What's Left Of Me (The Firebird Trilogy Book 2) (12 page)

“Okay. Thanks again, Steph. This is awesome.” Allen kissed her cheek and headed outside.

Matt, hand on hip, gave her The Look. Eyes narrowed, lips thinned, head cocked. “Are you sure you’re up to this? Tell me the truth.”

“Don’t get sassy with me. And it’s a little late either way, don’t you think?”

“Something is going on with you and Alex, aside from the rape allegation. And if he cheated on you, I swear to God I’ll—”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Besides, it’s your wedding day. Go have fun. I’ll see you soon.”

He bit the inside of his cheek. One blond eyebrow inched up, but he didn’t argue any further.

Stephanie peeked through the glass doors. Alex was indeed dancing, though not the way he used to. He moved his feet less; that his hips now exerted most of the effort imbued his dancing with a more overt sexuality than ever.

She drifted to the breakfast bar and closed her eyes. A loud cheer followed several splashes, her cue to stay inside lest she become the next, and reluctant, guest chucked into the pool.

Guest. In my own damned kitchen.
She refilled her wine glass.

Alex was closing the patio door behind him when she turned around, and he was dripping. “Oh. Still being antisocial, I see. I want to talk to you.” He latched the doors and drew the blinds.

“Alex, I quit the show.”

He stroked his chin. “
Chert.
It’s my fault, isn’t it? I saw what happened with your co-host.” He shifted his gaze to the doors. “I wonder how many of them think I did it.”

“I know you didn’t. I talked to the cops. I told them the same thing, for whatever it’s worth.”

His wet shorts rode dangerously low on his hips, exposing far too much of his V-cut. Water droplets dappled his skin, and his chest glistened. She spun away, but he was behind her, gripping her upper arms. He stippled the back of her neck with soft, sensuous kisses. Sketched with the tip of his tongue the lines of one shoulder, up the side of her neck, before repeating on the other side. Her hair stood on end; her flesh goose pimpled. His cock prodded her backside, and she pushed back. Alex seized one of her breasts, molding it as he worked his exquisite mouth over her, as she softened against him. He turned her around. The propinquity of his mouth made hers water, and she licked her lips.

“We do have a lot to talk about.” Her traitorous fingers outlined the chines of his six-pack and the path of hair leading beneath his waistband. She skimmed her lips over the hollow of his throat, drawing in the scent of chlorine and the remnants of his cologne.

She was sucking on his bottom lip before she could stop herself. Just a taste, enough to get her through the night. Alex slithered his hot hand up her thigh, under her dress, and kneaded her buttock. He touched his tongue to hers. Staking his claim, greedily drinking her in as their mouths entangled. Ensuring his name was the only one she would ever taste.

“Come upstairs with me,” he whispered.

“No. Alex—”

“So you want to fuck right here, then?” He was untying the drawstring on his shorts.

“This isn’t how we fix it.”

He pulled them down enough for his iron-hard cock to spring free. “I’ll accept it as your apology. Go on,” he said, his lips on hers. “Touch me.”

She responded with rapid, flustered breaths. She wanted to. God, she wanted to.

“You have until the count of five to walk away”—he hiked up her dress and pressed his erection to her aching pussy—“before I fuck you so hard you’ll forget where you are. One.”

Her imperious bad boy had returned. He commanded her body as he pleased, knowing she had surrendered before the battle began. Maybe those internet activists were right about her, but she couldn’t muster the ability to care. All thought, feeling, and sense had converged into one pulsing point at her core.

“Two.” Alex coiled his fingers into the waistband of her lace panties and tugged, too hard; they shredded on one side. “Aw. They were so pretty.” He slung the remnants onto the floor. “I hate to ruin them like that.”

“We shouldn’t. Not now…”

“Then you should let go of my dick. Three.”

Heat flooded her face. She kept rubbing his thrumming cock. Hungering.

His lips slightly parted, he wound his fingers into her hair and breathed in quick, sharp pants. “Four. You are running out of time.” Alex seized her by her ass and propped her on the counter. She curled her legs around his waist. “Five.”

He speared her on his cock, entering her so easily they both gasped. Maybe it had to be this way now. Hard and dirty. A genuine, primary connection to what he’d thought he was, what he thought she required of him.

He slammed into her, a piston pumping in and out, slick with her fluids. She sank her nails into his triceps. She would cease to exist if they did not touch, did not keep touching. The pressure was expanding inside her, a euphoric, implacable bubble. “Oh my God.” A recalcitrant moan, her body betraying her as it always did with him. She locked her ankles behind his back. His eyes closed and his cheeks red, he drilled deeper into her, his pelvis grinding hers. She clawed at his shoulders, his arms and back, while attacking his mouth in a barrage of ferocious, messy kisses.

“I’m going to come.” Her voice guttural, foreign, and she was coming before she’d finished the sentence. She twitched against him, her cries barely muffled by the music outside.

“That’s it.
Blya
…” Alex let out a husky groan. He rested his forehead against hers and, fingers digging into her backside, shot strand after strand into her.

She lowered her legs. Semen dribbled down her inner thigh. “We shouldn’t have done that.”

“You started it.” He smirked and crammed himself back into his shorts.

She shoved him away, or tried to, but he had secured his arms around her and did not let go.

“I forgive you,” he whispered.

“Why?”

“Because you did the same for me, when I thought I didn’t deserve it.”

At least he’d had his illness to blame. She had only her ego, and did not merit that kindness. Stephanie broke away and ran to the half-bath to clean up and fix her clothing and hair, ravaged panties in hand. She tossed them out. Alex’s stubble had inflamed her cheeks and chin, she reeked of sex, and there was no hiding any of it. Worst of all, her sore pussy was already begging for more.

She sucked in the tears and stared herself down in the mirror, daring herself to cry, until the urge passed.

“I have to go,” she said when she emerged.

Alex was cleaning the counter with a disinfecting wipe. “Stay. Please.” He grabbed at her arm as she headed for the patio so she could see Matt off.

“I want to get back to Anya.” She twisted out of his grip. “Was it Natasha at the hotel?”

“
Der′mo
,” he muttered. “Yes. But—”

“You’re like a broken toy, Alex. You’re so fucking predictable.” For years, sex had been his favorite coping mechanism. It hurt, but she’d feel far worse if he’d found a woman he wanted to have a long conversation with. “And given the investigation, what were you thinking?”

“You want to know the truth?
Da
, I went to her hotel room to fuck her. I kissed her. I was going to sleep with her. Instead, she gave me poppers, and I passed out. There you have it.”

“You cannot do this shit anymore, Alex. You’re a father.”

“And a husband. Does that part still matter too?” Two crimson spots appeared high in his cheeks. “At least I’m being totally honest with you. Are you being honest with me?” His nostrils widened, and he bared his teeth. “I
saw
Brandon Johansson kiss you!”

“How do you know about that? Have you been stalking me?”

He crossed his arms, thumbs up. Defensive but dominant. His eyebrows rode low over green eyes that shifted to his right. In the body language of liars, he was making something up.

“Alex, that is
not
okay. I can’t even talk to you right now.”

With an aggravated grumble, Alex threw his arms up, then stomped up the stairs.

Stephanie pulled back the blinds and unlocked the patio doors. Matt and Allen were making their final rounds, hugging, kissing, shaking hands with their guests, before leaving for their honeymoon in Key West. “Hey, guys,” she called, “do you need any help packing up the gifts?”

“You’ve done enough, Steph.” Matt slung an arm around her shoulders and planted a big kiss on her cheek. “You call me the second you’re up to it once you’re out of surgery,” he said close to her face, out of Allen’s earshot. “No matter how early or how late.”

“Cross my heart.”

“Where’s Alex?”

Her blood pressure shot up thirty points, and the breeze whisking through her dress all but proclaimed her conspicuous lack of underwear. “He’s, uh, in the bathroom, I guess.”

“You sure everything is okay? You look a little disheveled.”

Oh, God.

A wily grin spread across Matt’s face. “You
didn’t
! You two had a quickie, didn’t you? You hussy! Make-up sex. I love it.”

“Shh! Get out of here and start your honeymoon.”

“All right, all right.” One last hug. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Take care of my big brother, Allen.”

“Sure will.” Allen grinned and kissed him. “Ready?”

“Ready. Tell Alex we’re sorry we missed him, and thank you for everything.”

“I will. Have a safe trip!” Stephanie marched back into the house. “Alex! I’m leaving!”

“Good!” he shouted from somewhere upstairs.

“At least come back downstairs and take care of the guests like an adult!”

Nothing. Probably waiting to hear the front door close first.
Fine.
She swung it shut behind her with a loud bang.

Chapter Twelve

Stephanie drove back to the Whites’, relieved Jacob and Nicole from babysitting, and retired to the guest room. The look on her face must have said it all; neither of them questioned her about the wedding.

With Anya in the travel bed, Stephanie changed into her pajamas and sat on the bed with her head in her hands. She should have taken a shower, washed the smell of him off her. But he was there regardless, inside all parts of her, embedded in every atom.

You
have
to tell him.

The stairs creaked as Jacob and Nicole called it a night. Stephanie glared at her phone.

The roar of a motorcycle engine grew louder until it cut outside the house. She winced and glanced at Anya. Nothing. Anya was already sleeping like—

Her father.

Stephanie peered out the window. A tall figure climbed off a chrome-and-brushed-aluminum, low-seated cruiser. He retrieved something from the saddlebag, frowned, and looked up at the house with sorrow in his eyes before ascending the steps. He knocked. Stephanie sucked in a deep breath. Her lungs burned.

She edged through the dark hallway and living room, switched on a lamp, and opened the front door. For several painful seconds, she knew what she read in his eyes was mirrored in her own. Their souls’ demanding of each other, the dominion over each other’s hearts no matter what might physically part them.

“New toy?” He must have hidden it in the garage.

“
Da.
I guess.”

She stepped aside to let him in.

“I brought this for you. It’s a little squished, but it’s your favorite. Double chocolate with fudge filling.”

Her breath hitched.
I’m getting emotional over a fucking cupcake.
“Thank you. But you didn’t come here to give me a cupcake.”

“It’s only a mile. But you knew that already.” Alex raked his fingers through his hair. “We’re married, Stephanie. You can’t run away whenever things get hard. If you need space, fine, but walking away
now
? That’s selfish, don’t you think?”

“Okay.” She dipped her finger into the frosting and licked it off, Alex’s gaze burning into her. The notion that they had strayed too far to find their way back weighed on her heart. “I had that coming. And you have every right to be upset.” Stephanie picked at her chipped nail polish. “Alex, we really need to talk.”

“Well.” With a morose laugh, he scratched the back of his neck. “That’s never good.”

“No. It’s not.”

Alex cracked his knuckles and stared at the cold fireplace. He drummed his foot on the floor. “You take me for granted, you know? You assume I’m always going to be there no matter what.”

“I know,” she said quietly.

“You know. This would be a lot easier if we were actually fighting instead of you agreeing with me.” He took several desultory steps down the hall. “What room is she in?”

“Down here.” Stephanie escorted him to the guest room. A Pooh nightlight cast its faint illumination on the room; Alex, noticing it, surely hadn’t meant her to see his heartbreaking smile. But when he peered into the travel bed, his face effloresced into pure joy.

“Hi again, baby girl,” he whispered and stroked her round cheeks, the creases in her plump arms.

“Maybe we can come over tomorrow. If that’s okay.”

“
Da.
Come for dinner.” He kissed Anya’s forehead. “
Spat′ spokoyno, devochka. Papa lyubit tebya.
” Alex sighed and sidled past Stephanie to the doorway. “This isn’t fair, you know. Keeping her to yourself. Putting her in daycare instead of letting me take care of her.”

“You’re free to come over—”

“I’ve tried, and you’re never here! I want her with me tonight. I’m her father, and I have as much a right to be with her as you do. I know what I’m doing.”

“You should’ve brought the Mercedes, then.”

“So drive her to our fucking house.” He blocked the door with his body, legs apart in an officious crotch display.

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

“How am I supposed to talk to you?” he shouted. “Everything I say is wrong!”

Anya shrieked.

“Nice job, Alex.” Stephanie lifted her from the bed and laid her on her shoulder. “Leave.”

He stormed through the hall as fast as his limp carried him. “This is bullshit.”

“You should be happy. We’re fighting like you wanted. Again.”

Alex scrunched his fist and drew his arm back as if to punch the doorframe. Instead, he opened his hand and struck it against the wood, kicked the door, with infuriated growls. Cradling Anya in one arm, Stephanie shouldered the door in an attempt to close it and force him out. Her pulse thrummed. The darkness in him was not some vestigial relic of who he used to be; he had lived with it too long. It defined him.

She glanced at the staircase. The floorboards creaked. “Do you want to wake up Jacob and Nicole? Leave!”

“I came to see you. To apologize. For what, I don’t even fucking know, because you’ve been acting crazy. You won’t let me be with my daughter. You still don’t trust me. Are you ever going to trust anyone?” He gazed at the sky in some private entreaty. “After what happened at the house, I thought maybe you’d
want
to see me.”

“Alex—”

He held up a hand to silence her. “Don’t. I don’t want to hear it anymore. I just—I have to go.” His gaze fell on Anya, an emollient for the ominous mask his face had become. He drew in a shivering breath and smoothed her hair. “I’m sorry, baby girl. I love you.” Alex hopped down the steps to the motorcycle parked at the curb. He swung his leg over the seat, assumed a hostile riding position and, exhaust pipes snarling, vanished into the night.

***

Alex

He had to clear his head before returning to the house, though he’d dismissed the guests shortly after Stephanie left. A bright moon reigned over the warm, dry night. No better time for a ride, and out here in the suburbs there were plenty of back roads to explore.

His unfamiliarity with them, however, led him to round a corner too tightly, too fast, and Alex planted the front tire into a gravel patch. He tried to correct and lean out of it but not quickly enough. The bike toppled to the left, dumping him onto the asphalt where he skidded several feet, the motorcycle careening into a bank of dirt and grass at the road’s edge. He’d forgotten his helmet. Flesh peeled away from his cheek and forearm like an onionskin, leaving a black smear of blood on the pavement.

“
Sukin syn!
” he hissed and attempted to assess the damage in the limited light, once he’d dragged himself off the centerline. A long, nasty abrasion on his arm. Both it and his face blazed.

He recovered the bike that, aside from the paint the crash had scraped away, seemed no worse for wear. The thought that he should get medical attention flitted into his head and out again. More fuel for the media. Bad enough they were circling the dying husk of his marriage. They’d do anything for clicks and ratings. A motorcycle accident would lead to substance abuse would lead to divorce rumors, however they had to spin the facts. He understood the game better than some of its players did.

The impact had fractured his phone’s screen. The damned thing spurned his attempts to turn it on. He couldn’t call Stephanie to cancel any residual plans for dinner tomorrow until he replaced it in the morning, and he refused to communicate with her through something as impersonal as email.

Probably for the best. Hearing her voice, he might wreck on purpose next time.

***

His wounds stung. Though he’d swaddled his arm with gauze and taped a thick bandage to his cheek, he’d bled through both. The sheet and the pillow were sticking to him when he awoke.

Alex reached for his phone on the nightstand, then remembered it was in his jeans, broken. He swung his legs out of bed, stretched his arms and back, scratched his balls. For half a second, he expected to hear Anya crying. His shoulders sagged. He pulled on a pair of sweatpants and trudged down the hall to his office. It was peaceful without a phone, actually. Cut off from the world, the fantasy that none of this was happening became a vivid and seductive whimsy.

Until he turned on his laptop.

The morning’s top headline screeched from the sources in his news feed:

Russian Pop Star Found Dead in Hotel Room.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head at the screen. He sucked in his upper lip and tasted sweat, his body racked with violent shivers. He shouldn’t have left her like that. Should have called to check on her if nothing else. Tried to get her some help.

Nataliya Pisarenkova
, better known as
Natasha Pisare
, was found dead of an apparent drug overdose in her downtown Buffalo hotel room late last night. There were no indications of foul play, and investigators have not ruled out a suicide. Pisare was twenty-seven years old.

Already popular in her native Russia, Pisare’s music had cultivated an enthusiastic following in the US, where she was poised to become the next breakout star. Sources close to Pisare say she had been visiting former hockey star Aleksandr Volynsky, a childhood friend and the subject of an investigation into an alleged sexual assault that occurred at his home two years ago. Pisare and Volynsky have been romantically linked in the past, though police have thus far been unable to reach Volynsky, whose number they say was among the last dialed from her phone. He was also seen leaving the same hotel two days earlier, though investigators do not believe he has any involvement in her death.

Though the results of Pisare’s toxicology report will take four to six weeks, investigators found drugs—including MDMA, more commonly known as “ecstasy”, and amyl nitrate, also known as “poppers”—near the body, as well as bottles of alcohol.

Authorities have contacted the Russian Embassy to arrange for Pisare’s body to be returned to her hometown of Saint Petersburg.

He stared at the screen, anesthetized, and prayed he would wake from this unending nightmare.

Minutes crawled by. Getting a new phone as soon as possible was an imperative, but he could scarcely raise himself from the chair. Finally, he plodded into the en suite and showered, then dressed, each mundane task performed with robotic enthusiasm and ponderous limbs. Alex peered out the window; several reporters had gathered on the sidewalk. He entertained the idea of backing the Mercedes into the lot of them. Stephanie wasn’t here to suffer the aftermath of yet another potential scandal. Maybe she had seen it coming all along. Spared herself and Anya further damage. Hard to remain angry with her when he looked at it that way.

Alex shook out one of each pill and went downstairs to take them with food as instructed. Those particular wolves, for now, had not returned to the door, though medication never fully subdued them. With their distant but resolute howls in his ears, he called upon his centering statement and shut himself in the Mercedes before he registered a single shout directed at him.