Fucking ethics. Being a literary journalist lent flexibility I wouldn’t have at a newspaper—our pieces were more subjective, their foundation in truth rather than fact, our code of ethics vague and malleable. And though I covered music like most of my colleagues, my heart and soul were in bigger issues. The pieces that meant the most to me served as a voice for those who couldn’t speak for themselves. Teen prostitution. Opium dens. Corner boys dealing drugs, poverty-ridden families, homeless kids. I wanted people to see beauty in the pain, to understand the world and themselves better after reading my work.
Not that covering the Bright Young Things was particularly deep or groundbreaking. But with this piece, I’d be set, my career goal achieved in the form of war coverage and a hefty paycheck to put into caring for the man who had raised me.
Which meant I couldn’t have the story and the girl.
When we approached the intersection she’d directed me to, she pointed to a loft building. I pulled up to the curb, parked between two cars, and cut the engine, the instant quiet almost painful. Stella pulled off the helmet, laughing, her thighs still clinging to mine.
“God, that was good,” she said breathlessly.
“Ever ride one before?”
“A couple of times.”
“Like it?”
“Take a guess,” she said with a wild smile.
With a laugh, I popped the kickstand and got off the bike first.
For a split second, she looked uncertain of how to dismount, but before she could figure it out, I grabbed her around the waist with one arm and picked her up.
God, how I didn’t want to let her go.
Just one more kiss.
With a giggle and a squeal, she threw her arms around my neck. And with a twist of my body and well-placed shift of her weight, she was straddling my waist with her legs locked around me, her ass in my hands and her lips against mine. Soft and sweet, hot and determined, opened wide to grant me access I took. For a moment, at least. I lowered her to the ground when her legs went slack, letting go of her mouth last.
She took my hand and pulled, but I didn’t move. Keeping ahold of her hand, I leaned on my bike, facing her.
Her face quirked. “You’re not coming up?”
I sighed. “I want to—trust me, I do.”
She stepped into the V of my legs, hanging her arms on my shoulders. “What’s stopping you?”
I’m a liar. “I’m leaving for Syria soon. A work thing.”
Her face remained carefully still. “What do you do?”
“I’m a photographer,” I answered smoothly. Lie number one. “I’ve got a gig in foreign correspondence coming up.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Not sure yet. A few months at least.”
A smile played on her lips. “Why is it so hot imagining you in combats and khaki with a bandana around your neck like a bank robber?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ll send pictures.”
“Ooh,” she cooed wickedly. “I accept. Sadly, I’ve been short on low-key porn since Tumblr shut down.”
Another laugh, this one smaller, fading when I said, “But … I can’t get into anything. I can’t start something.”
She smiled, the expression the picture of levity. “You really are a gentleman, aren’t you?”
“I try.”
“We’re good,” she assured me, answering the unspoken question. Her hands slid down my chest and to my shirt buttons. “In fact, I think you’re exactly what I need. Especially if you take me on another motorcycle ride.” The first button came loose.
I caught her hand in mine, stopping her. “You’re not making this easy.”
“Good,” she answered with a smile. “I’m not asking for anything. No strings, no commitment. I’m not looking to fall in love. What I want is to enjoy your company until you leave. I’ve never met anyone quite like you, and I don’t know if I could live with myself if I just let you ride off into the sunset.”
“Stella, I don’t think you understand—”
Her lips shut me up and held me captive, and for a long, hot moment, she did her best to convince me to abandon what I knew was right. I considered telling her who I was right then just so she could either forgive me or tell me to fuck off. But I couldn’t.
You can’t have the story and the girl.
She wound herself around me, and I held her as close as I could, already negotiating a way around my hurdle. She wanted something casual after all, told me this was what she needed. I wondered if I could really let her ride off into the sunset and knew with some certainty that I couldn’t.
When she broke away, it was with a smile. “Did I convince you?”
“You drive a hard bargain, Spencer.”
“We all have ways to get what we want, don’t we?”
I laughed as she backed away and stepped up onto the curb, but a wave of uncertainty rose and fell in me. And I let it go, dog-earing the problem for later.
Because right now was occupied by her.
“You lost your hat,” I noted as I locked up my bike.
“So did you.”
She grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the door, then into the lobby where a security guard sat behind a desk. He nodded at us as we approached.
“Hiya, Frank. Have a good night?”
“It’s been quiet. Best I can hope for, Ms. Spencer.”
Stella laughed. “You’re the only guy in Manhattan who wants a quiet Saturday night.”
He shrugged. “How else will I finish my crossword?”
“Good point. Here’s to hoping it keeps up,” she said with a smile.
“And here’s to hoping yours is noisy.” Frank caught my eye, and his smile faded into a look of mild suspicion.
I raised a couple fingers at him in passing, which didn’t seem to help my case. Oddly, it made me feel better that Frank was around to look out for her. I had a feeling he had a Taser and wasn’t afraid to use it.
An elevator waited in the lobby, and the second the doors closed, she was in my arms again, my body pinning her to the wall in a flurry of hands and noisy breaths. Twelve stories passed too quickly, and when the ding of the elevator parted us again, she gave me a look that would have made a weaker man tremble, sucking her swollen bottom lip into her mouth as if to taste what was left of me there.
She led me out of the elevator and to her front door, her dress whipping behind her and into my legs. Once she punched a code into the keypad next to the door, she dragged me inside.
My feet slowed, but she kept going, our hands outstretched and trailing apart as I took in her place. Two of my apartments could fit in the stretch of space that constituted her living room and kitchen. Polished concrete floors, exposed brick and ductwork and piping painted a pristine white. The loft was on a corner, and two walls of floor-to-ceiling windows joined at the point. Brand new kitchen, all black and white and shiny. Understated, comfortable-looking furniture I was sure cost more than I made in a year. I wandered toward the windows as Stella took off her ringmaster’s coat, then her shoes, hanging on to the island counter to steady herself.
The view was incredible—crisscrossing streets spread out before me, every block packed with buildings. Downtown rose in the distance like a mountain made of industry, and though I couldn’t see it, I knew the East River lay just beyond. I wondered what it looked like at sunrise.