24. Hayden

TWENTY-FOUR

HAYDEN

Chain-smoking.

That's the only thing that's kept me from pounding on Juliana's door or kicking it down, when she inevitably doesn't answer.

Earlier, I lit my first cigarette in hopes of burning the taste of her off my tongue, but it didn't work. So, I lit another... then another... until I lost count. I'm at five, I think. Maybe six, but I still taste her minty breath, still feel her on my skin, her hair like the ghost of a shadow wrapped around my fingers, even as I soak in this in-ground hot tub.

Alone. The night sky my canopy, as the last of the cleaning crew take their leave, trash bags in hand. They made quick work as usual, picking up and scrubbing the patio, and finished at 3:30 a.m. on the dot, twenty minutes after the party ended. Another service will take care of pool sanitation tomorrow morning.

Nine times out of ten, I'm reluctant to see the party end, so I'll hop to another and power on till sunrise. Although, I'd much rather keep my party alive all night long, and I would, if it weren't for last time, when I opened my front door to a group of cops, who slapped a curfew in my face, citing some 'noise ordinance laws' nonsense.

Whatever. That's my response, usually. But not tonight. Tonight I'm...

Thankful for the peace and quiet.

And it is so very quiet, save for the hot tub jets rumbling against my back—and the soft creak of the terrace door opening. Rummaging through my cartridge for another cigarette, I don't look, assuming a crew member forgot something, until I spot a familiar red bikini from the corner of my eye.

My heart flutters as the last person I anticipated walks my way, barefoot, with a towel draped across her shoulders. Juliana's hair bundles atop her head in a messy bun, with her bangs falling around her face. Her makeup is gone, too, yet she's no less striking.

She stops at the opposite end of the hot tub, her toes hanging off the lip. "Mind if I join?"

I'm tempted to hit her with the good-old if I ever say no to that question, feel free to lead me out to pasture, but that's a little too morbid for her tastes and frankly too sour for my mood. So, I opt for a simple, "Go ahead," while lighting my next cigarette.

I take a long drag, hoping it'll lessen the blow when she removes her towel. Of course, it doesn't. She dips a toe in, making that ow, too hot face. What follows is a torturously long process of her easing in, with me trying not to ogle at the curves of her body.

Then, we sit in silence—not an awkward silence, but calm—for quite a long time, just aware of each other's presence. Occasionally, I sneak a glance her way, wondering when she'll berate me for earlier, for taking things too far like always, but instead, I find her overlooking the skyline with a peaceful expression.

That is what she came out here for, right? To tear me a new one. But I see no signs of her planning to, so I leave her be and shut my eyes. I lean back, letting the nicotine course through my brain, a numbing buzz that—

"Why didn't you tell me you were an artist?"

I snap to attention. How does she...?

A hint of guilt flashes across her features. "I found your studio." Sorry, her eyes seem to say.

"Oh. That's okay..." I shrug. "I don't know. Artist is a strong word. It's just a hobby."

More silence.

"Is that why you don't sign your name?" she asks hesitantly.

A knife twists in my gut. For a moment, I contemplate my response, then err on the side of truth. "A signature implies others will see it."

Her eyebrows pull inward. "But they're hanging all over your apartment. Some even have displays. Don't your friends comment on them?"

I laugh, cringing at the bitter sound. "Do you really think my friends are the artsy types? They don't notice stuff like that."

Her gaze lowers. She knows it's true. My friends, they're nothing but spoiled party rats. At least, that's what she must think—myself included in said group. Her head pops back up. "What about my brother? Does he know?"

"A little, yes. Although, I'm pretty sure he thinks I'm lying. I don't blame him. I'm not one to admit how much time I put into it, or take anyone into my studio. Painting helps me to... think. Or sometimes, not to think. To escape, essentially."

Why are you saying all this?

"But really, it's just a hobby," I add.

"Well, it shouldn't be."

Our eyes connect. Hers brim with confidence, and there's defiance there, too, a brewing challenge, if I dare question the statement, but before I do, she continues, "I don't know what you're working on with your father, but whatever it is, I think it's letting your talent go to waste."

Now my gaze drops. I wonder if she can sense the embarrassment rolling off me in thick waves. If only she knew the complete joke that I am during the day, the shadow outside my brother's office. And yet, I let her words swim in my brain, anyway...

She's just being nice. It's Juliana—that's what she does.

"Thanks." I force a smile. "That's sweet of you."

Her lips purse. "I'm being serious."

God, am I always such an easy read for her? I muse, ignoring the part of me that loves the idea.

"I know, you are."

When she scoffs, a thrill shoots through me. There's that defiance. Burn me alive, baby. "Okay, then, what if I told you Mei was also impressed? Like, stopped dead in her tracks, impressed, stuck staring up at your Victorian painting in the living room like some statue."

I blink. "Mei, your friend?"

"Yeah." She blinks faster.

Am I missing something here? "Umm... That's nice of her?"

"No, no. It wasn't out of niceness. Mei is a fine art's student . At Columbia. She's pursuing her master's right now, and even teaches a class there. She breathes this kind of stuff, and she noticed your talent straight away... She may have even used the word genius, but don't let it go to your head," she mumbles, blooming a smirk on my lips.

Yet, her reassurance doesn't quell the discomfort stirring inside me. I'm not quite sure how to handle such praise, especially from someone who's the polar opposite of all my friends, who might actually know what they're talking about...

"I think they're beautiful, if that counts for anything."

My breath catches. It does. More than she knows.

Perhaps she senses that, as I meet her gaze, not uttering a word yet speaking volumes. Somewhere between the realms of amazement, passion, and gratitude.

"Did you have a teacher?"

I break her stare, allowing myself to breathe again. "Yes, for a short time, when I was young. My mother sent me to one... The lessons stopped after my parents' divorce," I add, but regret it immediately when I catch Juliana's expression falter.

Even though she's not her mother and would never be to blame for her... transgressions ... it's still an uncomfortable topic.

In our adolescence, while Juliana's mother, Amber, was our night-time nanny, she entertained an affair with my father for several years, but what Juliana doesn't know—or, well, she probably does know but isn't recognizing its importance—is that Amber was just one of many for my father. A mere speck in his vast portfolio of infidelity. Not to mention, Amber was unmarried at the time.

And although their divorce probably did shape my subconscious views on monogamy, it didn't affect my childhood that much. My mother, Sylvia, as much of the charismatic person that she is, she wasn't all that involved in my brother and I's lives. What she lacked in the mothering department, she filled with nannies and babysitters and assistants and after-school activities like painting, all of which were reserved primarily for me, as my brother was too busy being mentored by my father from a startlingly young age.

While our mother was off...

I don't know, living life?

Socializing, traveling, gossiping at the country club, partying. The high life was her playground—and still is. Again, that doesn't make her a bad person, just... a distracted one, similar to that of how my father views me. Actually, he blatantly compares my mother and I's habits quite often, and did so even during my childhood, when I displayed signs of hyper-extroversion and a disinterest in school, stating Sylvia was the root cause.

Not because she was an absent mother— nooo, that couldn't possibly be the case—or, perhaps, his lack of interest in me. No. None of that is to blame for my innate desire to bring disgrace upon him. Rather, my genes. Our genes—my mother and me. We were born this way, and I was misfortunate enough to take after her and not him, who fucks anything that breathes or looks at him too long, all while wearing a wedding ring, then turns around and calls himself the mature head of the family and me a walking pit stain.

Like my art. Such a distraction. A lousy one, too.

My little doodles...

So yes, after the divorce, the classes stopped, for more reasons than just Amber or, by association, The Brooks family, who took me in at times growing up and who I love dearly. Amber included.

"We don't need to go into that, Juliana. You know how I feel, so please don't make that face."

She squirms, offering a simple nod, before she smirks. "Okay, now ask me a question."

"What?"

"I've been grilling you for the past ten minutes—it's only fair. Ask me something. Anything."

Anything.

Excitement rocks me at my core, but it quickly tapers off. I already know so much about Juliana, more so than almost anyone in her life. It's not often that your paths align with another's so closely, like the universe keeps stitching you back together, no matter if you've drifted apart.

Even after a five year-long gap, when I pushed her away and thought I'd never get her back...

I banish the memories, refusing to let them take hold. "Why don't you drink?" I ask the first question that pops into my head, genuinely curious.

She looks at me blankly.

"Alcohol," I clarify.

"Oh," she laughs. "I do sometimes, but not often."

"Any particular reason?"

A slight blush colors her cheeks. "I, uh... make bad decisions when I'm drunk."

My jaw clenches as thoughts of her with other men flood my mind, but I push them away and tease, "You, the most responsible person I know, making bad decisions? Those two don't belong in the same sentence. I don't buy it."

"It's true!" She giggles awkwardly, sparking my interest.

"Like what? Give me an example."

"Like, ummm..." She looks up at the sky, as if she'll find the answers between the clouds. "Oh! Like this."

I raise a brow, only for my heart to lurch into my throat when she hoists herself up, out of the water, and sits on the wooden planks surrounding the in-ground tub. Wet droplets slide down her body, so distractingly that I nearly miss where she's pointing.

At her belly button ring.

"So, that was a drunken decision?" I ask a bit too roughly, bringing a fist to my mouth, resisting the urge to bite into my flesh. Don't stare, don't stare, don't stare...

"Mhmm," she confirms, almost proudly. "Made a couple years back while I was still at university. Two tequila sunrises, I think they were. Yep, that did me in real good—I'm a lightweight, I admit. Then, while we were out exploring the city that night, we happened upon a piercing shop...

"Mei tried to convince me not to, said I'd regret it the next morning when I sobered up. She was right. Plus, aside from keeping it clean, I was too afraid to touch it—and I certainly wouldn't let anyone else. But, as the days wore on, it grew on me more and more." She shrugs. "Now, here I am, still rockin' it."

...Oh, God. It's my turn to talk. How the hell do I respond to that?

Don't worry, Juliana, I think it's hot as fuck. In fact, me and the rest of the men in New York City, especially those who came to my party, are thankful for your drunkenness that night...?

No, no—ah, shit. That'd make it weird...

"Well…" I clear my throat, forcing my eyes to meet hers. "It sounds like it ended up being a good decision. So, why hold out today? It could've made the party more fun for you."

"You're not wrong, but I didn't want to..." Avoiding my gaze, she rolls her lips between her teeth as heat creeps up her chest.

My pulse jumps, knowing exactly where her mind is at, because mine's already there. Been there, since she left me in that cabana. "Didn't want to what?" I coo, hunger sparking within me when she presses a hand to her neck, right where my lips left their mark.

"To... to lose control," she whispers.

Control...

A single word—that's all it takes to snap the band holding back mine.

I rise to my feet, waist deep in the water, reveling when her eyes descend along my torso, then flick back up. "And why were you so worried about losing control, Jules?" I cock my head, inching closer, watching as a shiver courses through her.

"You know why," she says, so quietly I almost miss it.

"I want to hear you say it."

Wetting her lips, she lets her gaze fall.

Another step, and I'm encroaching her space, bumping against her knees. "Look at me," I purr, pinching her chin, lifting her to my stare, "and answer my question. Shall I rephrase it for you? Who is it that you were so worried you'd lose control around?"

When I pinch harder, a small sound escapes her. "...You."

Fuckkk. I grate my teeth, weathering the sudden tightness of my swim trunks. "And why is that?"

"B-because..." she stammers, her chest rising and falling. "Of what happened in the cabana."

I angle her chin, baring her neck to me. Even under the tub's soft glow, the bruise is glaring. Deep purple and round. What a shame the other side doesn't have another to match. Her pulse flutters when I brush a finger across it.

I smirk. "Wasn't that all just part of your act?"

"No— yes," she corrects with a huff, squirming under my attention. "I mean, I wanted..."

Her teeth sink into her bottom lip when I grab her by the nape, threading my fingers through her hair, just like before. "What did you want?" My heart pounds through my veins like liquid fire, anticipation wound intensely inside me as I await her words.

Her overdue confession.

"More," she breathes, so close to a moan. "I wanted more—"

She gasps as I grip tighter, the locks between my fingers pulled taut. I let my eyelids fall, before exhaling through my nose steadily. In and out... In and out... trying but failing to expel the thoughts flooding my brain, urging me to bend her right over the mahogany, over the edge of this tub, so she can scream my name for the skies to hear.

But I want to savor this.

I loosen my grip, trailing a touch down her arm. "Is that why you came out here—to pick up where we left off? Why you put on that bikini?"

She nods, the gesture so small it's hardly noticeable, as her thighs press together.

"Look at me," I say again. When she obeys, raising those doe-eyes up at me through her lashes, a thrill shocks my senses. "Did you slip this little bikini back on, so you could flaunt your tight ass and perfect tits around me?"

"...Yes." She swallows roughly.

A violent shudder tears through me as I contemplate dragging her to my bed, where she belongs, where she should've been since moving in. Instead, she's made me wait, teased me with her presence and longing glances, gave in to my touch, then sped off, and let me hear her in that bathroom, in the throes of her lust.

I don't care who her brother is or isn't, about our contract, or that ruining her will damn me straight to Hell...

I'm done waiting.

I slip a hand between her thighs, nudging them open. "Then show me."