Okay, it's pretty cool in certain ways. And Simon has been a great "girlfriend" for a long time. He spends hours holding my bags when we go shopping. And he's a whiz with liquid eyeliner and crown braids.
He's… well, he's like a father looking out for his teenage daughter. He's not shy about figuring out any normal teenage girl things and participating when appropriate.
And, apparently, that now includes discussing my sex life.
Awesome.
So awesome.
"I appreciate the warning," I say.
"Do you?"
Sort of. "Yes."
He nods, accepting my response but not necessarily buying it.
Over an hour, and a second cup of coffee, Simon and I talk about the weather (freezing), our brothers (Liam is as difficult as ever, Adam is slightly less reclusive every day), school. He's concerned about my professor's death. The details he assumes someone suppressed—thirty-something men don't die suddenly—and the possible effect on my grades.
He's not heartless. He's just pragmatic. To a fault.
After I remind him we're not the injured parties—this really isn't our business—I excuse myself, spend a few hours drawing in my room. Images from last night. The bar, my heels in the air, Max's arm around my waist.
Then I take a run, shower, fix a frozen meal for lunch.
After a few episodes of TV, I check my email.
As promised, the school found a replacement for Professor Barba.
But my nine a.m. Monday morning class is the least of my concerns.
Because the replacement professor is someone I recognize.
Professor Barba's business partner.
Max Morrison.
The man who tied me to his bed last night.
Chapter Five
MAX
Raul and I met in college. We were perfect opposites. He was practical and charming, bright and funny. I was, am, artistic and guarded, dark and… well, I hope I'm witty, in my way.
He was sunshine, the way Opal was.
He was the light I needed. As a friend. Then, as a business partner. He knew how to sway me. He knew exactly what to say to convince me to join him.
I need your vision, Max. No one sees things the way you do. You bring the art. I'll bring the spreadsheets. One meeting a year, that's it. I promise.
I ended up in a meeting every few weeks, at first, but once we were running, he held to his promise. I stayed in California and advised. He moved to New York and lived, breathed the city and the company.
Every year, we met here for our yearly meeting and the party that came with it. A freezing December weekend in the city. A day of bullshit then, a night of drinks.
We toasted, the way we always did, to a year well done, to the secrets we were about to trade.
His divorce.
The distance between me and Cassie.
The CTO sleeping with his assistant.
He asked if I'd take over his class if something happened to him. It was a joke, after I said he was too drunk to walk home. At least, I thought it was a joke.
Now—
I can still see the relief in his eyes, the lightness in his shoulders, like he'd finally put his affairs in order.
Did he know then?
Did he have a plan?
Did I hand him a loaded gun?
All these years, I held on to my role as the broken one. I held it so tightly I ignored the signs. I ignored his need.
I failed him.
I can't fail him again.
All day, I sign papers, read guidelines, send emails.
I fill tiny boxes with ink scribbles until my mind and hands are numb.
After I finish, I take the subway to the sparse apartment the company provided, use the gym on the fourteenth floor, shower until the warm water turns cold.
I don't don my fleece pajamas. I don't turn up the heat. I climb into bed and try to sleep.
It's too cold. My mind races. The more I try to straighten my thoughts, the more my head spins.
My late best friend's warnings. His smile. The laugh we shared when we toasted to broken hearts.
His marriage.
My long-term relationship.
Failing in different ways, for different reasons, but failing all the same.
Then I think of her. Opal.
Even her memory is sunshine. It illuminates every pocket of darkness in my head.
For a few minutes, I try to resist temptation, but it's no use.
The image of her wakes my body.
My heart pounds. My blood surges. My breath quickens.
I close my eyes. Give in to the images forming in my mind.
Opal, in jeans and a tight white tank top, sitting on my desk.
Tossing her top over her head.
Doing away with her soft pink bra.
Climbing into my lap, grinding against my cock as I suck on her perfect pink nipples.
I come quickly. Too quickly.
She's too sweet, too beautiful, too perfect.
I pull the covers to my chest and give in to my other physical needs, but the blanket isn't the kind of warmth I crave.
And the memory of her isn't enough.
But, at this point, what is?