Fake Crowne, page 23
part #1 of The Crowne Brothers Series
I put on Ella Fitzgerald and lie on the orange couch, listening to her comfort in three vocal ranges, wondering what Skye could have done, given the chance to explore the octaves between who she is and who I told her she was.
Before the light rap on the door, I barely notice the sounds of the party diminishing on the other side of the wall. They’re nearly gone now.
“You in there?” It’s Jab.
“Yeah, come on in. It’s unlocked.”
He enters, looks around, settles back on me. “It’s just me and Halley.”
“Thanks, man.” I sit up. “I appreciate it.”
“It was fun.” He sits in the green chair across from me. “And my girl takes no shit.” He laughs to himself, shaking his head. “When she says leave, you get the fuck out.”
“Jabari, I don’t think I’m going to be able to work with her.”
He nods, looks around, knee bouncing. “Had a feeling.”
“It’s not…” I stop myself from a variation of the classic, It’s not you, it’s me. Jab and Halley deserve better than that. “Skye’s going back to Michigan. I can’t stop her, so I’m going there to be with her.”
“Skye? The girl you just yelled at in front of everybody?”
“Yeah. Maybe I can fit in a few songs with Halley before Logan finds out I had people over.”
From the doorway, Halley says, “I won’t be shoved in a time pocket like a leprechaun.”
“He’s medium-sized,” Jab objects.
“That’s not what I meant, Hale,” I say as she comes into the room.
“Did I say I was offended?” She sits in the other green chair.
“It’s me that was offended,” her boyfriend says.
“Look.” I lean forward toward her. “I know you trust me, but there are more reliable producers who’d love to work with you. Between this asshole and me”—I jerk my thumb toward Jab—“we know enough people to get you someone really good. Really committed.”
“Mm-hm.” She looks at Jab, then me. “Maybe you’re right. You do lack commitment.”
“I lack… what?”
“The way you left it all to Eugene Testarossa?” She says his name as I’ve been asking a child to do a man’s job. “You know he’s not going to chase her down until someone else is bidding for her. And if Liam can’t pull that off, you could make some calls. But you didn’t.”
“Where were you last week when I needed that advice?”
“Sitting in accounting, watching him and Brian Milpas bid up some rock band from Idaho.”
“Who got them?” Jab asks while I flop back on the couch in defeat.
“Victor Wallace.”
“Allybird Records, Victor Wallace?”
“Same. Swooped in at the last minute. Him and Geraldine Krause. It was a feeding frenzy. The entire neighborhood was on the phone.”
The neighborhood isn’t geographic. It’s just around, and if I put my head to it, we know far more industry people than we can count. I really could have done more, but I felt like too much of a loser to try.
“Too late now.” I get up to change the record. Ella Fitzgerald is finished. The needle hisses and pops against the center label. “She’s leaving any day now. And I fucked up. I’m lucky if she lets me follow her around like a puppy.”
“Colton Crowne,” Halley scolds. She’s twisted around with her arm over the back of the chair. “What is wrong with you? Why are you giving up?”
“I’m not giving up on her. I’m giving up on staying here.”
“Did she even ask you to follow her to…” Halley turns to Jab. “Where is it, babe?”
“Michigan.”
“She wouldn’t.” I put on a Tom Waits record. “She hates it there.”
Halley spins to Jab while pointing at me. “This is the most dehydrated motherfucking horse I have ever led to water.”
Jab laughs.
She turns back to me. “Throw her a fucking party, you dumb fuck. Invite everyone. Your lab partner at Mirman. Your old neighbors from Malibu. Your parents’ friends. Whoever. Most of them are industry. Invite everyone except Eugene Testarossa.”
I’m about to object that I can’t do anything in this house. I’ve hosted one too many parties. But if I’m not limiting who comes, why limit where it can be?
It’s a terrible idea. She’ll never go for it. There are a million reasons it will fail.
But why avoid failure when failure’s already been so successful?
Chapter 35
SKYE
“Who are you talking to?”
Fátima’s been giggling and smiling at the phone for half an hour. She’s already sworn it’s not Becca, but now I’m getting a little worried, because she’s way too delighted to be talking to the landlord. A little too whispery for a normal friendly conversation. She’s making a bunch of calls. Tapping out texts. She’s popular, no doubt, but she’s acting as if it’s her birthday and she’s throwing herself a surprise party.
She comes out of her room and leans in my doorway with a grin so big, I’m a little put off.
“Why are you smiling like you just ate the last cookie?” I bag a handful of old underwear I found in the back of my drawer.
“You’re leaving when?”
“Well, I was going to leave tomorrow, but Friday’s traffic-into-Vegas day so…”
“Saturday?”
“I was wondering, if you could help me get some stuff to Goodwill, maybe I should go tonight?”
“Mm, no. That’s not gonna work.”
“Is Becca moving in or something?” More underwear. Old socks. Stockings. The plastic is stretching thin. “I can get this all out the door real quick.”
“No,” she sulks. “She might not since her place is pretty cool and this is… you know… not.”
“She’s a free spirit.” I drag the bag to my out pile. “But love will find a way.”
I hope I sound overwhelmed and tired instead of unconvinced. Love finds a way, but sometimes it gets lost. Most of the cream rises to the top. Karma is really not a thing, but sometimes justice is served.
“But that’s not why I was smiling.”
“Okay. Do you want this bag?” I hold up a teal purse I thrifted last summer. “Coach. It’s leather.”
She takes it, checks inside for a pocket, finds one, and holds it to her chest. “Sold.”
“And the pots and pans? I’ll be at my parents’ for a bit, so…”
“I’ll keep them, but hello? Are you going to let me tell you why I was smiling?”
“Sure. Yes. Sorry, I’m distracted.” I prove my own point by remembering I have a night table drawer that hasn’t been emptied since I brought it home.
“There’s a party.”
“Okay.” I open the drawer and rummage right to the back.
“For you.”
“For me?” I’m holding a gas station flashlight I never would’ve found in the drawer if the earthquake I’d put it there for had ever arrived.
“A goodbye party.” She sits next to me on the bed. I cringe, thinking of all those people in one place, all focused on me—and she reads my mind as she always does. “It’s all friends. Okay?”
“For real?”
“Yes. And if you don’t want to be there, you don’t have to come. We’re having it with or without you. But it’s Friday, so you can’t leave until Saturday.”
I was hoping to get out of here without anyone noticing, but a party could be fun. Sad—which I was trying to avoid—but maybe a little sad will be all right. What’s the harm in indulging for a night?
“I can make it.”
Fátima throws her arm around me for a moment, then jumps up. “You don’t have to do a thing. We’re taking care of it.”
“But where? Here?”
“Starsong Karaoke. Liam got the big room on the fourth floor.”
Wow. My agent, who I did nothing but disappoint the entire time he represented me, is helping to throw me a quitting party in a room that fits a hundred people.
“Is Colton coming?”
“It’s his party. I mean, I’m doing the inviting, but it was his idea.”
I look away when I smile to spare her the sight of a joy that—for only a moment—wipes away all my regrets.
There’s too much going on to sleep. For no reason whatsoever, I write some lyrics about the emptiness of my drawers and closet. The forgotten things I gave away. Their physical weight in my mind. It’s bad, but I write down the words hoping they’ll stop bugging me.
The party is something to look forward to, but after that, the next few years are a void. All my college friends are gone. Med students aren’t known for being much fun unless you count the end-of-semester decompression parties that seem like frat house antics by people terrified of a little chill.
Los Angeles is terrible. It’s dirty. It’s crowded. The very rich and the very poor are crowded together and separated, broken beyond repair. It has a terrible reputation.
In the dark, I send Colton a text.
—Thank you for my party—
I figure he’ll get it in the morning, but he shoots a text right back.
—Just an excuse to see you again before you leave—
I sigh like a little girl looking at a picture of her crush. I’d be embarrassed if I wasn’t in a dark room by myself.
—So we’re not mad at each other?—
—You should be mad. I was a dick—
—you were—
—but I guess we all have a dick inside us—
—haha—
—speak for yourself—
—What are you doing now?—
I’m just curious, but I realize too late that that particular question in this exact circumstance usually means a hookup. He takes so long to answer I start to think maybe I’ve overstepped. The last time we saw each other didn’t end well.
—Wondering if I should put on my other shoe—
—You’re wearing one shoe?—
—Figured in the middle that you maybe didn’t mean to come over—
My body comes alive. I sit up in bed, hand to chest.
There’s nothing I intended less and nothing I want more.
—Put on the other shoe—
Fátima is at Becca’s place, so it’s okay that when there’s a knock at the door, I don’t have time to dry off. It’s also fine to answer the door in a fuzzy blue robe that’s sticking to my wet places.
“Hey.” He’s leaning to one side, hands in his pockets. Hoodie. No hat this time.
“Come in.” I get out of the way and close the door behind him. He looks around, down the hall, then at me. “It’s just us. Fátima’s with Becca for the night.”
“They’re really hitting it off.”
“Yeah, I’m thinking she’ll move in here… hm… give it three months. So… sorry. I’d advise against taking my room.”
“At least someone gets to keep who they want.” He languidly pulls the end of the fuzzy belt. It comes loose and the robe falls open.
“I’m sorry,” I say, letting him slide the robe off my shoulders, my body shuddering at his touch.
“For what?” His lips graze the backs of my shoulders. I hear him unzip his hoodie, dropping it to the floor.
“For not letting you keep what you want.”
“Life. Not your fault.” His arms creep around my body and bend my hard nipples. “And I’m sorry.” I try to face him, but he holds me still. “For being the worst.”
“I told you to just say it, and you did.”
“All I could think about was nailing you to the floor with my cock.” His left hand drifts between my legs, where the pleasure of the hand pinching my nipple lands. “So you can’t leave.” One of his feet wedges between mine. “Put your feet apart so I can feel you.”
“I’m sorry, Colton. That I’m leaving.”
I’m scratching the surface of my regret. Because I’m sorry for asking him to come over. It’s only prolonging the agony of our separation. But when his fingers flatten and press between my legs, I stop feeling sorry. I stop feeling anything but his slow, circling pressure and the hardness against my bare bottom.
“I’m sorry for making you tired in the morning,” he says.
“No, you’re not.”
He lets me go. Behind me, I hear him undoing his pants. He turns me to face him, cock out in all its gorgeous glory. When we kiss, he takes me by the back of the head, crashing us together, then he does something so shocking an explosion of heat flashes in my blood. He pushes me to my knees.
I look up at him to see if it was some kind of accident or if there’s an apology coming.
No. There isn’t. He grabs the base of his cock and points it at my mouth.
I open my lips and take him. He exhales, groaning as my mouths works the smooth skin of his head and my hands slide his pants down his legs.
How many days and years of learning out what he likes am I missing? Gripping him at the base, I open my throat and slowly push him deep. He sucks in a breath, whispering yes, yes.
I’m abdicating this to another woman. It’s mine and I’m letting it go. For what?
I don’t know. All I know is he’s pushing my head against him. He’s coming and every drop is for me. This one’s mine.
Swallowing, I wipe my chin with the back of my wrist, then shift to stand, but he gets on his knees right in front of me. He brushes the hair away from my face.
“You’re so fucking sexy.”
“And you still have clothes on.” My hands slide under his shirt, then force it up and off.
He kisses me. I run my fingers all over his body. He’s hard everywhere, taut, awake, flexed as he grips the back of my neck to kiss me.
I push him away until he falls back onto the carpet and I can grab his boot by the front and heel. “Pull.”
By the time his boots and jeans are in a pile, he’s hard again and we’re writhing on the floor like two animals fighting for dominance. Getting one of my legs over his shoulder, he reaches between my legs. As soon as he touches me, I explode in an orgasm so sharp and unexpected, I’m nearly blinded by it.
“Sorry,” I say with a heaving chest. “Little sensitive.”
“Holy shit, Skittles.”
“Fuck me,” I beg, grabbing for his cock. “Just fuck—”
He pins my wrists over my head, but when he lets them go to touch my breast, I move my hand to touch him. That’s apparently unacceptable. He stops.
“What?” I ask.
He scans the room and gets up when he finds what he’s looking for.
“You need to hold still.” He picks up corner of the belt from my robe, unwinding the ampersand into a long, baby blue line.
“I’m going to keep you still, Skye.” He kneels between my legs.
“Are you, now?”
“Hands over your head.”
I reach above me. My knuckles hit the leg of the armchair.
“Good.” He puts the belt in his teeth, bends forward, and straightens my arms until my wrists are on the far side of the leg, then he loops my wrists together on the far side of the heavy chair.
“Arrighty. Now I’ve got you where I want you.” He casts around for his jeans, finds them, and plucks out a condom. He puts it on. “Now, your job is to not go anywhere. And my job is to make sure you have a pleasant stay.”
“I won’t go anywhere.” I tug at the fuzzy belt.
“You can’t come either.” He enters me with no resistance. I am frictionless for him. “Not until I say. You got it?”
“Yes.”
“You stay still and hold it. No matter how much you want to go.”
“You mean come.”
“Sure.”
He pushes deep, pressing against my clit over and over. I can’t hold him. I can’t touch him. I can’t pull him close and kiss him, and right now, I need to come.
“Don’t.” He’s reading my mind.
It’s as if he can feel the orgasm pushing its way to the surface. The inability to move while he fucks me loosens all the screws in my brain, and I fall apart. Forget everything I’m pissed about. All my disappointments. All the worry. Under him, the days and months and years without him stretch out into a band so thin it disappears.
“I can’t.” I’m nearly sobbing with the effort to hold it together.
“You can. You will. For me. You won’t go without me.”
“Soon?”
“Yes. Come with me.”
He drives deep, circling his hips until the band snaps, and the future separates from the eternal present.
And then reality returns, and tomorrow is my last day here.
“Will you stay tonight?” I whisper.
Chapter 36
COLTON
Of all the things I should be doing right now, lying in bed with Skye while the sun rises isn’t on the list. I have a party to throw, a guest house to move out of, a career to start for real this time. But of all the things I need to be doing—the things I can’t help but do—there’s no list. This is it. One thing. I need to hold her while she sleeps. The end.
Well, besides the last-ditch effort of a party I’m throwing her tonight, this is the end. Sleep shortens the time I have with her.
If tonight succeeds and she stays, I’m going to sleep for a week.
If it fails, I’ll look back on this morning and be glad I managed to fuck her when she woke up. With that decision made, I stay awake until the sun’s just about up and then lose time.
The door buzzer blasts like a nuclear bomb.
“Holy shit!” I yell.
The sun’s fully up, hanging from the top of the window frame. Skye groans and turns out of my arms. Fuck. I fell asleep.
“Hey,” I say in her ear.
“Hmmm.”
“The door—” I’m interrupted by a second buzz which seems half as loud and is only half as shocking.
I wriggle out from under her and get out of bed. No need to wake her. Probably a package or something. I peer out the window. Her car is parked right below. I grab my pants off the living room carpet and shake them out.
