular in-house. I hadn’t realized that consumers with gray hair are largely ignored in the beauty space. There’s a void, and you’re going to fill it.”
“That’s the plan.” Eva smiles, but her gaze is shrewd. “Who decided what was flattering or not for each of us?”
“We ran every possible combination through the same in-house aesthetic team that helps shape our avatars’ appearances.”
“That’s a great place to start,” she says smoothly. “I’d like to run through all those possibilities myself, though. If you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. Your image is your brand, and we understand that. You’ll both be granted access during testing and can utilize all the features without restrictions. You’ll be able to see those flagged for removal and add or subtract from that list.” Ryan’s smile doesn’t waver, but his gaze on her is noticeably more intense. “Our software is proprietary, so we ask you to test the app onsite.”
“That’s quite an inconvenience. And likely to be incredibly time-consuming, given the number of possible combinations.”
“It’s a precautionary step and protects us both.”
The focus with which he studies her might lead someone who didn’t know better to think he’s attracted to Eva. After all, she’s a lovely woman, with blond hair and deep gray eyes. Petite and slender, she’s got the figure of the moment: full breasts, nipped waist, overly curved derriere. I’m unsure whether those curves are as natural as the shade of her hair. Eva also has an overt sensuality about her that’s evident in the way she moves, the lustiness of her laugh and the throaty tone of her voice. It’s all too much, really.
But Ryan is devoted to his wife. What simmers between him and Eva Cross is enmity.
It’s so much fun watching them work together.
“But we don’t want users to get hung up playing with your photos,” he goes on. “We want them to buy, so after every three combinations, the app prompts them to upload their photo to play with. You can see what that looks like here.” He watches them as they stare at the monitor, then he glances at me. He’s smart enough to know that while the girls are the faces of ECRA+, I’m the driving force behind Rosana. She always takes my advice.
“Once they follow the prompt,” he continues, “we lay out detailed instructions for the selfies they upload, and then the software takes them through how the colors work on them. They can choose whatever combinations they like for their photos. No limits.”
“You’ve thought of everything!” Rosana exclaims, bouncing excitedly on one of my aqua leather club chairs.
While the color palette of my office is beachy, with shades of taupe, teal and cream, the design is mid-century. Wood-paneled walls and vintage furniture warm up what would otherwise be a starkly modern office space. The overall feel is masculine, which disconcerts visitors just enough to give me an advantage. It also serves to exaggerate my femininity, which is always a plus.
There is no sofa. The designer had argued for two, saying a cluster of individual chairs would look cluttered. She knew design, but she didn’t know me. Just the thought of having an inviting horizontal surface to lie on in my office makes my skin crawl.
