CHAPTER TWENTY
WINNIE
“What do you mean, gone?” I ask Jeremy four weeks after The Seagull premieres.
“Disappeared. Not here anymore. Missing. Poof!” Jeremy snaps his fingers in a magic gesture.
“How can the poster just . . . vanish?” I look around us in the lobby, still hoping to find it rolled and tucked in a corner. “It took over the entire hall.”
Jeremy flings his arms helplessly. “Sorry, Miz Ashcroft. When I got here this morning, it wasn’t there anymore.”
The big poster, starring Rahim and me, is no longer here. My guess is some punks took it. Stealing Broadway memorabilia was big when I attended Julliard. But people usually stole small stuff. Keychains and tiny props left onstage. Not an entire poster.
“We’ll get to the bottom of this.” Lucas wiggles his finger in the air, already on his phone. He is so distraught his hat fell off, and he hasn’t bothered to pick it up. “I’ll go up to management and ask to see the tapes from last night. Could be the cleaning people, trying to make a fast buck on eBay.”
“Come on now.” Rahim puts a hand on my shoulder. “We have a show to do. Don’t worry about the poster. We’ll get it back.”
“But what if we don’t?” I ask. “It’s an expensive poster. And it was good for business. People could see it from the outside. We had walk-ins because of it.”
We’re already at a point of disadvantage, with virtually no budget, without losing the poster.
“Don’t think about it now,” Rahim says. “There’s nothing we can do but kill it onstage.”
And so we do. The show is explosive. I feel like a different person onstage. Maybe because I am a different person once the bright lights hit my face. I’m the old Winnie. The one I left behind in Mulberry Creek. She takes over every night and saves the day.
As soon as I step down from the stage, reality catches up with me, and I feel worn out. The last couple of weeks have been rough. I’m still adjusting to the knowledge that Paul had a secret life, and not one he’d have been proud of. Four days ago, I finally washed his pillowcases. Shoved his running shoes in the shoe rack. Being reminded every second of the day of the man who romanced his colleague doesn’t comfort me as it used to, knowing what I know now.
I step out through the back door of the theater. There are still a few theatergoers lingering, hoping to get an autograph. I smile, take pictures, and sign tickets and postcards.
After the crowd disperses, I make my way to the end of the alley to catch a taxi. I’m almost at the curb when a hand grabs my arm and tugs me up a small flight of stairs leading to the back of a restaurant.
Gasping, I yank myself away and start for the street. Firm hands wrap around my waist before I’m able to take off. They jerk me backward, and my back slams into a firm, muscular torso.
“Bumpkin,” Arsène taunts into my ear. The small hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention, but it’s not just fear I’m feeling. It is a thrill.
I recognize him like an old lullaby. His smell. His height. The firmness of his body. Gosh, I’m beyond screwed. “You’re a hard woman to pin down.”
“Pinning me down shouldn’t be on your to-do list,” I grind out. “This is sexual harassment.”
“My apologies.” He takes a generous step back, allowing me the space to turn around and give him the stink eye. “Been waiting to hear from you about our little information exchange.”
Right.Why else would he seek me out? To ask how I’ve been? Pay attention to Calypso Hall, heaven forbid?
“Actually, it’s good that you’re here.” I straighten my spine. “I have a bone to pick with you.”
He cocks his head. I have his full attention now.
“Someone stole The Seagull’s poster from the lobby.” I park my hands on my waist. “It’s gone.”
“That’s what security’s for. Did management pull out the surveillance videos?”
“Lucas is working on it right now. In the meantime, I know you’re not a fan of spending any money on the theater, but we need a new one.”
“Talk to accounting.” He leans against a metal banister, looking bored and put off. “I’ve no direct involvement with the theater, and now that I’m hell bent on selling it, you’re lucky I still pay the electricity bill.”
“They’re gonna jerk us around.” I shake my head. “No poster, no deal.”
His mocking chuckle reverberates inside me, dark and demeaning. “Why, Winnifred, this sounds a lot like extortion. Have you sprouted another inch of that spine I’ve been recommending you grow?”
How is this man still alive? How did no one kill him?
“Spare me the third-grade taunts.” I lift a hand. “We both know you want in Paul’s office more than I want my hands on that file.”
His dusky eyes glitter in the dark. “This is very decadent and improper. Did you ever do this to Paul?”
No. I’ve never done this to anyone. He is the only person who makes me feel emboldened.
“How dare you?” I bark out. “Don’t even compare yourself to him. He was—”
“The patron saint of fidelity and refinement. I know, I know.” He pushes off, striding down the stairs with a provocative yawn. “If you ask me, every self-respecting millionaire should be blackmailed by the woman he loves, at least once. It’s very thrilling for a powerful man of his position. The idea of handing over control.”
I’ve no idea what he’s talking about. Paul would have been horrified if I ever pulled this kind of thing on him.
“Are you getting us another poster or not?” I bite out impatiently, following him.
He glances behind his shoulder, throwing me a grin. “Yes. But this time, with the entire cast on it. You haven’t proved yourself to be a resourceful ally. You don’t deserve the perks.”
“I already told you.” I throw my hands in the air. “We’ll do it.”
“When? There’s no time like the present. Come to my apartment now and look at the file, and we can set up a date for me to come to your place to look in Paul’s office.”
“I can’t do it tonight,” I say hurriedly, catching up with him as he walks toward the main street. Since when am I chasing him?
“Why, pray tell?”
Because then you’ll be gone from my life and I’ll stop feeling those butterflies that I get in the pit of my stomach every time you’re around. I don’t want to stop feeling. I haven’t felt in so long, and I think I’ll go mad if I go back to being numb.
It’s pathetic, but as long as Arsène keeps seeking me out, I don’t feel so alone in this place.
“I have plans tonight.” This, surprisingly, is not a lie.
“Great. I’ll join you.”
“What? No!” I stop at the curb, craning my neck to try to flag a yellow taxi down. “You’re not invited.”
“Why not?” he inquires casually, not one bit offended.
I look around myself, wondering if he is for real. “Has it ever occurred to you I might have plans with people?”
“What people?”
“Friends.”
“You don’t have any friends.” He chuckles easily. “You’re an outcast, like me. Well, not like me,” he amends, waving down a taxi. He is much taller than me and is probably visible to drivers all the way from Long Island. “I do have some friends, though I try my best to avoid them. But you, all your real friends are miles away. You miss company, and you don’t have it. Really, I’m doing you a favor.”
A taxi signals in our direction. The familiar pitter-patter of my heart beating out of whack makes my chest cave. This is exactly why I haven’t reached out to Arsène these past few weeks. Even though I’ve been dying to know more about Paul, I couldn’t risk it. This feeling. Of falling again. And with yet another rich New York jerk. No doubt, this is another Winnie Ashcroft error. Winnie Towles would’ve found herself another nice, dignified Rhys Hartnett.
“I don’t want you to tag along.” I spit out the words.
The taxi pulls over and stops in front of us, and Arsène casually places a hand on its roof to stop it from driving while we finish this conversation.
“You’ll just be talking about Paul and Grace nonstop, and I’m tired of the heartache,” I add.
“Cross my heart and hope to die, you will not be hearing their names from my lips tonight.” He raises his fingers in a Boy Scout motion. “Now, where’re we headed? Do they serve alcohol there?” He opens the door for me, and I slide into the back seat, with him following behind.
Twenty-five minutes later, we’re sitting on a redbrick wall, our feet dangling in the air. In front of us, there is a sea of parked cars. And in front of them is Breakfast at Tiffany’s, playing on the back of a stark-white building in Brooklyn.
“Let me get this straight.” Arsène rips open a bag of Skittles. “You were going to go to a drive-in without a car?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Also yes.” I bury my hand inside a bag of popcorn. The salt and butter cling to my fingers. “I like sitting outdoors while the weather’s still warm. Reminds me of home.”
Only it’s not warm at all tonight. Autumn is bleeding into the remainder of summer, and the air is cold and biting. I have a cardigan, but it barely helps keeping the shivers at bay.
“It’s not safe,” he points out.
“I’ve survived thus far. Have a little confidence in people.”
“Never.” He peers around us, then scowls at me. “You’re freezing. Wait here.”
He hops off the wall, disposing of the opened Skittles bag into my hands. I try to turn my attention to the movie, but it’s no use. My eyes follow Arsène religiously. I’m curious as to what he’ll do next. He saunters nonchalantly across a row of cars, passing pickup trucks and Teslas. He stops in front of a BMW, leans forward, and knocks on the driver’s window. What the heck is he doing? I prop myself closer to the edge, desperate to hear the words he exchanges with the person behind the wheel.
“How much to rent your car for the rest of the night?”
“Fuck you, man.” The guy inside laughs incredulously.
“Sex is not a currency I trade in, but I appreciate the offer. You bought this car for . . . what? thirty-five K? After adding all the perks? It’s five years old. I know the model. A car loses seventy percent of its value within the first four years. I’ll give you ten grand if you lend it to me for the night. You can pick it up from here tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah, buddy. Right.” The guy scoffs. “And you expect me to believe it?”
“I expect you to use your brain cells, take the once-in-a-lifetime offer, and call yourself a cab, sooner rather than later.”
I can’t decide if what he’s doing is romantic, crazy, stupid, or all three. I wonder if Arsène used grand gestures on Grace. I decide that, yes, he did. He’s a nonconforming, eclectic person. Then I wonder what kind of fiancé he’d been to her. Somehow, I don’t see him stressing out about babies in the same way Paul had. He seems eerily self-assured and calm. He’d be in no hurry to reproduce just to prove something.
“How’re you gonna pay me?” the guy asks.
“Apple Pay. Right now.” Arsène raises his phone between them, arching one thick eyebrow.
“Fine.” The guy turns his attention from Arsène to his girlfriend in the passenger seat. “Sorry, babe. I’ll make it up to you.” Then he turns back to Arsène. “Why’re you doing this, anyway?”
“My date is cold.” Arsène gestures toward me. I duck my head and pray no one can see my face.
“That’s one expensive date if you ask me. She better put out.” The guy gives Arsène his phone number and steps out of the car. “C’mon, babe. I’m taking you to Peter Luger. We’ll order all the starters too.”
Arsène signals for me with his hand to join him, and we both slide into the BMW. It’s weird to be in someone else’s car. With the scent of their deodorant, the half-finished gum pack in the cup holder, the unfamiliar tree-shaped air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror.
“You’re so embarrassing,” is my thank-you to Arsène as we resume watching the movie.
“You’re so welcome,” he replies generously, making me pink again.
“Please, I wanted to die.”
“Yes. Of hypothermia. And I was going to be an accessory, the last person to see you alive.”
“I can’t figure you out.” I squint at him. “You do nice things for me, but you are an asshole about it all the way through.”
He returns his attention to the screen. “Sounds like the antithesis of your late husband, who said all the right things but acted like an asshat.”
We’re more than halfway through the movie, though I cannot for the life of me concentrate, when Arsène speaks again.
“I don’t get it.” He tosses a handful of Skittles into his mouth. “The heroine is essentially a criminal and call girl, and her love interest, Paul, gets paid for sex. What’s so romantic about this film?”
“It’s about a girl in her prime!” I cry out. “She’s trying to survive and support herself and her brother who’s at war.”
“. . . by sleeping with strange men,” he finishes. “Didn’t women spend the last few decades burning bras to defy these kind of stereotypes?”
“Hold on.” I frown, tossing my gaze to him. “Aren’t I supposed to be the prude here?”
“If it helps, I think Paul’s a piece of work too. They deserve each other.”
“Which Paul?” I fire out. “This one or mine?”
“Ah!” He grins at me, and I feel beautiful and alive under his gaze. Like he is the Italian sun, nourishing me in ways I can’t explain. “Not so dull, are you, Bumpkin? The answer is both of them.”
“Well.” I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “Women love this film.”
“I bet.” He looks around us, surveying the drive-in. Sure enough, it’s mostly couples, with some mother/daughter and girlfriends combos in the cars. “I don’t know why, but I’ve a feeling my mother loved this film. It reminds me of her.”
“Loved?”
“She died when I was six.”
I feel like I unlocked an impossible level in a video game, and now I need to really concentrate to pass it. This man has never opened up to me like this before.
“How’d it happen?” I shift my full attention to him.
“The usual rich-person way. A boating accident.” His jaw tics.
“You don’t like talking about it.”
“It’s not that.” He rolls his index finger over his five-o’clock shadow. “I’m just not used to it.”
He looks at me with a mixture of gratitude and relief. Really, no one spoke to him about this before? “Not that it matters. Apparently she hated my guts. Well, my father claimed she spent four weeks in total with me the entire time we were both alive.”
“What do you think?” I ask.
It’s wild that he was expected to believe the worst about his mother. Even if she wasn’t the best mom, why would you let your child know this about his late parent?
“I don’t know,” he admits. “She doesn’t seem like a villain from pictures and my very vague recollections of her, but as we know, Satan tends to arrive in a pretty package and a satin bow. Ask Gra—” he starts, then stops, remembering we’re not supposed to talk about them tonight. His expression turns flat. “Ask anyone who’s ever played with the devil.”
“And this is why you decided to play with it?” I press. “The devil, I mean? Because you thought you’d find your mother in her?” I’m talking about Grace now. Paul had told me, in passing, about the turbulent relationship the stepsiblings had back when he spoke about her.
“I never thought about it that way.” He leans backward, smirking, the cynicism returning to his features. “I suppose I do have mommy issues. I had poor views about my mother, so I chose a woman who was just as lacking in the maternal department. What made you choose your devil?”
Leaning back against the headrest, I frown. “No daddy issues here, sorry to report. I grew up hearing from people that I couldn’t make it. That I’d never get out of the small town I grew up in. Pau—my devil”—I correct myself, smiling now—“was a worldly man. Rich, up and coming, innovative, all the things I thought would get me out of my small-town-girl rubric. His very existence in my sphere held a promise I’d lead a big, shiny life. It worked, for the most part. Because during the good times . . . he was great. The best.”
He tsks. “Too bad we’re not measured based on our good times. It’s how we perform in the bad times that makes us who we are.”
I stare at him in wonder. He is right. Paul was brilliant when things were good. But when we ran into an obstacle, I couldn’t count on him. Not in the places that mattered.
Our eyes are locked in this strange stare, and I don’t know why, but something about this moment feels monumental and raw. Suddenly, and for the first time in maybe years, I feel my womanhood acutely. Not just as a fact—but as a being.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I say, finally, though I can’t seem to look away either. It’s like we’re in a trance.
“Like what?” He arches an eyebrow.
“Like I’m raw meat.”
“You are chewable to a fault,” he teases, a ghost of a smile passing over his face. “All right. You go first.”
We’re still staring. Lord, if my sisters were here, they’d burst into a fit of laughter. I’ve never been good at hiding my feelings.
It takes everything in me to tear my gaze back to the movie. A few moments pass, and my stare drifts back to him, only to find he never stopped looking at me.
“We should leave.” He straightens suddenly, his voice gruff.
“Why?”
“Because I’m about to do something we’ll both regret.”
I swallow hard, licking my lips. The dare is on the tip of my tongue. His eyes are hard on mine, waiting, assessing, pleading. I feel naked suddenly. The way I did when he looked at me in Italy. Like there are no barriers between us.
“I’m not going to regret it,” I whisper, finally.
“Fuck.” He closes his eyes, tipping his head back. Two things are obvious to me—he is attracted to me, but he doesn’t want to be. “Yes, you are.”
“No, I won’t,” I say, louder now. “Trust me.”
“Good.” He erases the space between us within seconds, next to me all of a sudden. “Because I never regretted that first kiss. Not for a nanosecond, Winnifred.”
He grabs the back of my head and jerks me closer, and his lips crash against mine. The kiss is tender at first, like he is checking the temperature. When I open my mouth, signaling my final surrender, he groans. His tongue wraps around mine, deepening the kiss into something entirely different. Hungry and desperate. The world spins around us. I can feel my grip on gravity loosening, but still, I kiss him even harder, draping my arms around his neck. And when it’s still not enough, when the center console insists on keeping us apart, I do the unbelievable and spring up, hoisting myself on top of him, straddling his lean waist.
He tastes of Skittles and Coke and someone new and exciting. He buries his fingers in my hair, which is gathered in a ponytail, before using it to pull my face up and extend my neck. His tongue rolls around my neck, tasting the sweat that still lingers on me from the show tonight. He makes happy noises I’ve never heard a man make. A mixture between a murmur and a moan. His face disappears between the valley of my breasts through my top.
“I’ve wanted to do that since Italy. Since I saw you on that balcony and you looked like a present.” His voice is barely a whisper. So much so, I don’t even know if he really said it or it’s all in my head. But the thought that he’s wanted me for so long makes me feel drunk on power. Vengeful against Paul and Grace, and so incredibly hot for him. I push my hand into his slacks and cup him. He’s blazing hot and hard as a rock. I watch the top of his head as it bobs. He is licking a trail, the outline of my breasts through my shirt.
I squeeze his cock. “More.”
He looks up at me, dazed and a little flushed. “You sure?”
I nod.
I pepper encouraging kisses all over his face, lips, neck. His movements are quick and desperate, and it brings me pleasure to see him urgent for once, and especially because he is urgent for me.
His cock springs up between us, long and hard, and I slide my bottom off the seat, toward the floor, before catching the tip of it in my mouth, still in a daze that I’m doing this. With someone else. Someone new. Someone frightening.
“Oh, shit.” He fumbles with the side of his seat, trying to find a way to pull back the darn thing, to allow me more space to take more of him. “Stupid BMW. Give me a minute, Winnie.”
Winnie.He never calls me that. It amuses and surprises me that I’m Winnie in his head, even when he insists on calling me Winnifred. I don’t comply. I wrap my fist around his cock and lower my head, swirling my tongue against his tip. He hisses with pleasure so intense I swear it is dipped in pain. “Fuck. Please.”
“Please what?” I tease.
“Just wait a second. If I don’t find the right button, I’ll just rip the damn seat from its base. It’d still be worth it, but I won’t be able to look at myself in the mirror quite the same again.”
I laugh, my mouth still around him. A salty pearl of precum hits the tip of my tongue. And then—lo and behold—he finds the button and pushes the seat as far from the steering wheel as possible. He reclines the back of it until he is almost lying flat. I take all of him into my mouth, dropping to my knees on the sticky floor, gum wrappers and crumbs of food digging into my knees. The windows aren’t even tinted. Just what am I doing?
He pushes one hand into my hair and watches me through hooded, drunk eyes. He looks so into it I think I might come just from watching his expression. Our eyes meet across his lean torso. I’d love to see him without a shirt. But, I remind myself, I’d never let myself go this far. Already I’ve crossed too many lines with this man. Next time I’ll see him, it’s going to be to exchange information, and then we’ll be done. We have to be done. His heart still belongs to a dead woman, even if mine is beginning to slowly come alive from the hibernation Paul has put it in.
“Stop.” He groans, stroking my hair. Not like a quick date you meet on an app, but like a lover. “I’m about to come, and I don’t want it to be all over this poor asshole’s car.”
The permission to let him finish inside my mouth is on the tip of my tongue. By a miracle, I manage not to utter it. We’re not together, and I know that come tomorrow morning, I’ll regret it. He tugs me up before I find my footing, somehow maneuvering me so that I’m flat on my back on the seat he was just occupying. He’s on top of me now, hovering like a dark shadow. He grins down at me. My heart jackrabbits in my chest. Uncontained. This is the word I’d use to describe myself right now.
“Regretting me yet?” He dives down to kiss me hard. I shake my head, not wanting to break the kiss.
“Good,” he murmurs into my mouth.
His hand snakes between us, fumbling with my jeans. The top button loosens free, and Arsène drags the zipper down. Rather than pushing his hand into my underwear, he slides the fabric to one side, stroking my center, finding me wet and warm.
Another grunt slips between his lips.
He doesn’t ask me what I like, the way Paul did when we first fell into bed. I’d told him, of course. Gave him a full, detailed list of dos and don’ts. Paul did everything right, patiently bringing me to my climax, the gentleman that he was. But he never did anything unexpected either.
Arsène isn’t patient or unsure. He strokes and dips his fingers in, exploring with barely controlled eagerness, rolling his thumb over my clit, until he tentatively finds a spot that makes me squirm with desire and writhe beneath him. He stays on that spot, his mouth moving from my lips to my right breast. His teeth peel down my top and bra, and his tongue swirls around my tight nipple.
He is turning me inside out, making me feel sixteen again, like it’s the very first time my underwear got all sticky and wet in the back of Rhys’s truck. I feel cherished and beautiful and sensual. His fingers inside me alone push me close to the edge. My whole body is trembling with need. I’m about to fall apart in his arms, and I don’t even care. I’ll have a lifetime to give myself excuses for what’s happening right now. For once outside of the stage, I’m fully immersed in a moment.
“I’m close . . .”
To my words, he strokes me quicker, deeper. The pleasure is so intense I squirm and hiss, unraveling at his fingertips, all loose threads.
A knock on the driver’s door brings the moment to a halt.
Oh gosh.
Swiftly, Arsène reaches with his free hand to cover my modesty, draping it across my chest, while he turns his head toward the window. He makes sure to cover most of me, so I can’t see the knocker, and they can’t see me.
“Yes?” he asks, composed and detached. “How can I help you?”
“You can stop knocking boots with your wife in your front seat while there are children watching the movie,” a woman, by the sound of it, huffs in annoyance.
Wait till you hear I’m not his wife, but his dead fiancée’s lover’s widow . . .
“Can I try to bribe you to take your precious children and whatever’s left of their innocence and get the hell out of here?” Arsène asks pleasantly.
“Not on your life!” She raises her voice.
“How about ten K? Number negotiable, of course.”
“I’ll call the police!” I can see from the corner of my eye that she is shaking her fist at him, and a snicker escapes me. Arsène is quick to move his hand, plastering his palm over my mouth to muffle my giggles. The space between my thighs is still throbbing, hot and needy. I can feel my pulse there.
“I’ll take that as a no,” he drawls.
“Get outa here!” she shrieks. “And don’t think I didn’t take your license plate.”
“Oh, I hope you did.” He laughs, rolling the window back up.
When the coast is clear, his gaze drops down to me. We share a quiet moment before bursting into laughter together. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed this hard in my entire life.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to do the walk of shame with me, seeing as I told the dudebro I got this car from that I’d leave it here.”
“I’m oddly okay with it.” I grin up at him. “And I’m not even sure why.”
“Because then we’ll get the chance to exchange numbers, so I don’t have to chase you again for our business transaction.”
All the air rushes out of my lungs, like he poked a needle in a balloon.
Even when he doesn’t say their names, they hover over us. Drenched in the air. Soaked into our skin.
Grace and Paul. Paul and Grace.
We just shared an intimate moment—our very first sexual encounter since losing our loved ones—and this is what he has in mind.
Not wanting to show him just how hurt I am, I let out a throaty laugh. “Well, then. First things first, do unplaster yourself from me, boss.”
He complies quickly, rolling onto the passenger seat. “Anything for you, employee of the month.”