W: In the lobby.
Another frustrated exhale escapes from my lips.
I knew today was going to be chaotic. It always is whenever we do a show, but add in the pressure of where this presentation is and the fact I’m running off of pure fumes and I’m border lining a nervous breakdown. After Wyatt’s dessert bar ended, we helped clean, breakdown, and did a celebratory round of shots with the other team members, which put us back in the suite around three in the morning. We fucked like the apocalypse was near for the next two hours before finally crashing in a sweaty, exhausted heap on the bedroom floor. My alarm went off about an hour later, and Wyatt didn’t even flinch. I crept out of the hotel and into disaster hell. Unfortunately, the insufficient amount of sleep and stress from the constant model meltdowns has me oscillating between diet cherry Coke and mainlining expressos.
“Julia,” whines one of my biggest problems of the evening. “I can’t go out there looking like this!”
“Two minutes,” I plead, lifting my hand up in desperation. “Just…give me two minutes. I need to help get someone past security.”
“There’s not going to be a reason for security if someone doesn’t fix my hair!”
“Benno!”
My tall, slender, Italian design assistant jogs around the corner with a pencil wedged between his teeth. “Yeah?”
“Deal with Tara-”
“Deal with me?!” The busty brunette shrieks. “Did you just say deal with me?!”
I can’t cease my cringing. “Due minuti. I just need due minuti.”
He tucks the pencil behind his ear and nods. “Sì. You got it, boss.”
“Grazie.”
Rushing away from the banshee, I hastily maneuver around the frenzy of half-dressed models, frantically moving seamstresses, and overly annoyed makeup artists.
And where does everyone’s complaints fall?
That’s right.
On me. On my ears. On my shoulders…
And where do my complaints get to filter?
Nowhere.
I don’t vent to the only person I even consider more than an acquaintance. I don’t bother griping to my parents who don’t seem to care what my career is or how it’s doing so much as why I won’t spend more time with them and my brother. And I damn sure never mention problems to him because his overbearing need to find a solution when I don’t need one is almost as frustrating as the problems themselves. As for writing out my problems like the therapist suggested years ago, I don’t do that either. I don’t want to risk having my personal thoughts, hopes, or fears ever violated again. I’d rather go to my grave with my grievances than go through that again.
The moment I round the corner my eyes immediately gravitate to Wyatt whose presence is undeniable. Dressed in a black suit with a bright blue shirt to bring out his eyes, he radiates the prestigious reputation he’s earned.
After watching him in action last night, dick moments and post dick moments, like when he let me observe how much care he puts into even the smallest actions such as measuring sugar, I can honestly say the notoriety wasn’t bestowed upon him for simply having a way with words or a sweet smile. He works from his soul and does everything possible to make sure the person consuming his food knows it.
The entire thing was captivating.
His head falls back on a warm, hearty laugh at the same time the security guard’s shoulders bounce from chuckling. Wyatt tosses a finger point down to the baby blue kicks he’s wearing and continues chatting, clearly confident about whatever case he’s making.
God, I need some of that energy to rub off on me tonight.
I quickly cross over to the pair, and the body builder sized man, straightens up. “Miss Rossi.”
“Miss Rossi?” Wyatt playfully inquires. “Should I be calling you Miss Rossi as well?”
“You should if you’d like to go backstage.”
He wets his lips and offers me a bright smirk. “Anything you need, Miss Rossi.”
The security guard tries not to smirk. “Is he with you?”
“He is.” He nods his understanding, and I motion my head the direction we’re going. “We need to be quick. Too close to the show to be slow.”
With him trailing behind me, I practically sprint the route to the large conference area where the presentation is being held.
Wyatt does his best to keep up yet jokingly gripes, “Just because you’re dressed in zebra print doesn’t mean you have to run like a lion’s actually on your ass, Sweet Cheeks.”
I toss him a disapproving glare. “Not in the mood.”
“You would be if I was the lion.”
An argument starts to form on my lips when he waggles his eyebrows. The small quip successfully pulls a smirk to my face and acts like the umbrella I need to stop the downpour of disasters from drowning me.
“There’s my girl’s smile,” he sweetly says, hand finding mine. “Almost thought it was broken.”
Instead of granting us access inside, I lean against the door and sigh, “Just stressed.”
“I get that.”
“It’s an important fucking night.”
“I get that, too.”
Undoubtedly, he does.
“This is…the first time I’ve…breathed since I walked in here this morning.”
“I especially get that.”
His understanding and how easy it is to express the emotions I normally keep pent up, leads me to add, “I’ve never been this nervous in my entire life, Wyatt. Ever. And I’ve done runway shows before. Hell, I’ve done them here during Fashion Week in the past. But this…this is different. I know this is different. This feels different…Tonight feels like the last real chance I have to prove myself to Clara’s Culotte.”
“Are you really trying to prove something to them or yourself?”
The challenge clamps my jaw closed.
“Because the truth is, Sweet Cheeks, it won’t matter how many stamps of approval the outside world gives you, if you never snatch that seal and give it to yourself.”
My lips threaten to tremble.
“Trust me. I’ve been there.”
“Where is Julia!?!” A retched voice penetrates through the door.
I can’t stop the groan that is grabbed, or my head from falling backwards.
“Get in there, Miss Rossi,” Wyatt encourages tauntingly. “I wanna see you in action.”
My free hand finds the handle. “How close do you wanna be?”
“How close can I get?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“Can you look without touching?”
“You better be talking about you because the only ass I wanna see is the one I’m having to stop myself from grabbing right now.”
The flirtation is met with another smirk.
Together, we enter through the backstage door to the belly of the beast.
I’ve barely turned the corner of the dressing area when my name is being shouted again. “Julia!”
“Yes, Tara?”
Her eyes dart away from the argument she was clearly having with Benno to meet mine. “How dare you walk out in the middle of my crisis!”
A second wind of energy thrums through my veins. “The only crisis that we’re about to have is when I remove you from the show all together if you don’t get your ass in line.”
She dramatically gasps. “You wouldn’t.”
“I don’t give a fuck if it means I have to squeeze myself into that piece of lingerie.”
Her silence is golden.
“Jocquin did what was expected of him with your hair. It is a jungle theme. Everyone has tussles and curls and staged messes. It highlights the spirit of the lingerie. This line is about freeing your inhibitions. Reconnecting to your wild side in the sheets. Remembering that you can be a fucking tiger in the boardroom without losing your femininity just like you can be the dominant predator in the bedroom without robbing your partner of their masculinity or virility.” I push back my shoulders and stand a little higher. “Now, stop making me waste my time and my breath explaining this vision to you, and get your ass over to wardrobe before I put in a personal call to Andy to express my concern his client isn’t professional enough to ever work Fashion Week again.”
Tara swallows her fear and rushes away to do as she was told.
“Finalmente!” Benno tosses his hands in the air.
“Send me, Yasmine. Double check that sound and lights are ready to launch on time. One minute over, and I’m docking pay.”
“Sì, boss.”
Benno promptly dismisses himself, and Wyatt tugs my back to be flush to his front. His lips press against my ear. “That shit was so fucking sexy, boss.”
My bottom lip disappears between my teeth on a hum.
Totally love that we both find each other sexy when we’re demonstrating how in control of our business we truly are.
I return to making my way around the area, eyes searching for discrepancies and putting out sparks before they can burst into wild fires.
Wyatt watches on, asking questions only when there’s an obvious pause for him to get a breath in. “How’d you even get into this business?”
My finger points at a makeup artist to fix the model’s eyeshadow. “Back in college or University as we called it, during my freshman year, I used to sew custom panties. Sewing was one of the only activities I was able to do in the life of solitude I had been living before that point.” I push past the obvious opportunity to dig for more information about my personal history. “Sometimes it was for sororities, sometimes for girls looking to make their boyfriends pay attention, and a couple times it was for faculty members who doubled as dancers.”
“Strippers?”
“Some.” Turning my attention momentarily to him, I continue to explain, “Others burlesque. It’s pretty common knowledge that jobs in education typically aren’t bringing in enough i soldi. Anyway, word spread, my reputation built, and before I could really grasp what was happening I was building a small business while finishing my degree, which I ended up changing to fashion. We only took orders that we could handle, but the more orders we took the more I saw a need not being met. I decided to become the one to fill it.”
Wyatt’s smile is one of amazement.
As much as I wish I could stare and continue to appreciate it, I force myself to return to insuring a flawless show. Around the time, I’m pointing out to one of the models she’s managed to smear lipstick on her teeth, Yasmine saunters into the space dressed and looking like the perfection she is.
Woman has incredible genes. Black, Hawaiian, and Italian all rolled up into one beautifully displayed frame. Her hair is long, thick, black and silk while her green eyes are just a shade brighter than mine. Her skin is golden and creamy like freshly made gelato and her figure is something that looks like it’s gone through a Snapchat filter despite the fact it hasn’t. However, the most impressive thing about her isn’t physical. It’s her ability to remain kind in an industry that works overtime to tear compassion out of you.
She tilts her head at me. “You rang?”
I lightly snicker and blow her an air kiss. “You look…incredible.”
Yasmine waves a hand down the sandy shaded corset and matching thong that contains soft pink detailed stitching and strings. “Ti sembro la regina della giungla?”
“Sì,” Wyatt confirms before I can. “You do look like you’re ready to lead the pride.”
She presses her lips together in excitement. “Ooo, you speak Italian?”
His hand snakes around my lower waist and tugs me against him. “Among other languages.”
Her eyes fall back onto me. “You do know if I was in my men phase right now, I’d pounce.”
“Flattered.” He winks. “But I’m taken.”
“And lacking a pussy for me to aperto.”
The comment drops his jaw, and I helplessly giggle. “Yasmine, this is Wyatt. Wyatt this is my closest friend, Yasmine.”
Closest friend…only friend.
Same. Same.
She blows him an air kiss. “Pleasure.”
“Stesso.”
“Yasmine has been working with me since we were in college and even though she’s a big international model now, she still finds the time to help little old me out when I need it.”
“Drammatico,” she huffs at the same time she rolls her eyes. “Don’t start that bullshit this close to show time. You know my modeling policy. I won’t support something I don’t believe in.”
“I know.”
Benno pops over my shoulder out of nowhere. “He’s ready. Lights are ready. Yasmine’s ready.”
“Born ready,” she emphasizes.
“Seats are being taken. We are four minutes out.”
I swallow the stirring nerves. “Brillante. Take your place, Benno. I do not want a single moment wasted. Are we clear?”
“Sì, boss.”
He hurries to his location seconds prior to Yasmine sighing, “Relax, Julia. You have this under control. You always do.”
Yet it never feels like it.
All of a sudden, an attractive brown skinned male walks into the room with a microphone in his hand.
“Friday?” Wyatt questions loudly.
“Hey man,” he promptly greets him with a fist bump. “What the hell are you doing back here?”
“Moral support.” He gives my hip a solid squeeze. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Secret performance, baby.” The hip-hop artist smirks wide while adjusting his ear piece. “I owe Julia a favor. There aren’t that many people willing to bungee jump in your place when you lose your nerve to do it.”
Wyatt shoots me a questioning look.
“It was for charity, and not nearly as terrifying as you’re imagining.”
“Daredevil.”
“Rebel.”
Friday lets out a short laugh. “Well, whatever the fuck you are, it was appreciated, and I’m here to pay you back. Besides, who the fuck could pass up a chance to be surrounded by practically naked women?” He steals a glance of Yasmine. “Fucking fine ass practically naked women.”
Yasmine smirks. “Not happening.”
He chuckles away the rejection.
Afterwards, Wyatt states, “Don’t let my girl down.”
His eyes bounce back between the two of us, information clearly trying to register. “You know how I do.”
“I know you put hot sauce on sushi rolls like a fucking moron.”
Friday laughs one last time, lights lowering. “See you around, Chef.”
He trails behind Yasmine who struts off to wait in the wings.
Intrigue forces my face Wyatt’s direction. “Friend?”
“Acquaintance.”
“Interesting,” I hum. “Like his music?”
“Prefer rap to R&B shit, unless we’re headed for the bed…or couch…or bathtub…or coat closest…or-”
“Message received.”
The opening notes to one of Friday’s most popular songs begin to pour from the speakers. I try to steel my nerves while watching model after model dart past me preparing for their cue. Each one is quickly inspected and corrected when necessary. Critiques of those going on spiral off my tongue just as quickly as compliments for those returning are given. Hushed orders are harshly barked to the dressing assistants to insure panties don’t ride up. That lace isn’t bent. That every single line of fabric is displayed in the glory it deserves. For forty five minutes, my mouth, body, and attention are moving nonstop to insure I’ve given this runway show everything I have.
Given me everything I have…
As always, the show’s ending practically startles me because of how quickly time flies by. However, the audience applause being a relief is only short lived. Benno points for me to join them on stage and when I refuse, Yasmine and Friday come to retrieve me. Without concern to my gripes or protests, they lead me by both hands down the catwalk. Flashes upon flashes flicker around me, and I do my best to stand strong, front and center.
This is all too much attention.
Too much open opportunity to be noticed in the wrong way.
By the wrong company.
Or worse.
By the wrong person.
I mentally shake away the last thought.
No.
He’s dead.
He’s been dead.
He’ll remain dead because there’s no such thing as zombies.
I’ve seen the dental records that confirmed the identity of the mangled body that was found in the middle of the woods. I’ve seen the yearly memoriam his parents post on his death date. I’ve seen his grave.
Spat on it.
Threw up next to it.
Standing here in the middle of this media frenzy is a perfect chance to embrace the fearless lifestyle I am free to continue to enjoy.
I offer a small bow, a few waves, and additional claps for all the models.
Most people under estimate how truly hard it is to be a model. But plus sized models? Women bigger than the industry’s standard, women who have been told to lose weight to be prettier or have a more lucrative career or higher success, have it, in my opinion, much harder. In some eyes, they’ll never be beautiful or considered talented because of a number on the scale. It’s ridiculous, and just like finding actual sexy lingerie for those with “extra cushion”, it needs to change.
We exit the stage together and file into the back. After quickly thanking them for their patience, support, and work ethic, I inform the group that there are drinks and food waiting for them in the other conference area.
Wyatt can hardly control his response once I’m back in his arms. “Holy shit, you were incredible.”
I give him a warm smile. “I barely did anything.”
His eyes narrow. “Now is not the time for modesty, Sweet Cheeks.” The natural urge to brush him off is ceased by the gentle grip on my chin. “You handled every inch of this thing tonight. From start to finish. With grace. And style. And beautiful force. You never let a moment pass uncared for, and as someone who throws himself into his passion it was…wild, pun intended, to see someone else do the same up close, in a different avenue.”
There’s no stopping the heat that’s creeping into my cheeks. “Grazie.”
“No, Julia. Thank you for letting me be a part of this.”
Another smile slips onto my face. “You wanna go check out Markay’s White Show?”
“The only thing I wanna check out Sweet Cheeks is you in one of those lingerie sets. Can we borrow one?”
A small laugh is accompanied with a shake of the head. “No. They’re given to the models as a show bonus and continued advertisement of the collection.”
Wyatt’s bottom lip childishly pokes out.
Before I have a chance to tease him about it, Benno appears over his shoulder with a concerned expression, “Scusami, Boss. There is a woman who is requesting permission backstage to speak with you for a moment.”
“Press?”
He shakes his head. “She says she’s with one of the other designers. Their daughter.”
Curiosity has me slipping out of Wyatt’s clutches, requesting he stays behind, and following my second in command. When we arrive at the door, she’s already managed to get past security, which isn’t a surprise considering who she is.
My voice is barely above a whisper, “Diana.”
Her slender, olive skinned face angles to the side. “Have we officially met before?”
“Not officially,” I quickly reply, extending my hand to shake. “I’m Julia. I’ve been to a few of your parties and of course, I follow your blog ‘Diary of the Dapper Daughter’ religiously.”
She snickers and leans forward for us to place the traditional chaste kiss on each cheek. “It surprises me people still read that awful thing.”
“Awful?!” My squeak is procced with a dropped jaw. “Awful?!”
Diana Markay folds her hands in front of her, still flashing her lovely smile. “It’s the whining and complaints of a spoiled princess who is the heir to a fashion dynasty she’s not even certain she really wants.”
“It’s the inside look of how hard it is to live in someone else’s shadow, something I…personally understand. Not to mention, the trials and tribulations of the double standards faced in the world of fashion no matter what your last name is.”
Appreciation filters into her expression.
“Plus, who doesn’t love hearing about the eccentric shit your family does. It’s like…your father couldn’t have really thought displaying priceless gems on ostriches was a good idea!”
We laugh together, and she shakes her head. “He gets worse and worse every year. Speaking of, I actually need to get over to the show, but I wanted to have a word with you first.”
Nervousness does its best not to boil over the surface.
“I think the collection I just saw was…stunning. The bold colors mixed with the bolder prints created a unique impression that no matter what size you are, you can be fierce and fearless. More importantly, the accented lines and soft edges, really presented the often overlooked fact that there is more to a bra than the size. Breasts are not all the same shape nor do they all hang at the same angle. It was a point so many designers in this avenue overlook.”
The compliment has me barely able to croak a response. “Grazie.”
“Prego. Have you considered selling your line to a larger company?”
“I think Clara’s Culotte could benefit exponentially from expanding their brand to include this market. However, I…haven’t exactly been able to officially make that pitch.”
“Consider it made.” She states firmly.
Unsure of what is happening, I remain silent.
“Clara’s Culotte is actually my aunt’s line of fashion. Most people don’t realize that because her and mother are step siblings. Her daughter is the one in control of the company now, and we’re quite close. I’ll be seeing her momentarily and strongly encourage her to be in contact with you.”
My jaw falls to the floor.
“The most humble responses are my favorite.” She smirks. “I have to get going, but we’ll be in touch. Oui?”
I frantically nod. “Oui. And th-th-thank you.”
Diana slips out the door leaving me still struggling to wrap my mind around what just happened.
Did I really just impress someone that important to my career?
Did I really just put myself on the map like that?
Did I really just accomplish the next step towards a goal I’ve been chasing for what feels like forever?
“Everything okay?” Wyatt’s worried voice pushes past my thoughts.
I turn my attention the direction he’s coming from. “Perfezionare.”
“Who was the woman?”
My fingers link with his the moment we’re within touching distance. “You’re not gonna believe me…”
The two of us take the back service exit to avoid the hurricane of photographers and wait for the SUV he’s renting to arrive. I explain to him the unbelievable thing that just happened, and he hangs onto my every word. Between the unwavering amount of attention he’s delivered to me all night and the thrill of the opportunity I’ve earned, my entire body is buzzing.
Burning.
Aching.
We’re barely behind the closed door of our hotel suite before Wyatt’s lips have pounced on mine. He hungrily clamps down on my bottom lip, demanding entrance to explore the territory he repeatedly claims as his own. His pushes grow in strength and speed forcing me to fist his dress shirt for leverage.
He slightly pulls back to state, “The only thing I wanna do after watching you rule that jungle all night is fuck you like you’re a queen and I’m your king.”
I let my tongue tease his top lip. “Then do it.”
Wyatt growls, steals another sharp taste of my mouth, and leads me towards the living room. Our hands and mouths begin attacking one another in an animal like frenzy. His coat drops, and I rip his dress shirt, scattering buttons across the hardwood. My designer dress is shredded as is the tiny piece of fabric hiding my pussy. While my strapless bra manages to knock against a lamp shade, the frantic removal of his pants and boxers results in the spillage of the ice bucket that’s lingering on the coffee table. The introduction of a new, potential source for pleasure has Wyatt positioning me on all fours right above the melting mess. From the first razor sharp thrust, his fingers dig into my sides like claws. He doesn’t bother admiring the curve of my ass or the amount of tone there is to my thighs. He stays true to his previously mentioned intentions.
Each pierce is packed with pain and pleasure.
Each bounce is overbearingly brazen.
Each hit to the hilt receives a whimper for mercy from both sets of lips.
No such reprieve is considered.
Wyatt swiftly snatches one of my arms to pin behind my back. The other slightly slips and my nipples brush against the ice cubes. My cries for compassion crawl up the back of my throat, yet my pussy continuously gets wetter.
He groans loudly at the proof of my enjoyment that’s dripping down his dick. “You’re gonna fucking cream my cock, and then clean that shit off with your mouth.”
The barked order causes the slick muscles to swell once more, warning that the orgasm he’s commanding to collect is closer than I care to admit.
Ferociously, he pounds into me with enough momentum to leave my knees bruised and nipples aching from the endless encounters with the frozen water. His grip on my wrist tightens as he nudges my slipping legs to collapse completely. The impact of the cold in contrast with the fierce friction sends me spiraling out of control. Screams reverberate around the suite, and Wyatt slams into me harder, stealing every ounce of air I have left. My entire body shivers from the arduous, frigid sensation.
From the beautiful, brutal beating my pussy is blissfully enduring.
From the luscious way I’m being broken and rebuilt in the most natural fashion.
Abruptly, Wyatt pulls himself out, relocates his grip to my hair, and guides me around to fulfill his earlier mandate. I can barely part my lips fast enough to accommodate. His swollen cock thumps against the back of my throat causing him to groan in gratification. I suction my mouth and savor the taste our sex has created. Salty and tart flavors fly across my tongue as I whirl it around, lapping up my orgasm while squeezing my thighs together to prevent encountering another. Wyatt’s breath becomes more and more labored with every slurp until he can’t hold back any longer. Thick, hot ropes of cum clog my esophagus nearly choking me. I less than gracefully manage to swallow most yet hold a hint of it on my tongue. My mouth frees itself from his dick and soars up to his, demanding he sample our sex the same way I did. To no surprise, Wyatt doesn’t resist. He welcomes the action. Hums approvingly the second it hits his palette. Cages me against his body with both his arms while devouring the remains. Our uncivilized kiss eventually dwindles down into softer pushes and sweet pecks.
We slide our sweaty bodies away from the wet pile and curl up against each other, using our arms as pillows. For what feels like an eternity, we don’t speak. We simply stare at one another. Into one another. We gently exchange caresses while appreciating the remarkable beauty we both have now that social expectations have been stripped away.
I’ve never been this vulnerable to another human being.
From the way he’s staring at me, I don’t think he has either.
His fingers lightly feather the tattoo designs I have along my lower back. “What are the wings for?”
“A permanent reminder that I’m free…”
To fly.
To explore.
To live.
Wyatt hums and drags his thumb over to tenderly caress the scar near my hip. “What’s this from?”
To my surprise, the impulse to pull away from the question in nonexistent. “My attacker.”
Wyatt does his best to keep his response restrained. “What happened?” The bricks to my wall prepare to go back up when he practically whispers a promise, “You tell me your secret, la mia bellezza, and I’ll tell you mine.”
“Promettere?”
“Promise.”
I take in a strong breath before beginning. “I love my parents. I mean I really do…but I’ve never been as important as my big brother. Ever. Since I was a born, it felt like I had to compete for the attention. Scream in an attempt to be heard. What I wanted or needed paled in comparison to what Pax wanted or needed. I chalked it up to being the first born, but I won’t lie and say I didn’t feel some resentment.” My body tenses in frustration, yet Wyatt’s touch remains warm and gentle. “Paxton had a best friend in high school named Carter. Me and my friends always called him Creepy Carter. There was just something about him that gave us all an uneasy feeling in the pit our stomachs. He had a habit of staring too long, trying to walk in on me in the bathroom when I went to shower, or try to open my door when I was changing. I told my parents about it, and they brushed it off. Believed I was just being a dramatic preteen. Whenever he was around I tried to keep my door locked and a huge distance, but one night he…” Tears tickle the back of my throat, and Wyatt slides his frame a bit closer to remind me I’m not alone. “He snuck into my bedroom while I was sleeping and into my bed. He…touched me. Made me touch him. Told me how beautiful I was, and how we belonged together. I wanted to shout. I wanted to fight back, but it’s like I was just paralyzed in fear.”
Wyatt attempts to soothe the fractured nerve. “Julia, that’s a totally normal response in that situation especially at that age.”
I shake my head, tears successfully falling. “After he left, I told my parents what happened, and they…they didn’t believe me.”
His eyes bulge.
“Carter had always been so respectful and polite. He was practically their second son. And the fact he was their actual son’s best friend, well, that spoke volumes louder than a possible ‘misunderstanding between two hormonal teenagers’.”
“How is you being touched against your will a misunderstanding?!”
With another shake of the head, I continue, “I never told Paxton what happened. I guess I hoped since Carter got what he wanted he’d leave me alone. I convinced myself it never happened. Put it in a tiny box in the back of my mind and pretended to be fine. However, his pursuit just escalated. I continued to avoid him every chance I had, and whenever he was spending the night at our house I made a point to either spend the night at a friend’s or push my dresser in front of the door. My façade wasn’t as solid as I thought it was. I wasn’t eating. I was barely sleeping. I was failing class after class. I was so afraid all the time that I didn’t even wanna get out of bed in the morning. While my parents were convinced it was just some hormonal imbalance, Paxton was so worried. One day, we skipped school together, and I finally broke down. Told him everything Carter had been doing to me but skipped the part about successfully sneaking into my bedroom.”
“How’d he take it?”
“Like I expected…” I grimly smile. “He wasn’t pissed at me. He didn’t yell. Didn’t blame me or believe I was being overdramatic. He did what he always did. He took my side.” Brushing away my tears, I continue, “He ended his friendship with Carter. Threatened him. Erupted at our parents for not listening…which eventually led to them fighting, blaming one another for not considering what I had previously said. Unfortunately, despite my brother’s warning, Carter’s actions continued. He left unwanted teddy bears in my locker and flowers on our door step. Followed me and my friends to dinner or when we went to the movies. He’d just lurk in the background watching my every move. Every time he looked at me it was like I could literally feel his touch on my skin. I was still so miserable. Then one night while my parents were out attending this thing for Mamma’s job and Paxton was on a date, he used our spare key to break into our house…”
A heartbroken look leaps onto his face. “No…”
My nodding is rapid. “He opened my bedroom door so calm and collected, it was clear as fucking day this wasn’t an impromptu decision. It was something he had planned. Prepared for. Dreamt about. It was the single most frightening look I’ve ever seen on another human being in my entire existence. Unlike before, I actively tried to fight back. To get away. To call for help. But in the end, it didn’t matter. He was much stronger. Much larger. And much more composed. He managed to get me tied to the bed post and used a pocket knife to cut through my clothing. The scar on my hip is from when he went to slice off my panties and cut me in the process. Believe it or not the blood wasn’t a turn off. It actually…turned him on more.”
Wyatt’s pained expression deepens. “Did he…Did he…”
“Lodare Dio, no.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “Paxton’s date got sick, and he came home early. He heard me scream when the blade cut me. Mere seconds after that moment, he was in my room, beating Carter to death with his bare hands. He was shouting in Italian, and the rage…the amount of rage that came out of him was terrifying. On one hand, I was so grateful to have someone in my life prepared to kill to protect me and yet on the other hand, seeing someone be so blinded by anger that they could murder was startling. Part of me didn’t even recognize Paxton, and he was my big brother. My best friend. It was all…surreal. The only thing that prevented him from successfully killing that monster was my steady screeching. It somehow broke through to him, and he stopped. Freed me. Wrapped me in a blanket and locked us in his room. He called the police. He called our parents. He held me as I couldn’t stop crying. It was a nightmare.”
“And it didn’t stop there, did it?”
“No. There were police reports. Charges filed. Argument after argument on who was to blame again for not protecting me. Eventually, the only agreement my parents could reach was to…tear me away from my home, my life, a life I hated but still had them all in it, and move me to Italy to live with my aunt Veronica, where I spent the next couple of years basically in complete solitude. I wasn’t allowed to call them. I wasn’t allowed to write back to the sporadic letters I received. I wasn’t allowed to use the internet. There was no communication, nothing to truly keep me tethered to them. I was allowed to go to school, which Aunt Veronica dropped me off for every morning and picked me up from every afternoon. I didn’t fit in because I was American and my Italian was broken or beffa as far as they were concerned. Most nights I cried myself to sleep, praying and wishing, I would wake up someone else. I was taken to counseling on the weekends, which was dreadful. She encouraged me to find a hobby, which was damn near impossible when you aren’t allowed out of the house. I went from living in fear to living in exile.”
Wyatt’s response is unexpected. He tips his lips to mine and lets them lightly linger, applying no pressure. The nonverbal comfort provided washes away the anxiety that comes from retelling a nightmare I rarely recall to anyone other than myself. When he pulls away, his thumb lovingly strokes the mark as he says, “You never have to be alone again, Julia. That’s mia promessa.”
I softly smile.
Is it so crazy to believe him?
“What happened to Carter? They lock him up?”
“According to Paxton, they declared he needed a mental health facility. It didn’t help. He remained obsessed until his dying days.”
“He’s dead?”
“Was mauled to death by a bear during my sophomore year of University. Paxton called during the following semester. It was the first time I had heard his voice in years…”
“Did you cry?”
“Like a baby,” I confess on a chuckle. “But so did he!”
An impish glint grows in his eyes. “Oh, I gotta make fun of him for that.”
After a playful swat, I finally wrap up the gruesome tale. “He explained Carter’s death and the lengths his best friend who he considered a brother went to reassure it wasn’t a ruse.”
“Holden.”
“Yup. That was the first time he told me about him. Followed promptly by begging me to come meet all of you, but…” I thoughtlessly shake my head. “I had no desire to return to being Julez. I loved being Julia. I had learned what I was good at. I had friends and had just started dating for the first time in my life. I wanted to keep that. I had already had so much taken from me by Carter that I didn’t want his death to take more. So, I stayed and built a long distance relationship with people who were virtually strangers to me at that point. A budding business kept me traveling and gave me a golden excuse to avoid returning for more than a holiday.”
Rather than further pry about that particular situation, he curiously questions, “Do you remember the first thing he told you about me?”
“Oooo,” I tease. “Pretty sure it was how he had to teach you to stop overcooking pasta.”
Wyatt’s jaw plummets.
Giggles burst from me and his palm slides over to pop me on the ass.
“Not funny. I’ve never overcooked pasta.”
“Bullshit. Everyone has over cooked pasta at least once in their lives.”
He winces. “Fine. Maybe once, but I’m not a repeat offender.”
More laughter escapes, and I reach over to brush the hair on his forehead. “Relax, Chef. I don’t actually remember the first story he told me about you. I just remember…loving that he had you guys and loathing it in the same breath.”
“Because you didn’t have him anymore.”
“Yeah. And you were just stories to me. You weren’t actual people until we first met. He’d never shown me pictures. I’d never bothered asking. While I’m sure you’re probably on his Facebook or Instagram or something, I don’t personally do social media shit outside my business, and even then my assistant handles it. ” My fingers creep into his locks at the same time I demand. “Enough about me. Your turn. You know my dark secret. Tell me yours.”
His eyes fall shut, yet I continue my soft stroking. “My first year home from college was the last time I stepped foot in the house I grew up in.” He pauses to hum at the way my nails scrape his scalp. “When I left for Clover Rose, I had one main goal in mind. I wanted to be Wyatt. Just Wyatt. Not Kutner, as most the people I went to high school with had a habit of calling me. Being called Kutner kept me tied to two people I was hell bent on getting away from. I came home one random weekend for some benefit my father asked me to attend. Like usual, I went, kissed ass for an hour, drank ‘til my mind was blurry and bailed to stop from gouging my own eyes out with a shrimp fork. I met up with some guys I graduated with. We hit a bar. A strip club. Got fucked up on some x.” His hesitation to continue is only momentary. “By the time I got back to the house, I was blitzed out of my mind and fucking starving. Put something on the stove, went into the next room while it heated, and ended up passing out face first on the couch until the smoke alarm started screeching.”
“What caught fire?”
He gives me a short shrug. “I…I honestly don’t know. Could’ve been a towel or plastic wrap or one of the utensils. When I woke up, the house was filling with this thick smoke, and the craziest thing about fires is how fucking quickly they can destroy everything.” Wyatt squeezes his eyes tightly before forcing them open to meet mine. “I called 911. I got the hell out of the house. My father was downstairs in his study and managed to flee safely as well, but…because my mother had taken sleeping pills she was oblivious to the alarm.”
I can’t stop a gasp from barging out.
“The fire department was able to rescue her; however, she suffered severe burns. She went from being the beautiful, blonde face of a fitness fortune to puppet master with no choice but to train a replacement for the public to continue to worship.”
My mouth starts to move when his head shakes from side to the side to indicate he’s not finished.
“While my mom was thankfully saved, one of the kitchen employees was not as fortunate.” Wyatt sniffles in hopes of preventing the tears from falling. “I knew what would happen when they started investigating the cause of the fire, so I did what your brother did, what we’ve all come to do at some point in our lives, and asked Holden for a favor. I had him change the reports when they were digitally filed. Had him alter them to be documented as ‘faulty wiring’ rather than negligence. See, I knew if it was seen as negligence, as my fault, my father wouldn’t hesitate to hold that over me. He’d pull strings, pay off, and donate to the right people to keep the Kutner name clear and his son far away from any possible jail time for the death of his employee. But once all of that would’ve been settled, I would’ve been in his debt for the rest of my life. And that was the last fucking thing I wanted. He already had so much power over every little move I made from what I studied in college to the women I was ‘allowed’ to be seen with at public affairs.”
“Something in the back of my mind tells me I wouldn’t make the cut.”
“Nope.” He momentarily presses his lips together. “He had a…prestigious, white, all American look he preferred his family to have when we were together.”
I pretend to shame him. “Ah…That’s why you prefer women with a bit of spice to them.”
A small chuckle slips free. “Maybe…Or maybe I just like my women like I like my food. Fun.” We exchange a brief smile prior to him continuing. “Anyway, I told Holden what happened…almost immediately, and he swore he’d handle it. Official reports all claim it was faulty wiring with the stove, the insurance companies paid out, and my parents gave a small portion to Miguel’s wife for her loss. I, however, knew that wasn’t enough. Besides the fact he was the one who nurtured and encouraged my pursuit of becoming a chef, he had a family. Four kids and another on the way. I had Holden arrange automatic transfers to her from my account, once a month when I was given my basic allowance, and then when I was on my own, I had that continue as well as set up a second account for her children to help put them through school in the future.”
“Penance.”
“Not enough.” He swallows the last of his emotions. “As for my parents, well, I ended up still serving their whims, except instead of using the excuse that they had helped me bury my mistake, they used guilt. What kind of heartless son wouldn’t attend this benefit his mother begged him to go to? What kind of unloving monster wouldn’t be seen playing a charity tennis tournament his poor mother could no longer participate in? I did almost every song and dance they wanted, when they wanted, how they wanted, like the perfect pawn they had groomed since birth. I continuously played the role ‘Kutner’ until a few years ago when I started being known as the Charming Chef. It was the first step of shaking free the shackles of a name I had never wanted or in my parents’ eyes, never be worthy of having.”
“Why’d you introduce yourself to me at the engagement party as Kutner?”
“Guess it’s true that old habits die hard.”
“Meaning?”
“Social settings like that have a way of kicking ‘Kutner’ into gear. Often, people recognize me and call me by the nick name I’ve earned, which helps keep the reflex subdued. Other times, I’ve got a wing man to keep me grounded to the proper name.”
My fingers curl around a tress. “How often do you see your parents now?”
“Christmas Eve for a nice dinner at a steakhouse.”
“Sounds familiar…
He cocks a crooked grin. “I rent a private room, and it’s one of the only times my mother allows herself to be seen in public. Despite the cosmetic surgery she had to help hide the scars and damage from the burns she endured, she still considers herself unfit by social standards.”
A long stretch of silence settles between the two of us. My fingers continue to curl around his hair and comfort him for the pain he carries around from a careless mistake, while he traces the scar back and forth as if trying to erase the remnants of fear that unconsciously remain.
Eventually, he states just above a whisper, “I really like Julia.”
My thumb strokes the back of his neck. “I really like Wyatt.”
Our mouths lean forward to gently lock together.
The fact he’s my brother’s best friend and I’m his best friend’s little sister feels like one more set of labels neither of us wants to live under. Maybe we won’t. Maybe we’ll find a way to shed them and just be two people who enjoy each other’s company.
Two people who like to laugh together.
Two people who share a fondness for the same types of shoes.
Two people who have mind blowing sex.
Two people who are willing to support each other.
Two people who trust one another to keep their darkest secrets.
Two people who accidentally fall in love.