Fool's Gold: A Kisses and Crimes Novel (29 page)

The thought makes me grow hard.
Irrationally and undeniably hard
.

I’m close to Elena, but not close enough for her to feel it.

If I step one millimeter nearer, I’ll be skimming the “v” of her thighs with an erection that could hammer nails.

She starts speaking, and I have to look away from her lips and concentrate back on her eyes.
Those amazing, light blue eyes.

“It’s really not unexpected,” she declares. “After what you did earlier, I owed you one. And
now
… the favor’s returned. Have a good evening, Lukas.”

She extracts herself from my arms, turning away without a backward glance. She walks in the direction of the ladies’ room, and I am confused about what to do next.

Damn.

My cock tells me to follow, but my pride just plants my feet. The latter wins the battle this time, but then again… he always does.

I’ve never been one to chase after a woman. Never had to… until now.
Sigh.
This is going to be harder than I thought.

I need another drink.

“When you see a good move, look for a better one.”  -  Emanuel Lasker

ELENA

I act as if I’m going to the bathroom in case Lukas follows. When I’m sure that he isn’t, I make a detour, heading for the preparatory kitchen.

Cake. Cake. Cake.

I need some cake.
Something
to calm me down.

Sweets were always a go-to in our household growing up. My mother always said, “There was no illness that sugar couldn’t cure.” If we hadn’t gone to the dentist regularly, our teeth would’ve rotted right out of our heads.

Luckily, we made it into adulthood with our original bicuspids in tact, but that crazy sweet tooth hasn’t escaped a single one of us.

I need the cake to bring my nerves back to neutral. And I’ve already had enough alcohol to drown a small nation.

I whiz past waiters and trays and chefs with large hats. I scan the countertops, the cabinets until
bingo—
I hit the fridge. The rush of air is cold and refreshing, and my eyes are gobbling up every square inch of space.

Cake. Cake. Cake. Cake. Ah-ha!

But the cake is far too large, and I wouldn’t be able to sneak it out of here without getting discovered and dropping the large sheet all over the kitchen floor.

Think, Elena. Think.

Oh, yessss. Cupcakes.

They sit on the bottom shelf with champagne and creamy white hues of frosting, topped with decorative and shiny round-shaped sprinkles.

I reach for them like a crack-fiend. I’m no better than Lukas’s coked-out groupie in the ballroom, but I have no choice.
I need this.

I grab two cupcakes, pulling them close to my body before closing the fridge completely. I shield them with my arms as I pass the unsuspecting and, frankly, unconcerned wait and kitchen staff.

I stow away with my stolen stash into a separate side-room near the kitchen, where I sink into a white and unused foldout chair with my treasure, ready to eat.

The minute I sink my teeth into the frosting, I feel calm.
Mmmffff,
I mumble through a mouth full of buttercream.
There. That’s better.

Eating the cupcake gives me time to simmer down, time to think. Time to reconsider all of these crazy ass ideas that have been popping into my head.

Like kissing Lukas.

What
… the
hell
… is
wrong…
with
me?
My subconscious is
screaming
at me at this point.

What are you thinking, Elena? You
hate
this guy.
Hated
this guy.

Wait… Is this past tense? Or present?

Have I all of a sudden
stopped
hating this guy? No… that can’t be right, but then…

Why did I want to kiss him? Why do I
want
to kiss him?
Present tense.

As in
now
. Like, right now.

While my lips and teeth are sinking into this soft and succulent cake.
Soft… So soft… Like Luke’s lips.

My thoughts meander.

His bottom lip looked divinely supple. I tried not to stare at it, but then I would have had to stare into his eyes, and that would’ve been
infinitely
more dangerous.

They’re a deep evergreen color…
like a forest
. They’re framed by lively, dark eyelashes that constantly move as his eyes look me up and down. I feel lost when I look into them: abandoned in an evergreen wilderness from which there is no escape.

I shake my head. I’m talking crazy.
I’m drunk.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this drunk. And I’m a mess. Not on the outside, but on the inside. On the
outside
, I think I’m still passing off as calm and collected.

But internally, my stomach is going nuts, and I am secretly craving a taste of something else.
Something stronger than alcohol. Something sweeter than confection.

Something like Lukas.

A loud sound rings out in the empty room, almost making me jump out of my seat. I start to panic from where I sit, my head rotating on a rapid swivel, when I realize that the sound is coming from me.

It’s my cell phone in my wristlet. It’s ringing.
It’s Linda
calling.

I’m a piece of shit.

I’ve been putting off returning her phone call for days and now she’s resorted to calling me at the party. She knows I’m here… so why would she call?

It must be more important than the fashion emergency that I had previously assumed. I pick up the phone.

“Hello?”

“
Elle?
What the hell, girl? I’ve been calling you for days on end.
Where have you been?
”

I huff heavily. “In Tampa… trying to piece my goddamned life together. I’m sorry, Lin.”

Her voice softens. “Don’t be sorry for me, Elle. I have some bad news.” She hesitates.

“Looks like one of our pieces dropped out of the puzzle.
Someone purchased the studio space we were buying.
”

A long pause stretches out while I try to gather my thoughts. A minute passes.
Two.
Linda shows infinite patience.

I finally manage to find my words. “Wait…
what
? That can’t be… My offer on that space was pending.”

Linda sucks in a breath over the phone. “Not anymore. And as your friend, your attorney and your active representative, they broke the news to me a little over a week ago.

“I just didn’t want to break the news to
you
through voicemail or text. Just didn’t feel right.” She gives a small sigh, and it drops like a final axe, like the thud of a gavel, closing the case.
Game over.

And there it is. That’s all, folks. Looks like I’m back to square one.

I don’t know what I feel.
Hell
… I’m not even sure what feeling
is
at this moment.

I’m too tipsy to process anything—too drunk to register any true emotions.

I wait for the additional kick to the gut, for the fiery onslaught of outrage to hit me, but neither one appears.

In fact, something totally unrelated starts to happen.
I laugh.

The sound is almost hysterical, and I can hear myself cackling uncontrollably, but I can’t do anything to stop it.

I can barely hear Linda’s voice over the noise.

“
Elle
?”

“I’m sorry, Linda baby, but this is a
party
,” I squeak.

“Sure, I’m going to have to tuck my tail between my legs and go crawling back to my misery in Memphis. But
tonight
?

“I am fully
fucking
sedated. And if I’m lucky, I’ll get fully
fucked
as well. I’ll talk to you in person tomorrow.”

I hang up at the fading sound of my name, stuffing my cell phone back in the small pocket of the purse attached to my wrist.

I pick up my cupcake to take another bite. A minute passes before I consider what I just did.
Shit.
Did I really mean what I told Linda?

I just don’t know…

Maybe I’m using all of this
hoopla
to self-medicate.
The party, the cupcakes… Lukas.
It could all be a numbing method—a temporary anesthetic.

A large clatter from the adjacent kitchen interrupts my thoughts. I hear a voice soon after. A very
distinctive
voice.

I can’t avoid him. And if what I’m thinking really
does
apply, he may be just what the doctor ordered.

***

LUKAS

Despite being caught in a game of “Cat-and-Mouse” with the elusive Elena, I’m actually enjoying this party that we’ve arranged.

The drinks are cold. The women are hot.

But why the
fuck
doesn’t
anyone
here speak English?

I make a drinking motion with my hand. “White cognac,” I say. “White cog-nac.”

The kitchen staff stares back at me with blank eyes. I point to an empty glass on the counter.
White… Clear…

They don’t understand a word I’m saying.
Where’s the damn water?

They motion towards each other, speaking to one another in fluent French. I hear the word “tequila.”

“Tequila!
Yes!” I slam an excited fist on the counter. “Tequila. I’ll take some of that.”

A chef in a large white hat nods, reaching into a cabinet and pulling out a bottle of amber-colored liquid.

“Yes!
No
!... Not gold.
Silver.
Sil-ver.” I enunciate as if it will help them understand me any faster.

Ask me anything in Italian, and I’ll spit it right out. Talk to me in French, and watch my brain fry itself from the stress.

I start pointing at random staffers. “How about you?
Ingles?
”
No, that’s Spanish. “Aleman?” Fuck. No.

What’s the French word for English?

Ang-something. Anglee. Anglass.

Ah! It’s
Ang…

“Le monsieur veut savoir comment dire en anglais en français,” says a voice from behind me.

I wheel around to find myself staring at the “lady in red.” She raises her eyebrows, glancing quickly at me, and then back at the kitchen staff.

“Il veut aussi savoir si vous avez une liqueur claire.” Her French is impeccable, mellifluous.

The staffers exclaim simultaneously, throwing their hands into the air with mirthful enthusiasm. “Ahh, liquer clair!”

They talk excitedly. “Au début, nous ne savions pas ce qu'il voulait,” one of the chefs cries out.

“À un certain moment , nous avons pensé que peut-être même qu'il demandait des faveurs sexuelles.” He finishes the sentence with the same drinking motion that I used earlier.

Elena bursts out into laughter, prompting my eyes to dart between her and the staffer. She catches my narrowed eye.

“Something
funny
?” I ask.

She giggles, covering her mouth with a small hand. I realize that I’m the butt of some
French-fried
joke.

My anger is taking turns with desire, and the two jockey for position on the tip of my tongue. I don’t know whether to kiss Elena or curse her.

“They’re saying you confused them—that at one point, they thought you might be, uh…
asking
for sexual favors.” She makes that same “bottoms up” gesture.

Watching Elena do it, I realize how close the motion is to the act of sucking…

I
bristle
, getting ready to wipe the smirk off of the chefs’ grinning faces. They may not understand English… but they do understand the sudden anger that is radiating from my direction.

Their smiles drop.

The last chef to speak shakes his head at Elena, speaking even lower. “Aucune liqueur blanche.”

She nods ruefully in response. “Merci beaucoup, Messieurs. A bientot.”

She tugs insistently on my sleeve, pulling me gently into the next room. It’s quiet in this smaller space—with just me, Elena, and some extra chairs. In one of the chairs sits a swirly beige cupcake.

I turn to Elena. “That’s the second time you’ve rescued me tonight. Didn’t know you were as tired of the brown liquor as I was.”