American Queen

And with that, Merlin leaves, and my anger leaves with him. Confusion remains, frustration remains, but the anger vanishes, leaving an empty hole in its place. I watch him get into a waiting car and drive off, and then I close the door, my body abuzz with too many different emotions. It’s time for the coffee and bourbon I promised myself earlier, except maybe I’ll skip the coffee and go right for the bourbon.

And it’s as I’m pouring myself a steep glass of Blanton’s that I realize Merlin never actually answered my question about being a wizard. I sit back in my kitchen chair, staring at the whiskey, thinking back to the first time I met Merlin. Thinking back to my first kiss with Ash, my night with Embry and everything that’s happened since. I think about Ash’s sister and the brightness in Abilene’s eyes and the upcoming State Dinner and the rumors swirling around the man I love, rumors so dark that everyone seems afraid to speak them out loud.

Lastly, I think about Embry, about the way my heart still aches for him. About the way I still secretly want his heart to ache for me.

I drink the whiskey in four long swallows without coming up for air, and then I pour myself another. Ash and I getting together should have been the end of the story, the happily ever after to our fairy tale. But somehow I have the feeling it’s just the beginning.

I throw back the whiskey and pour myself a third glass.

Part II

The Queen

17

The egg-blue gown rustles prettily as I walk up the stairs to the second floor of the Residence, the silk of the tiered skirt just loud enough to be heard over the gentle strains of music coming from below. The dinner is set to start soon—there’s a string quartet playing Chopin while the guests chatter over cocktails and hors d’oeuvres—and while I’ll be by Ash’s side for most of the evening, I want to find him before the dinner starts. Share a moment that’s only the two of us before the cameras start flashing and the gossip kicks in. Before the hungry wolves realize they’ve just found their next dinner.

I think I hear a sound coming from the living room, and I slip through the open door saying, “Belvedere said I could find you up here—oh.”

Ash isn’t alone.

Looking like a prince or a movie star in his crisp black tuxedo, he’s sitting on the sofa, leaning forward, long legs bent, power coiled in his body. And Embry—also in a tuxedo—is in front of Ash, sitting on the carpet. It’s clear that both of them were engaged in a serious conversation—there’s a furrow in Ash’s brow and a cast of unhappiness to Embry’s shoulders—but that’s not what stops me in my tracks. Because Embry isn’t just sitting in front of Ash, he’s kneeling. Kneeling in front of Ash the same way I would—between his outstretched legs, caged in by the shiny black dress shoes planted on the floor. Kneeling in front of Ash as if it’s the most natural place in the world to be. And Ash isn’t only leaning forward, he’s got a hand fisted in the shoulder of Embry’s tuxedo jacket, as if they’re getting ready to fight or to kiss.

A bolt of unthinking desire sizzles straight to my core, and my chest tightens with an unfamiliar excitement.

Both men both freeze at my entrance, looking over at me with expressions I can’t read right away. Guilt, maybe, or maybe just guilty surprise, or maybe it’s something more complicated, like relief laced with anger…or anger laced with relief. And I don’t know what my own face betrays because I don’t even know what I’m feeling myself. They’re just talking, they’re best friends, they’re the President and the Vice President, it’s natural that they would talk together.

But like this? And I can’t help it, I feel a stab of jealousy at their closeness, at their shared history. How many years has Embry been able to be close to Ash, how many years has Ash been able to stare into Embry’s ice blue eyes, while I was denied both of them? How often do they get to touch each other and talk together, how many evenings have started this way, when all of my evenings have started with loneliness?

They both unfreeze at the same time. Ash drops his hand from Embry’s shoulder, and Embry eases himself back so he’s lying on his side on the carpet, propped up on one elbow, all casual elegance and ease. It looks almost illegally decadent of him, especially in that tuxedo.

“Greer,” Ash says, and the only thing I hear in his voice is affection. Happiness that I’m here. I must have imagined the guilt and the anger, I must have been mistaken in thinking that Embry kneeling in front of Ash means something. And I’m certainly imagining the strange tugs of feeling in my chest at the sight of these two men so serious and intimate with each other. I’m imagining the near painful pull of heat in my belly at the sight of Embry on his knees between Ash’s legs.

“You look like a princess,” Embry says as I walk over to the couch. His voice and face are teasing and friendly, but his eyes tell a different story. His eyes tell me that he remembers what I look like underneath the dress, that he remembers what I taste like and feel like. Being denied orgasms all this week has made me painfully responsive, my arousal on a hair trigger, and I have to remind myself to breathe normally.

I’m not here with Embry. I’m not here for him. I’m here for Ash. Ash, Ash, Ash.

Oh, but why does Embry have to look so good right now? Lounging on his side like a tiger, blue eyes like the inside of glaciers? It’s too much to be around him even at the best of times, but now, when I’m so starved for pleasure that I could come from a single touch, it’s murder.