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Just before I pull back to tell him so explicitly, Jonah gasps. More pre-come flows onto my fingers only to be washed away in an instant. But he’s close now. Really close. And there are few things I enjoy more than watching Jonah come.
“Back up,” I whisper. He’s in no mood to argue. Instead he lets me back him against the tile wall. Jonah breathes in sharply as I start pumping him with my fist; his ab muscles flex with every desperate exhalation. I want to watch the dark head of his cock sliding in and out of my closed hand, but I can’t tear my eyes from the sight of his face—skin beaded with water, mouth open, eyes screwed shut as the sensation overtakes him . . .
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“I’m gonna come,” he gasps.
“Come for me, baby. ”
“But—on you—”
I realize, suddenly, that it will be okay. Never could it have been all right with anybody else, but tonight I can say, “It’s all right. Do it. I want you to. ”
Jonah cries out, long and ragged, as he comes. He spatters all over my hand and my belly, hot and thick for the split second it takes for the shower to rinse it down my body. The sight isn’t erotic for me, but it doesn’t turn me off the way I always thought it would. Seeing Jonah shudder in his throes is hot enough to eclipse the rest. I work him all the way through it, every last spasm, every last drop. Finally he slumps forward, leaning on me so hard I almost have to hold him up as we kiss again.
When our lips part, I can’t stop smiling. “Good?”
“God, yes. ” He brushes my damp hair away from my face. “Will you—Vivienne, let me try—”
“No. ” I have to be firm about this. “We can go to bed. We can play around. You can keep touching me, because it feels completely fantastic. But don’t try anything tonight that’s mostly about getting me off. ”
Jonah laughs, disbelieving but willing to go with it. “You don’t want to come?”
“Of course I do. But—it’s a marathon, not a sprint. We’re not dashing for the finish line tonight. This is more like a quick practice run on the treadmill. ”
“Please, stop with the metaphor. ”
That makes me giggle. “Okay. No more metaphors, I promise. ”
“And no more sprints. Let’s just go to bed and have a good time, okay?”
“Okay,” I whisper, and my reward is yet another kiss.
• • •
The next morning, I am awakened by Jonah rising to make us breakfast—but only barely. After he kisses my naked shoulder, he pads into the kitchen to get started on our omelets, and I drift into a pleasant, half-conscious haze where I possess no thoughts. No worries. Only the softness of Jonah’s sheets around me, and the distant, delicious smells of food.
At the moment when I might nod off again, my phone chimes. My eyes open as I realize the sound is Chloe’s ringtone.
We haven’t spoken since the Templars ball. Nor have I felt any desire to talk to her. My name never appeared in the media stories about the Stalker’s capture, so nobody in New Orleans ever learned about my escape. (Well, besides Liz, but I told her myself, and she’s under strict orders not to inform absolutely anyone else. ) So why would Chloe be calling me?
Dad, I think, and I grab the phone. “Chloe?”
“Hello, Vivienne. ” Her voice is coolly polite. “I would’ve thought you’d be in class by now. ”
So she was hoping to get my voice mail. Not surprising. “My first class isn’t until the afternoon. Is Dad okay?”
“What? Of course he is. ”
Chloe sounds offended I even asked. Both my sister and my mother have settled into a state of denial where my father’s cardiac arrest and subsequent open-heart surgery were no more than mere inconveniences. Dad likes that state of affairs, because it lets him eat and drink the way he likes. I’d change this about him if I could, but I can’t. Maybe Chloe and Mom are smarter with their denial than I am with my resignation.
I’m relieved to hear my father’s doing well, but that raises the question of why Chloe would call. “So, what’s up?”
“Well, it won’t be long before Easter. Mom wants to know if you’ll come home this year. Not that you’ve ever made much of a point of coming home for Easter before, but for some reason, she’s highly interested to know your plans. ”
This means that my mother hopes I’ll bring Jonah, under her apparently unshakable belief that shared family holidays have the power to bring about a speedy marriage proposal. “I’m not coming home for Easter,” I say. “It overlaps our spring break. Jonah and I want to head out west for the week, maybe visit the mountains. ”
Chloe, who views the outdoors as something to be avoided at all costs, merely sniffs. “Just as well. We wouldn’t have had much room, since Anthony and I are hosting the lunch at our place—and, of course, I’m hoping we’ll build an addition with a larger formal dining room, but for now space is limited—”
She keeps going on and on about home renovation plans, knowing full well that I don’t care. She probably even understands I can hardly hear her anymore. Instead I am overcome by the dawning horror of the realization that Chloe and Anthony have reconciled.
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My rapist has rejoined the family. Probably for good. I will never be rid of Anthony Whedon, never in my entire life.
“—though of course Libby always gets so excited about the Easter egg hunt. ” Chloe laughs, almost fondly. “It’s a pity you’ve never bothered to come for Easter. You’d enjoy watching her. ”
“I bet she’s adorable. ” My voice sounds hollow. I push myself into a seated position, holding the sheets against my bare chest. Jonah’s bed feels like an island where I float far away from the rest of the world.
“We got her the prettiest dress! Yellow cotton, smocked—did I tell you?” As if we’ve spoken once since she tried to jump Jonah’s bones.
I wonder what Anthony would say if he knew about that? Well, I’ll have to keep wondering. To tell him, I’d have to speak to him, something I intend to avoid even more than I did before.
“You’ll have to send me pictures,” I say.
Chloe pauses. She’s baited so many hooks for me in this conversation. By now you’d think she’d have caught on that I know better than to bite. Still, her disappointment is all too obvious. “I suppose so. Well, you probably need to get to work. ”
“Yeah. Talk to you later. ” I hang up without waiting for her good-bye, and bury my face in my hand.
By the time Jonah walks in a couple minutes later, my breakfast-in-bed on a tray, I’ve dried my few tears. But he stops in his tracks. “What’s wrong?”
“Chloe took Anthony back. ”
“Christ. ” In three swift strides, Jonah is beside me, carefully nestling the tray at my feet as he gathers me into his arms. His terry-cloth robe is soft against my cheek, and the warm scent of his skin reassuring on a deep, wordless level.
“I should’ve known,” I say as I snuggle deeper into his embrace. “She’d never give up the status, much less the meal ticket. ”
“Is she that shallow?”
“Maybe. ”
Not entirely, though. Chloe may have chosen to believe Anthony over me, but she does believe him. She thinks he’s telling the truth, that he and I willingly slept together as teens. Who would wreck their marriage over a one-night “mistake” more than a decade in the past, years before the wedding day? Besides, Chloe truly does dote on Libby, and watching her little girl miss her daddy would’ve been difficult.
It doesn’t excuse her blindness to what Anthony’s done, or her lack of belief in me. But it does make me recognize that Chloe’s not just a spoiled rich-bitch. She’s screwed-up in her own way, by the same weird parenting I grew up with too. Maybe if Anthony hadn’t victimized me, I would’ve grown up not so terribly different from her.
No. I won’t believe that. I refuse to feel grateful for what happened to me on any level.
But I can’t write Chloe off so easily.
“I pretended for so long,” I say, leaning back against the headboard. Jonah takes hold of my hands. “I sat across the table from Anthony at all those family holidays, and I can’t do it anymore. ”
“You don’t have to. If we go to your family’s, I’ll run interference. If not, you always have somewhere else to be. You’ll always be with someone who loves you. ”
My smile is crooked. “I don’t think I can go that often. But that means letting Libby slip away. ”
I have to choke back a sob. The little song she sang to me, the one I still have in my voice mail, plays softly in my memory: “Happy birthday, Aunt Vivi—”
“Hey,” Jonah says, wiping away one escaped tear with his thumb. “That little girl adores you. She’s not going to forget you. Even if you’re not as close to her as you’d like the next few years, you have to trust her. Libby’s intelligent. She has a big heart. Sooner or later, she’s going to find her way back to you. ”
Is he right? I hope so. Still, I know our relationship is about to take damage that will never be fully healed.
Then I think of what Geordie said to me not so long ago: Nobody ever gets better for good. We can only take one day at a time, doing the best we can. Damaged is the natural state of most relationships in this world, and every single person alive.
We just learn how to keep going anyway.
“Do you really believe Libby will come back someday?” I say, as Jonah settles the breakfast tray in front of me.
He brushes his hand through my rumpled hair. “It doesn’t matter whether I believe it. It only matters that you do. ”
And to my surprise, I realize—I do believe it. Or I want to. For now, that’s enough.
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Thirty-two
A few weeks later, the entire city of Austin goes completely, totally insane—just like it does this time every year. We have our bats, our live music in grocery stores, our nude bike rides, and all the rest, but absolutely nothing electrifies this town like South by Southwest.
SXSW began as a small music festival a couple decades ago and has since exploded, turning into one of the biggest showcases in entertainment. Although movies dominate the entertainment schedule, highly anticipated TV pilots air here as well, and major musical stars sometimes show up in random nightspots, ready to perform new singles a few days before they drop. Downtown Austin turns into a crush of celebrities, wannabes and sightseers. Paparazzi appear on random street corners. It’s partly a pain in the ass—seriously, you do not want to try to drive downtown in that mess. But it’s mostly incredibly fun.
“Fresh sightings news!” Kip crows as I walk out of my office. He’s back to his old self, organizing his annual SXSW celebrity road map. “I can hereby confirm that Solange, lesser of the two Knowles, is attending the next showing at the Drafthouse, and reliable sources indicate that Lucy Liu has just strolled into BookPeople. ”
“You’re sending out the e-mails, right?”
“E-mail, please,” Kip scoffs. “You and all the others are on my MMS list, which means you’ll be texted an updated version of the map on the hour. ”
“How many subscribers do you have this year?”
He smiles in satisfaction. “Let’s just say certain global wire photo services have joined the fray. ”
I can’t help laughing as I tug on my navy blue peacoat. “You should start charging for this, you know. ”
“My payment comes in the form of gratitude, a currency far more valuable than most. ” Kip leans across his desk and steeples his hands together; he’s finally given himself a fresh manicure, this one in glittery gold. I’m not fool enough to believe he’s completely over the train wreck of his love affair with Ryan—but the recovery has definitely begun. “So whom will you be stalking this evening? Lupita Nyong’o? James McAvoy? Or maybe even Brad Pitt? Though the Brad sighting is not confirmed, so don’t start hyperventilating yet. ”
“None of the above,” I admit, buckling my leather portfolio case. “Jonah and I are taking tonight off from South by Southwest. ”
Kip’s jaw drops. “Are you kidding? With that apartment of his, you’re in prime position for star-spotting! I was even hoping you could check on the Sandra Bullock reports for me. ”
“Not tonight. One of my art projects has been on the back burner too long. Time I got back to work. ”
“Art projects?” This earns me a frown from Kip. “But Jonah’s helping you? I thought he stuck to tremors, of either the seismic or erotic variety. ”
“Let’s call him my muse. ” I head for the door with a smile. “But tomorrow? I’ll be your eyes and ears downtown, all day. ”
“You’d better,” Kip calls as I leave. “Because rumor has it Taylor Swift just flew in, and if I don’t get her? My list’s reputation will be ruined!”
• • •
“Is the studio always this quiet?” Jonah says as we walk inside. He slides shut the dead bolt as I flip on the lights. “Before it was only three people; now it’s just you and me. ”
“Usually it’s a lot busier. Sometimes there’s a sculptor in one corner, a potter in another, and four different sketch artists working while I make my prints. But I figured South by Southwest would clear everyone out, as usual. ”
Jonah hangs his leather jacket up beside my coat as I head into the bathroom to change into my work clothes—leggings and a loose, stained smock in case I want to work with some inks later. Through the door he calls, “It must be easier to work when you’re alone. ”
“Most of the time. But not tonight. ” I emerge from the bathroom and gesture toward a nearby chair. “Take a seat, sir. ”
He gives me a bemused look. “You said you needed my help. I thought I’d be—moving equipment around, carrying supplies, something like that. ”
I pretend to be intrigued. “I like how you think. But tonight? All I need you to do is pose. ”
“‘Pose’?”
Once again, I point to the tall chair in front of the worktables. “A few months ago, after we got back together, I decided I wanted to make an etching that would symbolize you. Everything that you mean to me. Your strength, your courage, your scars, your grace—I wanted to capture all of that in one image. ”
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Jonah climbs into the chair, expression dubious. “Okay, I’m not an artist. But that sounds like a difficult goal. I could never come up with one picture, or phrase, that sums up what you mean to me either. ”
As lovely as the compliment is, I don’t let him distract me. “The goal wasn’t just difficult. It was impossible. Symbols can carry so much meaning, but they can carry false meanings too. Or be misinterpreted. They’re never portraits of the thing symbolized, really more a peek into the mind of the artist than anything else. So I don’t want a symbol of you, Jonah. I only want to capture you. The real man that I love. Just as you are. ”
He shakes his head, but not in negation. In wonder. “You captured me already. Don’t you know that?”
And now I want to lay aside my pencils, climb atop him, and take him right in that chair. Instead, I take a deep breath. “Shhh. Sit still. Eyes forward. ”
Jonah settles himself into the chair, and I begin.
Obviously I can’t create an entire etching tonight—even if I tried, that would take well into the morning, and I learned the hard way that it never pays to rush it when transferring a draft onto the etching plate. My goal for tonight is only to create my first sketches for the drawing. To copy every one of Jonah’s beautiful features precisely, and evocatively, in a way that will speak to anyone who looks at the page.
So far, yet no further: That’s not unlike the way we’ve handled sex the past few weeks, since Mack’s arrest. Jonah and I have slept together every single night, usually at his place, but now sometimes in my house too, now that the “crime scene cleanup” van has taken care of the mess. (That is an actual business. Can you believe it?) We’ve settled in, started creating the habits we’ll keep as
long as we live in Austin. And we’ve begun learning how to be together in bed without our games. Jonah has introduced me to a few new toys, and begun making a few experimental strokes with the vibrator while the two of us are naked together, kissing frantically.
Yet so far, I haven’t climaxed. And that’s okay.
Because—for the first time in my entire sex life—I am learning how to be myself while I make love. Before, I pretended to enjoy things that left me cold, or shut my eyes to enjoy a fantasy completely detached from whatever my lover was really doing to me. Then I found Jonah, and we began our games. Rich and passionate and exhilarating as our role-playing is, we are in fact playing roles. I hope we’ll play those roles again someday, and maybe not even too long from now. Other games appeal to me too. For the time being, however, I’m focusing on learning how to reach orgasm in my own skin.
And Jonah Marks is the first man from whom I feel no need to hide.
Normally Jonah is good with silence, but silence plus observation appears to be the only combination of factors that can make him self-conscious. “I would’ve worn something better, if I’d known this was the outfit you were going to immortalize. ”
“You look great. ” Like he ever doesn’t look great. But what he has on is perfect, really: tight-fitting jeans, a black sweater that fits snugly enough to outline his spectacular frame.
“Have you done etchings of the other people in your life? Has Carmen had to pose for you?”
“No. One time she held a tree branch over a still life for me, for a few hours, until she got muscle cramps. I still owe her one for that. ” My pencil has sketched out the rough parameters of his form. Time to begin filling in details. “Oh, hey, by the way, Carmen decided to go to Stanford for her Ph. D. ”
“Good for her,” Jonah says. By now he knows my friends’ hopes and problems nearly as well as I do. “She’s not too worried about Shay and Arturo?”
“This is Carmen we’re talking about. She’s still incredibly worried. But I’ll be here for at least the next two years. Geordie will be here too until September. So it’s not like the new family has to go it alone for a while. ” I grab the sketchpad and step closer to Jonah. “Can you tilt your head to the right slightly? Like—there. That’s it. ”
Jonah obediently remains in place. “Geordie must be doing well, then. ”
He never explicitly brings up Geordie’s recovery, allowing Geordie or me to do that instead. “Four months sober now. ”
