I slid off his lap and knelt before him, my knees pressing into the soft grass under the blanket. “No, not that. You didn’t hurt me or anything. It’s just you ... you said ... make love,” I stammered.
“Right, make love. Make no mistake, in my mind I’ve had you seven ways until Sunday, but when I’m inside you, it’s something else. Making love.”
A nervous giggle floated from my mouth, and Aston kissed it away.
“Believe me,” he said. “I never thought that expression, those words, would come from me. It’s all you, Bex.”
“I’m falling for you, Aston Prescott. You’re nothing like the boys I know. Not like the men my mom knows.”
“That’s good, because I’ve fallen for you, Bexley Rivers. You most definitely aren’t like anyone I’ve ever met, and I don’t ever want to go back to anyone like that again.”
At the end of the summer, he took me home to my house for the first time and saw exactly how different we were. We were complete opposites, but he still acted like I was better than sliced bread.
Aston was gracious to my mom, drinking iced tea from an old coffee mug and shaking her hand in a way that made my heart beat a little faster. He kissed me good-night on my stoop, pretending not to notice the chipping paint and cheap siding. He promised to visit me often, and offered to pay for me to visit him when he couldn’t come to me.
And he made good on all of that until he graduated the next semester and began working for his father.
Then all he saw was the cheap facade that was me, Bexley Rivers.
Aston
Present day
Iwalked out of the putrid county building, thankful for the dark of night hiding the purple circles under my eyes. Yes, I was vain enough to think of those. Probably because I’d spent so many years being photographed.
Glancing at my watch as I refastened the expensive timepiece to my wrist, I noted how late it was. “Thanks, Patrick,” I said to one of my oldest friends, who was waiting for me outside the shitty building.
He’d brought my car over for me without asking a single question.
I didn’t dare ask Mike for help. I wasn’t ready for him or his inquisition, or more specifically, Milly’s wrath. Yeah, Mike had promised to keep everything related to me to himself, but Milly had a way of inserting herself and her opinions into everything. Including my life.
“Listen, you good? You want to talk or something?” Patrick looked uncomfortable as he walked next to me, twisting his wrist inside his French cuff. He was keeping up with my quick pace, yet allowing a significant space between us.
“I’m fine. I need a stiff drink and a hot shower. Maybe a massage. Truthfully, the rest of this shit is up to my lawyers. It’s bullshit, so I’m not worried.”
“You sure about that?”
I stopped in my tracks, my suit wrinkled and heavy on my shoulders. “Pat, I didn’t do a damn fucking thing. I may be an asshole most of the time, a pain in the ass to get along with, and whatever else everyone says about me, but drugs? Really? No. Just no. That’s not me, and you know it. Jesus, I hope to fucking Christ you know that. I have kids, who I take care of, by the fucking way. I wouldn’t get involved in something illegal.”
Not going to lie, the charges humbled me a tiny bit. Everything I’d ever worked for, all the shit, namely Bexley, I’d given up in the name of Federal Stars Hospitality Supplies—a lifetime of sacrifices were on the line. I hadn’t spent years sucking up to CEOs to peddle soaps, shampoos, imprinted cocktail napkins, and luxury manicure kits to hotels and resorts, just so I could lose it all because of some bullshit charge.
“It’s just you’ve been off, you know, for a while. That’s all. I know you have a shit-ton of pressure.”
“Pressure,” I whispered to myself and nodded. “I can handle it. I’m a big boy, Pat, made my bed and all that crap. My marriage went to shit, so the fuck what? It happens to fifty percent of marriages. We all knew that would happen to mine. Don’t you dare question my integrity, though. All I have left is the company and my kids. Why the hell would I do anything to risk it? Fuck,I have to figure this out because I’m all the kids have.” Sweat beaded on my forehead, and I ripped off my jacket and slung it over my shoulder.
Pat nodded. There was nothing left to say. He shouldn’t have said anything. Mike had probably gotten under his skin.
“Sorry for losing my cool. Thanks for bringing the car. It’s been almost two days in this hellhole. I have to get out of these clothes and get some rest.”
I wasn’t positive, but it felt like he patted me on my back and then let me go. I’d become so used to not being touched or consoled or loved by anyone lately, I’d forgotten what it felt like.
Anyway, what the hell would Patrick understand about my situation?
He was old money, married to even older money. One richie betrothed to another in a business union—like mine was. His biggest stressor was not drinking too much after eighteen holes, so he could go home, tuck his kids into bed, and fuck his wife. Missionary-style, of course. That was the only thing on the menu with good old Sally Sutton.
Poor Patrick. He should be worried about himself, not me.
Actually, I should shut my inner trap.
