AS WE PULL UP TO CAMERON’S FIFTH AVENUE BUILDING, one of three doormen hops up to the car and opens the passenger door.
“Good evening, madam,” he sings genially as I thank him. “Evening, Mr. O’Neill.”
Cameron hands the car keys to a second doorman. “Morgan, there are some bags in the trunk. I need them taken up now.”
“Of course.”
One doorman carries my suitcase into the building, disappearing into the elevator with lightning speed while another drives the car off somewhere as we head inside. The beautiful twenty-story Art Deco building could be studied as an homage to that delicate balance between luxury and taste. It’s there in the way the stunning marble floor compliments the exquisitely tiled sepia walls; in the frame of the ornate mirror which fills the space perfectly between two potted trees which occupy two corners of the foyer; and in the placement of the chandeliers hanging right above the elegant taupe sofas.
As we head towards the elevators, I glance to our right at the impressive concierge’s desk with its mahogany top and a bespectacled middle-aged man with tight black curls wearing a flawless three-piece suit jumps to his feet eagerly from behind the desk.
“Good evening, Mr. O’Neill. Madam.” He bows his head in greeting to me, a look of mild surprise on his face. His voice is deep and rich and warms me up like a glass of whiskey on a chilly winter’s night.
“Hello,” I reply, cringing at the thought that I may be just the latest in a long line of women that he’s seen follow Cameron O’Neill into his apartment.
“Harold, if anyone asks for me, I’m not here. Nor is my guest.”
“Absolutely, sir.”
He sits back down as we make our way into an incongruously modern mirrored elevator lit up with so many spotlights you could put a play on in there. Cameron pulls a key out of his pocket and inserts it into a keyhole marked PH. I smile and raise an eyebrow at him, amused that he’s succumbed to one of those expensive Upper East Side apartments which he had once sworn he would never live in.
“The penthouse?” I raise an eyebrow.
His wide, open smile reminds me of the fresh-faced boy I knew at college, a boy so at odds with this devastating, controlled man. It really is one hell of a smile.
“I know,” he sighs. “I still spend a lot of nights at my SoHo place, but the security’s better here for tonight. Plus, there’s nothing like the view when you’re feeling low.”
“Okay, O’Neill, but I’m warning you—you’re in danger of becoming one of those people we used to make fun of at your mom’s parties.”
“Oh, believe me, I know.” His eyes narrow in amusement. “I have nightmares about it.”
A robotic female voice announces our arrival at the penthouse and we step out of the elevator to the sight of my bags placed neatly next to what looks like an armored front door. Cameron turns an unusual-looking key in the lock which sets off a loud clicking sound at the top and bottom of the door frame. He pushes the door open and carries our bags inside, beckoning me in.
Okay, wow.
Within seconds I totally empathize with Cameron’s inability to give this place up as I drink in the sight of one of the most breathtaking apartments I’ve ever seen in my life. Cameron closes the door behind us and we both take off our shoes, putting them in a cubby by the door. I follow him past two imposing pillars that climb up to meet a bright off-white ceiling at least twenty feet high. The open-plan apartment has to be at least five times the size of our place on the other side of the park. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominate two sides of the apartment and a rich caramel-colored hardwood parquet, maple by the looks of it, soothes my tired feet. Past a door to the left, I see what looks like a large study behind a spotless kitchen with copper and ebony cabinets partly closed off from the living area by a large breakfast bar and cupboards attached to the ceiling.
In the center of the living area, a large charcoal-grey rug lies next to a fireplace surrounded by a pale stone mantel that reaches up to the ceiling. A chestnut-brown leather sofa sits opposite the fireplace, a coffee table stands on the rug and two elegant period armchairs sit on either side of it. To the right through floor-to-ceiling balcony doors, a large terrace overlooks Central Park, housing some furniture, solar lanterns and a row of plants in a raised bed. There’s a long wooden dining table and chairs before it and further to the right behind another pillar are two doors which I assume lead to bedrooms.
Pictures of his family, one of the most distinguished in New York, adorn one of the side tables alongside several of his now-deceased and much-loved rescue dog. I zoom in on one of the photos—Cameron and Evie on a boat near Rhode Island—and realize that I took it. The room is a perfect blend of traditional and modern furniture with wooden and antique copper accents that imbue a strong masculine vibe. It feels like the kind of place that only a man from one of New York’s greatest dynasties could own. Every lamp, every rug, every accent feature is uniquely stunning yet tasteful. It’s the understated apartment of someone who doesn’t need to show off his wealth.
“Cam, I forgive you for living here.”
A smile makes his eyes crinkle cutely. “You hungry, Avery?”
“Starving. If you have food in the fridge, I can make us something.”
He shakes his head and takes his phone out of his pocket. “Harold, we need some food. Hang on a minute.” He turns to me. “Pizza?”
I hesitate for a second. I don’t usually like to fill my body with junk, but hey, I have bigger worries to contend with at the moment…
“Sure.”
“We need two pizzas, one vegetarian. See if you can get André or Patrick to make it. We also need some organic fruit and some salad. Have it all brought up as soon as you can.” His tone is polite yet firm. “Thank you, sir.” He pauses, listening to the concierge. “Yeah, well, first time for everything. Bye.”
I wonder what he means for a second before heading to the kitchen. “Can I make some tea?” I ask. “Do you have herbal teas?”
“Sure, help yourself.”
I open a couple of cupboards above the deepest granite counter I’ve ever seen and find plates and bowls instead of tea.
“Hey, which cupboard is it in?” I shout.
I pivot to try another cupboard only to find that Cameron is now right behind me. He leans over me and grabs a box from a high shelf above my head. As he reaches up, his hard chest brushes against my back for a brief moment and I travel instantly back to that corridor at Q.N. where he held me against him, his hand over my mouth, his sculpted chest pressed against my back, his arms keeping me in place, dominating me effortlessly as he breathed in my neck. He hands me the box as I turn to face him and feel that familiar unwanted electricity crackling wildly between our bodies as our eyes collide.
I instantly avert my gaze in response, quickly turning to the box of teas that my slightly quivering hands take from his. “Thank you,” I manage feebly, static stunning my senses as I find his unflinching gaze again, my legs turning to mush at the presence of his powerful body so close to mine.
I’m still at a loss as to why this friend that I’ve known for so long is having this damn effect on me. From the day I first kissed Jack to the day I found out about his affairs, I’d never had a single solitary moment of real attraction to another man. I have no idea how to handle the feeling. At this point, I’m only praying that Cameron can’t tell what a ridiculous effect he is having on me—and that he doesn’t feel it too.
“You’re welcome.”
Our eyes unlock and he walks back to the living room and sits on the sofa.
Okay. Let’s just focus on the tea.
“What type of tea do you want?” I ask, clearing my tight throat.
“Surprise me.”
Ten minutes later I slowly brew two loose-leaf lemon verbena teas in a glass teapot as I peer at Cameron furtively while he types on his laptop. His eyes scan the screen with the focus of a hawk tracking a mouse scurrying through the grass. The sleeves of his T-shirt are short and his typing has his muscles flexing, hard and thick and golden. The bluish glow from the screen lights up his face and sends shadows bouncing off his focused profile.
I carry out the teas just in time to hear a knock at the door which Cameron attends to, returning with a couple of boxes of pizzas and a basket of fruit and two salads.
“Wow, that was quick,” I say, though I’m not surprised that Mr. O’Neill has no shortage of people willing to serve him as quickly and thoroughly as possible, any hour of the day or night.
As I take a seat on the rug next to the coffee table opposite my friend, I dig into one of the pizzas voraciously, and, oh boy, it’s one of the most sinfully divine things I’ve ever tasted in my life. I look up to see Cam’s eyes glistening in amusement.
“What?”
“I like watching you eat when you’re hungry,” he says. “You’re like a lion with a gazelle in its mouth.”
“Never mind about that, O’Neill. I need to know the name of the chef who made this so that I can force him to give me the recipe on pain of death.” I take another bite watched by gleaming eyes that scrutinize me as he takes a sip of his tea.
After eating three large slices of pizza and a whole salad, I get up to take our empty cups back to the kitchen, but suddenly feel light-headed and wobbly on my feet. Cameron takes the cups out of my hand as I sit back down.
“Hey, let me do that. You’ve had a long night.”
“Thanks. I think I’d better get to bed,” I whisper. “My body’s not cooperating anymore.”
Cameron shows me to the made-up guest bedroom where my bags are waiting for me on the floor at the foot of the bed. I wish him goodnight and I collapse onto the plush duvet on the king-sized bed, too shattered to even remove my clothes. I muster some strength and manage to pull the covers over me and switch the bedside light off.
I’m grateful for the bone-aching exhaustion that’s holding off the anguish I know is waiting for me when I decide to face the memories of what I saw and learned tonight. With my last conscious thought, I relish the sinking feeling of deep slumber coming over me that I hope will fly me into some new realm where the things I’ve just seen can’t follow me.
A glimmer of yellowish light seeps through the drawn curtains and then everything fades to black. Sleep takes me within seconds.
The eerie dead of night bears down on me as I find myself naked but for a short satin nightdress, racing frantic and petrified down near-desolate Tribeca streets as fast as my shattered legs will carry me.
I turn back to see if the masked figure who’s been following me is still there and gasp as I see him round a corner and continue his steadfast pursuit in my direction. Cloaked figures wearing gruesome crimson masks block off the street in front of me forcing me to careen down a lonely backstreet to my right where I shoot past a ghoulish, decrepit tree growing incongruously in the middle of the alley. A gasp is expelled from me as I reach a dead end; a chain-link fence adorned with a crown of golden razor wire cuts the alley off cold. As I glance behind me at my hooded tormentor calmly walking towards me in long strides, as if sensing me in his blood, I start to shout for help, frantically banging on heavy metal doors at the end of the alleyway, all of which remain shut. In the windows of the buildings on either side of the alleyway, expressionless masked figures watch me, unmoving, as I scream for help.
“Help me! Please!” I shout at the faceless people who greet my pleas with silent inaction.
There’s no other choice. It’s the only way out: I have to climb the fence.
As the cloaked man gets within twenty feet of me, I jump up, pushing my feet into openings in the tall fence. My weak arms hoist my body up and I climb to the top where I attempt to get my hands over the barbs. I whimper as the sharp razors slice into my bare arms, spraying warm crimson blood over my skin and drenching my delicate white dress. Despite the pain, I taste freedom within my grasp and get ready to lift my leg over the curved daggers.
Too late.
A determined male hand clutches my right ankle and yanks it down mercilessly. I try to kick it away, but he’s far too strong and I let out a scream as I’m pulled, bloody and sore, onto the ground before him. He glares at me, motionless, his dangerous eyes possessing mine from behind his ebony mask. Without uttering a word, he picks me up and carries me back towards the almost-rotting oak in the middle of the alleyway and pins me against it before slowly taking down the hood of his robe and pulling it open to reveal his muscular, bare-chested body.
“No!” I shout.
A hand reaches up to his mask and removes it, exposing a devastating, savage, moonlit face.
“Jack…”
Jack’s enraged, lustful eyes blaze into mine as if invading my very being as I whimper at the sight of his mouth and chin, stained red as if with blood. His deathly pale eyes gleam at my distress and he takes a step forward, forming a cage around me with his arms and forcing my back against the rough bark of the decaying tree as the howl of a shrieking wind cuts through the eerie quiet. I shove my hands into the hard striations of his chest as he leans forward, forcing my hands to retreat, his face hovering inches from mine. My heart stalls as he pins my arms against the bark, leans forward and forces his famished tongue into my mouth as I fight back with every inch of strength left in me—to no avail. He continues to penetrate my mouth with ease for agonizing minutes, filling it with the metallic taste of blood mixed with his saliva. I whimper as he slides his mouth down and licks my neck ferociously, pushing his naked chest against me as I muster every ounce of strength in my listless limbs to try to stop him. He runs his tongue over the bloody skin on my arms, and his hands up my waist and onto the blood-drenched fabric over my breasts before gliding them up my chest and placing them around my throat.
“You belong to me,” he growls, his gravelly voice low-pitched and dangerous. “Do you understand that? You are mine. Forever.”
“No! I don’t want you!” I shout. “Let me go!”
Jack’s glacial glare burrows into me as his lips twist into an abominable smile. “Very well. I’ll have to teach you whose property you are.”
“No!” I scream—a blood-curdling scream.
Jack opens his mouth to reveal sharp ivory canines which he positions over my neck before biting down hard into my soft, quivering flesh. Hot scarlet blood begins to gush from my carotid and he moans with relish as he sucks on the copious juice. He lifts me so that my legs straddle his hips while my back is against the wall as his hard erection presses into me from behind his black jeans, the metal buckle of his belt denting my flesh. As I start to succumb to weakness, he stops for a moment and observes me as I try to calm my breathing, before licking my lips and kissing me, saturating my taste buds with metallic blood.
“I love you, angel,” he whispers into my mouth. “So much. You’re going to be mine… forever.”
“No, Jack, please… Please stop… Jack… No…”
For a split second, the unnaturally pale blue of his irises appears to turn dark amber before reverting back to blue ice as he leans towards my neck to continue his meal, feasting on my life force. As he sucks on the gash of my open flesh, undoes the buckle of his belt and unzips his jeans, I lose sensation in my tingling limbs and close my eyes as the last remnants of life seep out of me.
Darkness takes me.
No!
That’s all I remember of the nightmare that sees me sitting bolt upright and hyperventilating, clutching my neck in the pitch black as I try to get my bearings. Perspiration mists my skin as my hands fumble for the lamp next to me, clamoring to find the switch that will take me out of obscurity.
Click.
Light floods the room. Squinting through the blinding glare, I spot artwork on the wall in front of me—a field of wildflowers under a stormy sky with a ray of light peaking through moody clouds, illuminating a willow to the right of the picture.
I’m in Cameron O’Neill’s penthouse.
I can breathe.
Desperate breaths leave me for several minutes as I try to calm myself down, monitored by aggressive neon numbers on the alarm clock next to the bed: 3.33 a.m.
Fueled by restlessness, the vivid shock of the dream and the threat of the torment of the memories of the Society, I get out of bed, pull the damp clothes off my clammy skin and sit naked for a few minutes, finally managing to control the panic that seems to be a recurring soundtrack to my life of late.
Deciding to head to the kitchen to get something to relieve my dry mouth, I rummage round my suitcase and pull out the first thing that I find of the meager items I have—the white satin nightdress with the lace trim that Jack liked me to wear. I pull it on, followed by a baggy, knee-length woolen cardigan that my godmother knitted for me a couple of years ago.
As I pull it on, the inner sleeve snags against my wedding and engagement rings which I put back on without thinking when leaving the Society. I finally build up the courage to pull them both off and place them into a little silk pouch filled with some other jewelry which I tuck into the bottom of my suitcase. It stings as I close the bag up; my ring finger suddenly feels naked and wrong. Those rings feel like armor to me, tying me to Jack and protecting me from the world. I guess I’ll get used to being without them…
I venture out of the guest room and head barefoot towards the kitchen.
“Can’t sleep?”
Jesus!
I almost jump out of my skin and spin around, my hand hitting my chest in breathless fright with my recent nightmare still pulsing through my veins.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” Cameron’s rich voice soothes some devastating fear deep inside me.
In the dark living room, his face is illuminated by just the muted glow of the laptop in front of him. Papers are strewn all over the coffee table and there’s a glass of something to his right. He’s wearing black sweatpants and a grey T-shirt.
Glancing down, I see that my cardigan is fully open and that my body is covered by a tiny slip of satin, with my cleavage and thighs barely covered at all. I spot my erect nipples poking through the creamy fabric as I grab the sides of my cardigan and pull it around me tightly. I look up to meet Cam’s gaze and swallow hard, hoping he can’t see the blushes warming my cheeks in the dim light.
“I’m sorry,” I reply, my voice hoarse. “I’m jumpy at the moment. What are you doing up so late?”
“Finishing some work so that I don’t have to deal with anything tomorrow. Are you okay?”
“Fine. I just… I can’t sleep.” I fasten the cardigan at the waist so that I’m as covered as I can possibly be. “You shouldn’t work so late. It’s Sunday. What’s the point of owning the company if you have to work like a… vampire?” The word leaves my left hand reaching for my neck as if to check that it’s intact. “How much sleep are you going to get?”
“I’ll try and get a few hours in before dawn,” he responds. “To be honest, I haven’t been sleeping much the last few months.”
“That’s no good. You need at least six hours of sleep a night, O’Neill, unless the plan is to drop dead from a heart attack at the age of twenty-eight and cause hysterical mass mourning among the female population of Manhattan.”
A glimmer of a smile appears at the corner of his mouth. “I’m going to make a quick call and then get my head down.”
“Well, are you hungry?”
“Always.”
“Okay, give me a minute.”
I head for the kitchen, hoping I can wrestle something decent up from the meager offerings I saw inside his fridge earlier this evening. I do a double-take as I open it to find it now stocked full of the sort of healthy foods that I tried in vain for years to get him to eat at college: watermelon, kale, nuts, hemp milk, fresh juice.
“How the hell did he get all this?” I mutter under my breath, though I know full well that there’s nothing that a man like Cameron O’Neill doesn’t have access to in this city, whatever time of the day or night.
I can’t help smiling as I remember the raw food cafés I used to drag him to as a student and the glasses of celery, apple and parsley juice I would force down him whenever he hung out at my place. Cameron’s just like Jack—a voracious meat-eater, bemused at the idea of flaxseed crackers, cashew cheese and fermented vegetables. When I first met him, I remember watching him rip into a steak with his bare hands, pulling it apart like a wolf would its prey. He looked insatiable.
Five minutes later, I carry a tray of scrambled eggs with tomatoes, scallions and basil with some slices of watermelon and two cups of tea out to the living room and place it on a now-tidy coffee table so divine it should have its own fan club. Its base is the stump of a tree, sliced through horizontally and varnished, leaving each exquisite ring visible. A thick rectangular sheet of glass with hammered steel accents on the corners sits atop it. It’s the kind of piece of furniture that sticks in your mind as a reference against which all others are judged throughout your life. We sit on the rug on opposite sides of the coffee table as I pass him his eggs and a cup of steaming Earl Grey.
“I put some hemp milk in it,” I say.
“Um, I have a feeling you could get arrested in London for defiling tea like that.”
The wildly fragrant citrusy aroma of the tea delights my senses as I take a sip. “Oh my God. This tea is insane! Where did you get it from?”
“I know a guy. He owns a plantation in India. He has it shipped to me.”
“Okay, I’m seriously going to need a list of all the people who provide you food and beverages, O’Neill.”
After a few mouthfuls of scrambled egg, he grins as I roll up my sleeves and attack the watermelon like a ravenous animal, causing its sweet juice to cascade down my chin and onto my chest and arms. Cameron laughs as I go in for another bite and hands me a tissue. He’s laughing at my terrible habit of attacking fruit as though I’m on the beach in Costa Rica—a habit that Jack always ribbed me for mercilessly.
I glance at him over the slice of watermelon and see him watching my juicy mouth. “I’m sorry. I still can’t eat fruit like civilized people. I blame my parents. We spent half our childhood eating unpronounceable fruits on hammocks,” I jest between mouthfuls.
“I love the way you attack your food. I’m invariably bored when I eat with anyone else.”
Before I have a chance to respond, a shrill ring tone shoots out from his laptop and I find myself privy to a side of this man that I’d barely ever seen and am not sure if I ever wanted to: the billionaire tycoon.
“Morning, sir.” The high-pitched and ostensibly nervous voice of the man on the other line is totally at odds with the deep velvety roll of Cameron’s confident timbre.
“Morning. I need an explanation for what happened yesterday, Michael.”
“I don’t know what to say, Cameron. We felt… backed into a corner, basically.”
“I don’t need to know how you felt, Harris. I want to know who made the decision and what’s going to be done to rectify this fucking mess.”
His sharp eyes meet mine as I swallow hard at his assertive dominance over his interlocutor for a minute or so. Wanting to give him some space, I head to the kitchen carrying empty dishes with me. The harshness in his voice takes me aback. It reminds me of the merciless way that Jack talks to his staff when he doesn’t get what he wants when he wants it. The similarity makes me shudder as I catch wisps of the conversation and hear the increasing desperation in the voice of the man on the other end of the line as Cameron annihilates him with a composed and deliberate take-down, leaving the guy almost groveling by the end.
“I’m going to work through the night to make sure it’s all sorted out by this afternoon.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it, Michael,” replies Cameron, hanging up.
I let out a sigh of relief as I hear a glimpse of the humanity that Jack can lack in business, not wishing my friend to become as heartless and brutal as my estranged husband can be.
As I sit back down on the rug opposite the fireplace, I study my friend’s face. “Cam, I feel like I’m stopping you from working properly.”
“You’re not. Having you around makes working easier than usual.”
“Oh, really? Why’s that? Reminds you how ridiculous relationships are and makes you want to dive into work instead?”
“No. I like having something else to focus on other than work. I haven’t thought about much else since dad died. Having you with me reminds me that there are things that are more important. Besides, the suits can take care of everything. I just need to make a couple of calls.”
“Well, that suit is going to need a large glass of scotch and some hemorrhoid cream after that beat-down.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You feel sorry for him?”
“No. It’s just… I’m not used to hearing you talk like that. It reminds me of— It scares me a little.”
“I don’t get a kick out of it. I tried the softly-softly buddy approach when I first took over the business. It doesn’t work, not when you’re dealing with a company this size. It leads to all kinds of problems. I wish it didn’t, but it’s the way it is.”
“Well, just don’t forget that you’re an actual human being with a heart and lungs hanging out on a big rock in space.” My admonishing bite makes him smile. “I’ve seen my fair share of Wall Street assholes turn into soulless, empathy-devoid money machines. I don’t want to see that happen to you.”
“Don’t worry,” he replies, his gaze wandering to my mouth. “My mother will have me sent off to some ranch where they beat me up every day if she thinks that’s happening.”
Suddenly feeling too tired to converse, I lie down on the rug next to the fireplace. I don’t want to go back into that bedroom alone. “Do you mind if I lie here for a bit?”
“Jessynia, my home is yours. You can lie wherever you want.”
I take a throw from the sofa, pull it over my bare legs and collapse on the inviting rug, turning to face the simulated flames, my long hair strewn on the floor behind me. I hear Cameron type into his laptop, taking occasional pauses.
Once again I don’t need to struggle. Sleep comes over me like a rolling ocean wave and I dissolve into unconsciousness.
