The Underwriting (31 page)

Her hands played with his hair as his lips moved down her neck and she reached to pull off her blouse. She caught the reflection in the window: this man kissing her chest, mingled with the city's lights and bustle, and she realized this was what women meant when they talked about feeling sexy.

He stopped and put his hand to her cheek. “Are you okay?” he asked gently.

She nodded, smiling, and let her forehead fall on his. He smiled back, and picked her up to carry her to the bedroom.

He pushed her onto the bed and she arched her back as his lips resumed their kisses. He slid his hand to unsnap her bra in a single movement, and she hesitated with the ease of his motion, remembering his playboy reputation.
Don't think about it
, she told herself. He took his own shirt off and slid his forearm behind her arched waist and pulled her effortlessly up so that her head was on the pillow. She willed her brain to stop thinking about why he wasn't at all clumsy:
Who cares? Just appreciate that he knows what he's doing.

His lips continued their trajectory to her navel and the top of her lace underwear as he unzipped her skirt and pushed it down over her ankles.
How many girls have been in this bed?
She felt her body tense as he moved his lips between her legs and she became conscious of her stubble: it had been four days since she'd shaved.
How did you forget to shave?
she screamed at herself.
Katerina wouldn't have forgotten to shave.

She ran her fingers through his hair and whispered, “It's okay,” coaxing him back toward her face. He batted her hand away as he gently kissed her inner thigh. His warm breath gave her chills and she closed her eyes, willing herself to relax. But she couldn't now. Not with him
there
, comparing her to all the others, who had remembered to get waxed and lasered and trimmed—all those women who knew what to do when a man was doing
this.

She moaned with pleasure so he wouldn't think she was rude. “Yes, there,” she said in as sexy a voice as she could muster. It feels good, she told herself, his tongue moving here and there and right
there
and “Oh,” she caught herself. How long had he been down there? Too long. She put both hands in his hair and gently pulled his head up. “Come on,” she said. “Let's do this together.” He looked at her and cocked his eyebrow skeptically. “I just started,” he countered. “Relax.” And he resumed his efforts.

“Come on,” she whispered again, more firmly this time. “I just want to feel you inside of me.”

“Do you mean it?” He slid his body back upward so he was on his hands and knees over her, his eyes not believing her.

“Yes,” she insisted, brushing his hair back behind his ear.

“I wish you would let me,” he said.

She shook her head. “I'm sorry. I'm not good at this.”

“That isn't true; just relax,” he whispered, reaching for a condom while he unbuckled his pants.

He pressed himself inside of her and the feeling made her forget the other women.

“Yes,” she said, meaning it this time.

His hands were firm on her body, directing her with the same masculine authority as they'd directed the car's gearshift. A thin film of perspiration formed on his body, mingling with her own, and the stickiness made her feel alive, connected, like there was pleasure in the imperfect.

“I'm almost there,” she whispered, knowing she wasn't, and he moved faster.

“Come.”

“You first,” he said.

She hesitated again. “Okay,” she breathed more heavily.

“Don't fake it,” he said.

“I—” she started.

“Don't,” he said.

“I'm not going to,” she admitted.

But he was already there, and grunted, his muscles relaxing around her body. She tried not to move, letting him have his moment while her own heartbeat slowed.

He rolled over onto his back, breathing heavily. “Wow,” he finally said.

“That was great,” she agreed, rolling onto her side to face him.

“You didn't come,” he said without opening his eyes.

“I never do,” she admitted. “Don't take it personally.” Then she added, “Not that I do this often.”

He laughed, still catching his breath. “We'll get you there.”

She smiled, comforted by the thought he didn't want this to be the only time.

A noise rang from the other room.

“What's that?” he asked when it didn't stop.

“My phone alarm,” she realized. She'd set it for nine a.m. and nine p.m. to remind her to take her Celexa, which she'd upped to twice a day. But they were in London, so the alarm was five hours ahead.

She pulled her legs out of bed and found her underwear in the sheets, then pulled on her blouse.

“Stay naked,” he said from his pillow. “Why can't you accept how hot you are?”

She laughed at his compliment—didn't he realize he'd already gotten laid?—and went to the other room, turning off her phone and digging for her pills. She saw her BlackBerry light flashing but ignored it: whatever it was could wait three hours. She poured a glass of water and came back to bed, swallowing her Celexa, half a Xanax and a handful of vitamins.

“You take drugs?” he asked. He'd sat up in bed and was typing something on his BlackBerry.

“Yes, I'm an addict.”

“Of what?”

“Birth control, vitamin B, ginkgo, calcium, Celexa,” she said, leaving out the Xanax, which she worried would give the impression she had issues.

“Celexa?” He looked up from his BlackBerry and made a face. “Are you depressed?”

“I've been on it for a long time,” she said.

“How long?”

“Since I was fourteen.”

“Bloody hell, no wonder you can't have orgasms.”

“What?”

“It's a libido suppressant. So is birth control,” he said, returning to his device.

Was that true? Her doctor had never mentioned that.

“Why are you depressed?” he continued without looking up.

“I'm not depressed,” she said defensively, crawling back into bed and taking her blouse off again.

“Then why do you take an antidepressant?”

“I just use it as a precaution, I guess, so I don't get overly emotional about things. No reason not to.”

“It keeps you from feeling,” he said.

“No,” she corrected. “It keeps me from letting too many feelings cloud my judgment and my ability to evaluate their roots.” She repeated the explanation her doctor had given her when she'd made the same protest half her life ago.

He lifted a judgmental eyebrow.

“I
was
depressed,” she said, “and it was really bad, okay? I don't want to go back to that—ever.”

He pursed his lips. “What can possibly make a fourteen-year-old depressed?”

“My youngest sister died,” she said.

“Shit,” Callum said. “How?”

“Leukemia.”

“They couldn't find a donor?”

“They did, but the transplant didn't work,” she said, looking away.

“Babe, I'm so sorry.” He reached a hand over to hers.

“It's not your fault.”

“Do you have other siblings?”

“Another sister,” she said. “She's getting married next week, actually.”

“Where's the wedding?”

“Maine,” she said. “My grandparents had a house there, so we'd go up in the summer.”

“That'll be nice.”

“Oh, I can't go.” She forced a smile so he'd know she didn't need to be comforted. She had called her mother on the way to the airport to tell her she wasn't coming, and sent a long e-mail to Lisbeth on the flight explaining why. “We'll be in the middle of the road show.”

“What?” he said. “It's your sister's wedding.”

“It's the biggest IPO of the year,” she countered with the mantra she'd been telling herself.

“Shit.” Callum leaned over to turn out the light. “No wonder you're depressed.”

“I'm not depressed,” she said firmly, offended by his tone.

“Right,” he said sarcastically, “you're just on antidepressants as a precaution.”

“You have no idea what it was like,” she said, allowing herself to remember fourteen just long enough to prove her point. “I didn't want to do anything,” she said. “I just wanted to sit there and be numb. And it was my sophomore year—do you have any idea how important sophomore year is in America? I had to take the PSAT, I had to do AP classes. I couldn't afford to lie in bed being sad: it would legitimately have ruined all my opportunities, just like getting overly emotional now would derail everything I've been working toward.”

Callum looked at her again, but his hazel eyes had gotten sad.

“Don't pity me,” she said firmly, moving her legs from under the covers.

“What are you doing?”

“I don't know why I did this,” she said, shaking her head as she stood and looked around for her bra.

“Let yourself almost feel something?” he replied without sitting up. “Get back in bed.”

“No,” she said. “I'm going back to the hotel.”

“Tara, don't be absurd. I didn't mean—”

“You don't know what you're talking about, okay?” she said sternly. “I don't have the options you do.”

“To feel?”

“To risk losing control.”

It was suddenly so clear: she couldn't take advice from him—he had already had his success—he had money and power and he was a man; he could afford to be casual and relaxed in a way she couldn't. He was totally untrustworthy.

He laughed.

“What?” she snapped.

“Don't you see?” he asked. “That you already have?”

“What are you talking about?” she said, angry.

“You've given all your control over to L.Cecil,” he said gently. “You're not in control, and you like it that way because it means you don't ever have to make any decisions for yourself. All that independence of yours, and you're terrified of the responsibility of owning your own path. You're afraid you might decide wrong.”

“I've got to go,” she said, her voice quiet.

“Tara, wait!” he called, but she was already out the door.

JUAN

F
RIDAY
, M
AY
2; L
ONDON
, E
NGLAND

He should be in bed. It was two thirty in the morning and they were leaving the hotel at seven thirty to go to Geneva. They should all be in bed.

But Juan wasn't tired, and he wouldn't be able to sleep even if he were. Every time he closed his eyes he thought about Kelly and Robby and what he was going to do if Robby actually went to jail. So he'd gone with Todd, Nick and Beau to a club somewhere in London where he now sat, by himself, on a long sofa at their table, guarding the magnum of champagne and still thinking about Kelly and Robby.

Think about the fact you're in London,
he told himself.
Think about how cool that is, and how cool your life is going to be from here on out.
But this club was not cool: it was just a bunch of drunk people in nice clothes showing off for each other while the music pounded too loudly to hear what anyone was saying.

“Let me get you a drink,” Todd said to Nick as he led him back to the table and poured a glass of champagne from the enormous bottle.

“I'm being serious, Todd,” Nick stammered, holding on to a chair to maintain his balance. He was wasted. “
I'm
CEO,” he said, pointing to his chest. “I get to be center of attention, not you.”

“I know, man.” Todd was drunk, too, but not like Nick. “I'm your wingman, buddy. I was just playing backup today. This is all your show. Why don't you sit down for a little bit?” Todd laughed, unbothered, and ushered Nick to the couch, where the CEO promptly let his head fall back and his eyes close.

“He had a good night.” Todd smiled at Juan. “You doing okay?”

“Great,” Juan said. “Just taking it all in.”

“Sure,” Todd said. “Awesome club, right? They do it so well over here.”

“Definitely,” Juan lied.

“There you are.” A girl who looked like a model tapped Todd's shoulder and he pulled her toward him, kissing her mouth with the same casual ritual with which he'd shaken investors' hands at dinner.

Juan scanned the room for Beau. Juan always felt responsible for making sure everyone was okay. He saw the associate by the bar, talking to a girl in short shorts and tall heels that made her skinny legs look freakishly long. Their faces were close, glowing in the purple-blue lights beaming from the ceiling.

Juan sipped his beer and watched. His roommate Julie had hooked up with Beau the last time he was in San Francisco, which Juan only knew because he'd come downstairs the next morning to find the banking associate in their kitchen using Juan's laptop to recharge his phone.

Juan didn't get it. Julie was smart: what did she see in a guy like Beau? He and Todd treated women terribly. Maybe if this was the track Robby Goodman, with his eighty-two Hook meet-ups, was on, it was just as well he got locked away and the world was saved from one more asshole.

Juan watched Beau hand the girl a shot and they each took one, squinting at the taste, before she fell into him, pressing her open mouth on his.

Beau led the girl back to the couch and they started making out. Juan shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

It was three o'clock now.
Screw it
, he decided, standing to leave.

He looked around for Todd to see if he wanted him to take Nick out.

“Yo, Juan,” Beau called from the couch. “You know if those cars are still here?”

The girl smiled flirtatiously at Juan, her eyelids barely open. She was wasted.

“Yeah,” Juan said. “I was just going to go back to the hotel. Do you know her address? I'm sure one of them would take her home.”