The Muse Page 6

  I’m sitting on a plastic folding chair near the front door, and my greatest enjoyment in the last hour has been the cold gusts of air every time it opens. That, and the flask in my hand.

  Claire disappeared twenty minutes ago with Griffen. I’m just drunk enough to be jealous. Griffen is so nice, and he’s clearly a steady, capable man. One who wants to date. Learn about his partner. Maybe, eventually, think about long term.

  Basically the opposite of James Beckett.

  “Iris?”

  I look up and recognize Kirk. “How’s it going?” I yell over the music.

  “Good, good. I’m surprised to see you here!” He bobs his head, hips jerking to the beat. Off-rhythm, unfortunately. Bending down, he yells in the direction of my ear, “Wanna dance?”

  I lean back so his beer breath doesn’t make me gag. “No, thanks! Bad knee!”

  “Ah, that sucks,” he says, gaze bouncing around nervously. He drags his free hand through brown hair very much in need of a trim.

  Ashamed of my critical thoughts, I point to the empty chair next to me. “Sit down!”

  He blinks in surprise, then smiles like I just offered to kiss him. Dropping his lanky body beside me, I immediately regret my decision. He smells like a bottle of cheap cologne.

  I’m too old for this shit.

  Leaning toward me again, he asks, “So, what’s it like being Beckett’s TA? He scares the crap out of me! Have you read his books? He’s brilliant!”

  I muster a smile. “He’s a tyrant, but yeah, he’s a great writer.”

  “Has he hit on you yet? I heard that’s his thing. I saw him last week coming out of his office with some woman.” He laughs loudly. “She was tore up from the floor up, if you know what I mean!”

  My stomach turns. “Dear God,” I mutter, sending the plea to the spinning disco ball. With a meaningful glance at my watch, I stand up and point toward the back of the house. “I’m going to find my friend. Nice talking to you, Kirk!”

  Too drunk to notice the brush off, he bobs his head amicably. “See you Wednesday!”

  I walk through the living room with its miniature orgy and into the packed kitchen. On the other side of an island filled with half-empty bottles of booze, I see Claire with her tongue down Griffen’s throat.

  Raising my flask in silent salute, I drain its contents. Beside me, a man lifts a bottle of vodka in my direction. “Refill?” he asks, grinning.

  “Nope, thanks.” Although I’m not adverse to the idea of more alcohol, at parties such as this one I never drink anything from bottles I don’t personally see opened.

  Within seconds, someone else offers me another drink, this time from an unmarked red cup. I shake my head and quickly head back the way I came, then straight out the front door. As soon as it closes behind me, I feel better. And worse, because Griffen was my ride home.

  “Iris, is that you?” asks Meredith the Statuesque, coming up the front steps with two girlfriends in toe.

  “It’s me,” I agree, sitting heavily on the top step.

  Meredith sends her friends inside and perches beside me. “You okay?”

  I laugh, then realize I sound like a lunatic. “Sorry,” I say quickly. “I’m fine. Just boy problems.”

  She rolls her eyes skyward. “I hear that. What’s going on?”

  I shrug. “He wants a physical-only sort of thing, and I’m not sure I can handle it.”

  She makes a noise of sympathy. “Do you have feelings for him?”

  “Define feelings,” I say morosely. “I can tell you he makes me crazy. Most of the time I don’t know whether to slap him or kiss him.”

  Meredith grins. “Sounds passionate. Have you slept with him?”

  The odd magic of college parties, I muse, is having frankly intimate conversations with almost-strangers. “Nope. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll get attached. He’s…” I shrug, “pretty amazing.”

  She nudges my shoulder with hers. “I guess you have to decide if your fear of the unknown is greater than your desire to be close to him.”

  I blink at her as the words sink through me, stirring up a dangerous conviction. My desire to be close to James Beckett.

  “I really wish you hadn’t said that,” I finally say.

  She frowns. “Why?” I pull my phone out of my pocket and she laughs, standing. With a final squeeze of my shoulder, she says, “Good luck, buttercup,” and heads inside.

  Chin up, buttercup. Come out swinging.

  Fate or accident, Meredith’s words trigger memory of my brother’s voice. I have no idea what it portends, but I scroll through the contacts on my phone with new determination. I find Beckett and hit Send.

  It rings three times.

  “Iris?” A pause. “Where are you?”

  I tell him the nearest cross street. “Come get me, James.”

  He draws a breath. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  I hang up, send a text to Claire letting her know I found a ride, and make my way down the street to the corner. It’s dark and cold, my wool coat barely sufficient to keep the chill from my bones.

  As the minutes pass, my nerve falters countless times. I wish I had more alcohol—I wish I wasn’t so buzzed. I wish I had on nicer underwear, a lace bra. Perfume.

  Did I shave my legs this morning?

  “Oh fuck,” I mutter, rubbing my cold face with my hands.

  Just as I reach peak anxiety, a car pulls up in front of me. The driver’s door opens and closes. Before I even look, I know it’s him. I can feel him getting closer like an asteroid on collision course.

  “Iris, look at me.”

  I lower my hands. Beckett scans my face, then his gaze flickers to the flask peeking from my coat pocket.

  “You’ve been drinking,” he says mildly.

  “Yes. Bourbon.”

  His lips curl. “I’m either impressed or disappointed, hard to say.” A hesitation. “Shall I take you home?”

  Fire surges in my blood. “Do you want me or not?”

  He takes a step toward me, fingers sliding under my jaw to lift my face. “More than anything in memory, yes. But I’m not sure how I feel about you being drunk.”

  “I’m not drunk. I’m Scottish.”

  He throws his head back and laughs. Before I can form a coherent response, he sobers, lips still curved as his gaze locks on my face. Then even the smile fades, and all I’m left with is the emotion burning in his eyes. It’s a little scary, and so, so sexy.

  The next thing I know, his arms are around my waist, yanking me onto my tiptoes. His hot, soft lips find mine, the scruff on his jaw teasing my chin and cheeks. I moan in gratitude and relief, wrapping my arms tightly around his shoulders. We feed from each other like every touch of our tongues is the first and last.

  I soak in his heat and taste, my body burning, all pain gone. Disjointed thoughts tumble in my mind. Yes. I need this. Him. When I grab his hair, he groans. Hands slide from my waist to cup my ass, pulling me roughly against him. He’s already hard, a thick line of heat against my stomach.

  “We need to go now,” he whispers breathlessly, “because I’m seriously considering tearing off your pants and taking you against that tree.”

  “Whatever you want,” I say mindlessly. Then my remaining brain cells activate. I jerk back to stare at him. “What? Hell no.”

  He laughs, thrusting lightly to tease me. “You’re too much. Come on.”

  Setting me down, he opens the passenger door of a sleek BMW. I sink into the heated leather seat with a sigh of bliss.

  Beckett slides behind the wheel, sending me a searing look. “Buckle up.”

  I do, and as he pulls away from the curb, I impulsively grab his right hand and draw it into my lap. Bewitched by his nearness, driven by a confidence I’ve never before possessed, I lift my hips and guide him between my open legs. His jaw clenches, fingers curling possessively.

  “I can feel your heat,” he hisses, gaze slashing to me. “God, Iris, I need to be inside you.”


  “Eyes on the road,” I murmur. My fingers atop his, I rock lightly against the heel of his hand.

  “Bloody hell,” he gasps.

  My body completely given over to sensation, I let go of my final inhibitions. Head falling back, eyes closing, I relish every rising swell of pleasure.

  Our perfect rhythm never falters, and when he whispers, “That’s it, ah fuck, Iris, you’re so beautiful,” dense, sparkling energy coalesces at the base of my spine.

  “Don’t stop. James… Oh—”

  I climax with a shudder, catching my cry with my hands.

  The car jerks to a stop and I open my eyes. We’re parked in the driveway of a beautiful two-story home, white with dark trim, set behind a small, lush front yard.

  I have no recollection of the journey. “Where are we?”

  “Wallingford.” He tears off his seatbelt and races around the car to my door. Wrenching it open, he growls, “Out, now.”

  Giggling, I unbuckle my seatbelt and take his hand, then yelp as he yanks me off my feet into his arms. Our faces close, I read the soft wonder in his eyes.

  “Tell me that just happened.”

  I nip lightly at his lower lip. “Yes, I got off on your hand with all my clothes on. You’re just that good.”

  He chuckles and kisses me hard. “Oh, pet, I haven’t even begun.”

  A door slams somewhere close and a woman yells, “Who the fuck is that, James?”

  The arms around me slacken. Without their support, I stumble back, my hip connecting with the open car door. I feel the pain only distantly, my mind and body suddenly, frigidly cold. At the top of the stairs leading to the picturesque porch and front door, a tall woman stands highlighted by the house lights.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” asks Beckett in a tone I’ve never heard him use before. One as cold as I feel.

  “Who is that?” I hear my voice ask.

  He doesn’t answer, but the woman does.

  “I’m his wife.”

  9. ballad

  James—no, Beckett—drives me home. Every time he opens his mouth, I tell him to shut up. Eventually he quits trying to explain, hopefully realizing there’s not a damned thing he can say to make this better. He’s married. The end.

  When he stops outside my apartment building, I’m out of the car in seconds, running to the front door.

  “Iris, please!” he yells through the open window.

  The only sound I want to make is a scream. Clamping my lips shut, I tear open the door and dart across the lobby. I jab the elevator button repeatedly. It finally opens, and I crash into the person walking out.

  The man grabs my shoulders to steady me. “Iris! What’s wrong?”

  I look up numbly at Griffen. “Nothing,” I mumble, unable to meet his eyes.

  “Not nothing,” he says firmly. “You’re crying. Did someone do something to you? Talk to me.”

  I glance involuntarily toward the front doors, but the BMW is gone. Relief and the beginnings of sanity flow into my brain.

  “Sorry,” I say, wiping my face quickly. “Really, I’m fine. Just get emotional when I drink.”

  I can tell he’s unconvinced, but he doesn’t press me. “If there’s anything I can do to help, will you please tell me?”

  “Yes, thanks,” I say, ducking past him into the elevator.

  The doors slowly close on his concerned face. His chivalry reminds me so much of my brother that by the time I reach the fifth floor, I’m sobbing. Horrible, half-drunk heaves that won’t stop no matter how hard I try to hold them in.

  The doors open on Claire, phone in hand. “God, Iris! Griff just texted me. Honey, come here.” She pulls me from the wall and into the hallway, wrapping her arms tightly around me. “Tell me what happened. Who do I have to kill?”

  I snort-sob into her shoulder. “I wish it was that simple,” I whisper, lifting my teary face to see hers. “He’s married, Claire. Google didn’t say he was married.”

  Her eyes widen. “Beckett? That’s who picked you up? Jesus, this requires a drink.”

  She pulls me by the hand into our apartment and deposits me on the sofa. A minute later, she hands me a tumbler with a splash of whiskey. I swallow it, coughing at the burn on my raw throat.

  Claire settles beside me. “Spill.”

  “I was going to do it. Sleep with him. I want… wanted him so much. More than… it’s not rational, feeling this way.” I take a shuddering breath. “He kissed me Wednesday night. In the rain. It was magic. Now it’s a bad TV drama.”

  She pauses, absorbing the words. “How did you find out he’s married?”

  I laugh darkly. “She was at his house waiting for him. He’d just… we just…” I knuckle my eyes. “He’d just gotten me off on the car ride there. Clothes on. Just his hand outside my pants.”

  Claire sucks in a breath. “Uhh, wow. And his so-called wife? What was she doing?”

  “Standing on the front porch. The light was behind her, so I couldn’t see her very well… but she definitely saw us. She wasn’t happy. Neither was he.”

  Claire rubs her forehead. “This is messed up. They must be separated, right? I mean, he hasn’t been exactly celibate since the quarter started.”

  I groan. “Has everyone but me seen him with a trail of well-used women behind him?”

  “I’ve just heard rumors. But realistically, it was probably one woman not five. That’s the nature of the telephone game. And the way he looks… he’s like walking sex, all brooding and graceful and brilliant.”

  “Stop, please,” I whisper.

  Claire gasps in horror. “Fuck, Iris, I’m so sorry. I think I’m still kind of drunk.”

  “It’s okay.” I stand on unsteady legs. “I’m going to take a shower and pass out.”

  She rises to give me a tight hug. “Aww, honey. I wish there was something I do.”

  I shake my head mutely and head to my room. Collapsing on my bed, I suddenly want nothing more than to sleep. But fanciful or not, I can still smell him. Taste him.

  With a groan of dismay, I roll off the bed and tear off my coat. My cell phone flies, landing on the comforter before me. Lifting it with a shaking hand, I press the home button until the screen lights up. Dreading… hoping…

  Nothing.

  I throw it down and head for the shower.

  Sunday’s storm passes before dawn, and Monday morning is one of those achingly clear fall days. Glistening asphalt and wet leaves. Air so cold it feels thick in your lungs. As I walk onto campus, I take it all in, acutely aware that this is the last October I’ll spend here. Every step feels both new and like one I’ve taken a thousand times.

  Four years of undergrad, two years of working and saving money to offset student loans, and two years of graduate school.

  Eight down, one to go.

  Almost there, Derrick.

  Emboldened by the knowledge that I’m close to fulfilling the promise I made to my brother, I walk with renewed purpose into the English Department and up the stairs. Down the familiar hallway. Into the classroom already half-full of students. Beckett is at his desk, a dark presence to my left. I don’t look at him as I move to my spot in the back.

  As I sit, Janice turns around from a few rows up. “Iris, you chopped off your hair!”

  I shrug, fingering the shoulder-length strands. “It was time.”

  “It’s so pretty and wavy,” she says warmly, “and you look so much older.”

  I smile faintly. “That’s what I keep hearing,” I reply, and pull out my laptop.

  The remaining students filter in over the next minutes. There are several more flattering comments about my hair, which make me both glad of the impulsive visit to the salon yesterday and increasingly self-conscious.

  Beckett, I notice, doesn’t lift his head from his notebook once.

  At nine o’clock, he stands and begins the lecture. I might be imagining it, but his voice seems less vibrant than usual. I tell myself I don’t care.

 
; I don’t care.

  But when I finally raise my eyes to his face and see how tired he looks, melancholy descends on my shoulders.

  I do care. Too much.

  The urge to wipe away his frown and make him smile is an itch that intensifies over the next hour. To combat it, I pull up Google on my laptop and search with keywords James S. Beckett and wife.

  There’s one picture of them together, dated two years ago at a gala hosted by the Academy of American Poets. A former winner of the Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize for the book of poems he published while at Stanford, Beckett had been in attendance to present the same award.

  The photo is familiar, as this weekend I spent a fair amount of time staring at it—more than was healthy, to be sure. But it helps to be reminded now. To see the wicked smile on his face. The way his fingers curl around her hip. Her name is Julia. She’s gorgeous, with auburn hair and classic beauty à la Bette Davis. The cameraman caught her looking up at him in adoration.

  I know there’s a narrative I can’t see in the two-dimensional image. The story of them, written beneath the ice that coated his voice. The rage and desperation in her statement, I’m his wife. But in my searching, nowhere did I find mention of a divorce.

  I almost slept with a married man.

  “Ms. Eliot, if you’ll join us?”

  His sharp voice jerks me in my seat. I quickly close my laptop and meet his vivid eyes.

  “Sorry,” I fumble, “I was reviewing—”

  “Thank you,” he interjects. “While you were daydreaming, we were discussing the short stories due next week and the process of workshopping them. As you’ll be facilitating, it might be wise to pay attention.”

  The room is deathly quiet. Flushing angrily, I bite back the instinct to snap at him. “Absolutely, professor. My apologies again.”

  He glares at me for another moment, then returns his attention to what’s less of a discussion and more of a list of commands.