But I didn’t want to lose the story either. And now I was in danger of losing both.
I’d figure something out. And in the meantime, I’d cover my tracks and hope to God she didn’t find out.
If she did, she’d blow me to hell, and my story would be the gunpowder.
I rubbed my lips as I strode to my desk, opening my laptop once I was sitting, wishing for a cigarette but stuffing a piece of gum in my mouth instead. I’d been thinking about last night, my brain chewing on scraps of what I’d seen, tugging the strings of fleeting feelings it’d evoked. And then the thrill of getting busted, of running from the cops, of Stella’s legs around me, on my bike and off.
There was heady magic in the Bright Young Things, and I wanted to learn how to bottle it up.
I had a feeling Stella was the one who could teach me.
An hour and a thousand words passed before I even realized it, the night unfolding word by word on the page. When I picked up my phone, which I’d absently left upside down on my desk, I found a text from Stella.
Tell me when I’ll see you again.
I smiled down at my phone. How’s your Wednesday looking?
Going to a small house party. Want to come?
Count me in. Dinner first?
If by dinner you mean fucking, absolutely.
A laugh eased out of me as I typed back. Anything you want. When’s the next party?
We’ll know when Cecelia tells us. I’ll keep you posted.
Tell me when and where, and I’ll be there. Anytime.
Good.
With a sigh both heavy and sated, I set my phone down and turned back to my screen, the words licking at my brain, shivering in my fingertips, anxious to escape.
And I hoped I’d find a way out of the box I’d been so carelessly stuffed into.
11
Can't Say No
LEVI
Several days of work passed, marked by a clock that counted down to when I’d see Stella again. The article on the circus was finished and edited, and I’d been promised a heads-up before it went live, though my faith was thin at best. So I braced myself for impact, just in case.
My editors were even happier with the circus piece than the speakeasy, which was phenomenal for my career.
For my morals, not so much.
I’d been chewing on a game plan for telling Stella, made more complicated by my boss. But the second I turned in the last piece, I had to tell her. I’d explain my duplicity and hope she could see the gray area as a plus rather than a minus. My plan for the articles wasn’t an exposé but an applaud, and if she found appreciation for that, there was a chance she wouldn’t be mad at all. If I gained her trust, she might believe my intentions were good. But deep down, I knew better. She was going to feel betrayed no matter what I did. If it hadn’t been for Yara and Marcella taking matters into their own hands, things would have been simpler. Maybe not easier, but definitely simpler.
And here I’d thought I knew what I was doing.
When I killed the engine of my bike, the sound was replaced by muffled music that flowed from the brownstone in front of me.
Though the sun had been down for hours, it was still hot, but I’d opted for jeans and combats, not certain of much, but definitely certain shorts weren’t going to be up to snuff for an unofficial Bright Young Things party.
I pulled off my helmet and raked a hand through my hair, assessing the house in front of me. Every window was lit, the curtains open and casings framing clusters of the young and beautiful. It was the residence of one of the core members of the group, but Stella hadn’t told me whose, just sent me the address and told me to walk right in. So I locked up my bike with the intent to do just that.
I trotted up the cement steps and opened the massive black door, instantly hit with the sounds of a party already well under way.
The foyer was somehow both grand and understated, with white wood paneling and dark wood floors and a ceiling so high, scaffolding would have been required to work on the plaster detailing around the modest chandelier.
I hadn’t even known a chandelier could be modest until just then.
Rooms spoked off from the entry, connected through wide casings in what seemed to be a horseshoe around the foyer and staircase. Smoke hung in the air alongside laughter and music as I made my way through the first room, then the second, looking for Stella. But I only found groups of people—longtime friends, judging by their ease and comfort—clustered on couches and standing near windows with crystal glasses in their hands. This was not a crowd for beer, but one for martinis and scotch, and though no one was in cocktail attire, they somehow made even jeans and sundresses feel opulent.
A few eyes followed me as I passed, but no one stopped me. And around I went in search of the girl I’d come to see, the girl I wanted to see off the record and without any objective but her lips and her laughter.
“Well, would you look at that?” someone said in my direction, and I turned to find Ash smirking at me. He extended a hand for a bro slap. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Stella.”
He shook his head, still smiling. “Fucking dog.” He leaned in. “If you get me in trouble for this, I’m gonna burn your house down.”
I chuckled. “Don’t worry. You had no idea what I was doing, did you?”
“Not a clue, and I’ll stand by that, even when your head’s in the guillotine.” He took a sip of his drink. “So you and Stella?”
“Me and Stella.”
Ash watched me for a second. “Don’t fuck her up, Levi.”
“I’m doing my best not to.”
One of his brows rose. “Coulda fooled me.”
“I didn’t know they were going to publish it,” I said so no one else could hear. “They were supposed to wait.”
“Well, it’s done now. Hope you’ve got a plan.”
“I’ve always got a plan,” I assured him with a cavalier smile. “I need to find Stella. You seen her?”
His eyes flicked behind me, his smile tilting higher. “Sure have.”
He pointed his drink in the direction of his eyeline, and I turned to find her striding toward me.
I wondered if there was ever a moment where she didn’t shine, where the light didn’t catch and cling to her. Tonight, she wore a dress of white, covered in small pearly sequins, with spaghetti straps and a short hem, giving me a view of her legs I thanked my lucky stars for. Nothing about the dress was formal other than the shimmer of sequins—the waist was cinched and the fabric loose and draping and Grecian in design. It gave only a hint of her curves, the slightness of her waist and gentle swells of her breasts only whispered.
But her smile was the brightest of all.
She slid into me, arms first, then lips. And I took a long moment to reacquaint myself with them.
Stella broke the kiss to smile up at me but didn’t unwind her arms from my waist. “You made it.”
“I did.” My eyes shifted to assess the room. “Whose house is this?”
“Farrah Rashad.”
I hummed my understanding. Her father was Malik Rashad, first a hip-hop artist in the ’90s, then a beatmaker, now the head of one of the biggest music labels in the business.