Complicit (24 page)

We move from sitting up to lying down, from the piano bench to the floor in front of the fire where there are blankets and pillows already laid out, waiting for us. We grope and paw and roll around. There is a sense of abandon in everything we do, a sense of freedom. My lips travel from Jenny's mouth to the smooth nape of her neck. They dance across her skin and down her spine. Warm butterfly brushes.

Her robe comes off. Then my jacket. The fire cracks and burns. There's more heat. More desire. Jenny is bold. She pulls her gown up and pushes my hands down her body. She wants me to touch her. Everywhere.

She makes happy noises when I do.

“Jamie,” she says.

“Mmm?”

“This feels really good.”

“I'm glad.”

“Do you want to…?”

“Yes,” I say breathlessly. “I do.”

She slides my shirt over my head, then reaches down to tug my jeans over my hips. I let her. I'm too dazed to be of much help, too entranced by her body and the hypnotic sway of her breasts as she moves, alluring softness lit by fireglow. This whole thing's like a dream and I'm wondering if she knows it's my first time and that I think it's absolutely perfect. But I'm also wondering about these bruises on my arms and chest. I glance down, confused about where they came from. They
hurt.
My ribs especially. And that's when Jenny says softly, “What's this?”

I look up. She's holding something in her hands. A photograph.

“I don't know,” I say. “What is it?”

“It was in the back pocket of your pants.”

My
pants? That's weird. I take the photo from her hand and look closer. The print is old, faded. It's a picture of a woman with hair that's the same blond shade as Jenny's and she's holding an infant. I've never seen it before.

“I don't know what that is,” I say again.

“I thought it might have something to do with, you know, your real mom.”

I laugh. That's an odd thing to say. There are no pictures of my birth mom and there never have been. That's what Angie's always told me. Not one trace of my mother's existence remains on this earth, except for me. And Cate. But Cate's the last person I want to think about right now, what with her phone calls and her threats of throwing herself off a cliff. Thinking about her makes me sad and I don't want to be sad right now. I'm already the kind of person who's sad a lot.

So I take the photograph, crumple it, and toss it into the fire. Smoke flares, then fades. It feels good to do this. Like I'm in control for once.

I turn back to Jenny. She watches me with curious eyes.

“It was nothing,” I tell her, and I push her hair back so that I can see the mole on her throat, that hint of darkness surrounded by so much light. “Nothing important. I'd remember if it was.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to Michael Bourret and Sara Goodman for their ongoing support and for helping me find my way; to Jessica Preeg, Anne Marie Tallberg, Jeanne Marie Hudson, Elizabeth Catalano, Stephanie Davis, Kerri Resnick, and the whole St. Martin's team for being so kind and brilliant; and to Phoebe North, Corrine Jackson, Kate Hart, Sarah Enni, Kody Keplinger, Vee Fitch, Lee Bross, Kirsten Hubbard, Kristin Halbrook, Kari Olson, Brandy Colbert, Will Kuehn, and Dr. Lin for their vast wisdom and eternal encouragement. Special heartfelt gratitude to my long-ago bass teacher, Clark Suprynowicz, for sharing his passion for both jazz and
Antigone
; and to my dear friends Scott Bruner (owner of the original Dr. No) and Mieka Strawhorn, for always making me laugh.

Last, thank you to my family, in all its forms. You're a part of me, whether I know it or not.