“YOUR LUGGAGE IS HERE.” Jasmine peeks around the corner of the French doors to my position on the new outdoor lounge suite by the poolside. “I’ll take them to your room. Want me to pack for you, Fawn?”
I gaze over my shoulder at her, dropping my line of sight to her hand, hoping she has the new luggage for me to see. She doesn’t, and I don’t want to leave my kitten or order her to grab them, so I say, “No. I can do it.”
“Righto,” she says in her English accent, forcing a little chuckle from me. I never had any acquaintances who weren’t Australian born and raised.
She disappears, and I look back at my kitten. It’s been three days since Clay brought her home. And, well, tonight, I’ve been instructed to meet Clay at the airstrip, meaning I won’t see her until we get back from wherever he’s taking me.
I need quality kitten time.
She rolls around, her white fluff shedding all over the dark-grey cushions, her needle-like claws plucking the occasional seam out of place.
Kittens are so full of life—the epitome of playful chaos. At odds with so much of what Clay Butcher—the Devil’s prototype—embodies. She meows and meows.
Squeaky sounds.
She likes her own voice.
Smiling, I see similarities too. There are two things that my kitten and Clay have in common: vocalisation and honesty.
I like cats because they are always honest. If they don’t like you, you’ll know it, if they want space, they demand it, and if they want attention, they’ll take it.
The confident little creature stares up at me, tilting her head, her ears flicking around. Cats also consider everything in their path as though it belongs to them—just like the kitten is doing with me right now.
Like Clay always does.
The mild breeze touches my legs, my white shirt-dress ruffling around my waist. And I’m warm on the inside as well.
Sweeping my long white-blonde hair over my shoulder and twirling the ends around my finger, I smile at a memory. The vision of when I first saw this elevated area, overlooking the crystal blue waters of the pool and canals, I thought to myself that if I ever lived in a place like this, I would sit here every morning and enjoy the view. Take time to appreciate it.
And I would get a cat.
I shuffle.
Stretching me, the plug he placed inside me this morning forces aware, my mind perpetually drifting to Clay Butcher. He ensures control—consuming me—even in his absence. And between my thighs, the ache of his passion remains too.
“You must be Fawn,” a woman says from over my shoulder, and I glance behind me to see Clay’s mum in a pink matching sweater suit and jacket, gold jewellery dangling from her thin wrists. The woman who created the most impressive man I have ever met.
Kudos.
She is in the jamb of the French doors, her blue eyes assessing, her pursed smile not entirely unfriendly but not pleased either. Unreadable… like it’s a fucking Butcher trait.
“Hello,” I say softly, hearing my voice smaller than usual as the matriarch of Clay’s family moves around to stand in front of me. I try not to think about what Luca said. About his infidelity. About loving another woman— “Yes. That’s me.” I internally roll my eyes at myself. Clever girl, Fawn. “It’s nice to officially meet you, Mrs Butcher.”
I go to stand, but she raises her hand.
“Please, don’t get up on my account. You look far too comfortable.”
Okey dokey… I lean back. And yet something about the way she said ‘too’ feels as though it stifled further articulation… Like, “you look far too comfortable in my son’s house.” Maybe I’m reaching…
She considers me for a moment, somehow stripping me bare. Under her gaze, the thought and sensation of the crystal plug force blood to my cheeks.
Fuck. Don’t shuffle, Fawn.
I’m becoming increasingly uncomfortable…
Thank you very much.
“So”—I clear my throat— “you’re visiting—’
“You’re very striking, Fawn,” she cuts in. “With those eyes.” She looks down at the kitten; her lips pinch and then twitch. Then she returns her gaze to me. “And you’re the daughter of Dustin. Not just anyone… are you?”
“Yes. I’m his daughter.”
“And yes, I’m staying in the far wing. You shan’t see me. And don’t worry, I cannot hear anything over this side of the building, so you and my son have absolute privacy to engage in whatever it is that makes him happy. You do make him happy, don’t you?”
I have no words, my mouth flapping in shock. She knows about me—about us. She did see him fondling me in the kitchen the only other time we met…
God, what must she think of me? Maybe, Clay’s marriage is a known ruse within his family. Yet with that knowledge, she has managed to say nothing offensive, yet somehow delivered discomfort to my very marrow.
“I hope so.”
Gah.
Smooth.
She smiles, but it’s flat. “That’s very good, Fawn.”
My breathing picks up pace. It is as though she just awarded me a gold star for giving her son orgasms… This is getting awkward.
Glancing at the kitten, I use her distracting little meows to contemplate what to say. I want to ask Clay’s mum to sit with me, so I can understand her better. Maybe learn about Clay as a child. Maybe laugh at a story or two, pull out the baby book, all the silly, sweet things I’ve seen mums do on the television. Only on the television.
Because mums in real life don’t always do those things. The media gives people unrealistic expectations…
I’d like a mum, too, though; I’d like a relationship with her. Maybe I can pull her stone-like façade down. Maybe she’ll let me call her mum one day. Maybe she’s just guarded because the life she’s lived has been cruel, maybe…
Mine too!
I can relate to that.
Hopefulness fills my chest. “Would you like to—”
I halt my tongue on her retreating back. She’s already walking away from me, passing through the French doors, and closing them on her shadow. Done with me.
“Cool,” I mutter to the breeze. “Next time then.”
