Icarus Rising Page 11

  I drink more. The sun sets. St. Claire has crushed me. I’ve never felt this way. I’ve never shared anything with a woman; the closest I’ve ever come is a string of one night encounters with the same woman. No feelings, no strings, nothing like what I had with St. Claire. And it is over now.

  Sometime after the sun has fallen from the sky a woman slides next to me at the bar. She is a lingerie model, a Victoria’s Secret model I think. The scotch prevents me from remembering. She flirts with me. I don’t care enough about her to even dance verbally with her. I want the pain to go away and the scotch isn’t anesthetizing me well enough or fast enough.

  “You want to go back to my room and fuck?” I ask her. A line like that wouldn’t work for anyone less attractive than bad boy Brandon Fahr. I’m a slut, nothing but a slut.

  The lingerie model giggles and nods. We can’t get to my room fast enough for her. Inside my suite she tries to take my mouth. I turn my head. “I don’t want to kiss you. I just want to fuck you,” I say.

  I want to fuck the pain away. I want to take my pain out on a stranger. I take her roughly by the hair and force her to her knees. The look in her eyes tells me she loves it. She reaches for my fly. I’m not hard, and it’s not the alcohol. I’m disgusted with myself. What am I about to do? Fuck this girl’s throat? Am I going to cheat on St. Claire? Hadn’t she ended our relationship?

  I hate myself. I take the girl’s hands as she is unzipping me. “Get the fuck out,” I slur.

  She looks as if I’ve struck her. “You’re a fucking asshole!” she curses and tries for my fly again. This time I push her roughly away. “What the fuck is your problem?” she shrieks as she scampers for the door. “Fucking asshole!”

  I stand there staring at the door for I don’t know how long. Feels like years but is probably only seconds. I mutter to myself in a drunken haze and stagger to the bed. I want the pain to end and gratefully, thankfully, I pass out.

  Tuesday, Day 16

  I wake up and out of habit reach for St. Claire. It’s almost noon and I’m badly hung over. For that second before I’m fully awake I know peace. Then the realization that I have lost the woman I love hits me. The thought paralyzes me. I should have told her I loved her. Now I’ll never be able to say those words to her, I think. I should have said them. Would it have made a difference now? I honestly don’t know. The worst has happened. St. Claire thinks I cheated on her. Rage overtakes me, as much as it can in my hung over condition. I want to strangle Darwin.

  There is a moment of clarity and I know how I can fix this, how I’ll have Darwin tell St. Claire the truth. The idea that St. Claire thinks I fucked around on her is repugnant to me. I have lost her, which is one thing. To have it end the way it did is unacceptable.

  I reach for the phone to call Wayne to set my trap for Darwin. What the hell is his number? My head pounds so much that I almost can’t think of it. What I want done can be done. I need Darwin’s phone number. I’m sure Wayne has or can easily track down her cell phone number. I am comforted when he answers and I tell him what I need.

  I go to the mini bar and grab a tiny bottle of scotch. I’ll drink the pain away again. The vision of St. Claire, eyes red from crying, tears falling from her beautiful emerald eyes, those images are burned into my soul. I can’t make the pictures go away. I’m on my second bottle when Wayne calls with Darwin’s number.

  I dial the number and Darwin answers. “Hello, Darwin,” I say, my tone open and friendly. It is an effort and distasteful.

  She laughs warmly, victoriously, perhaps. If I could, I would wrap my hands around her throat. “Brandon? I thought you would call.” She laughs again. “I think we are even now for you standing me up.”

  “Darwin, we’re far from even, but we will be soon. You forget that I’m smarter than you.” I strive for a light, breezy tone. I think I fail miserably.

  “What do you mean?” She knows I’m smarter than she is. She senses a trap. Her tone has become wary, a little fearful. It is exactly what I want.

  “You know you look as beautiful as you did three years ago?” I fire a salvo. “When we hang up you’re going to call Rachel St. Claire and tell her you’re full of shit. In fact, you’re going to apologize profusely, offer her anything to make her believe you’re telling the truth this time,” I say evenly.

  “And why would I do that?” She laughs nervously but she knows the noose is tightening. “What are you up to, Brandon?” I can hear her tense.

  “You remember that video we made, Darwin? Just for fun? I still have a copy of it. Every guy wants to pretend his woman was a virgin when they met. No man wants to see his wife getting eaten out and begging to be fucked or on her knees sucking another guy’s big cock, especially if he doesn’t measure up. You know what I mean, don’t you, Darwin? I wonder how your billionaire husband will enjoy watching his trophy wife on all fours screaming like a whore as she gets the fucking of her life.” I let the words sink in.

  There is stunned silence but she recovers quickly. “That was three years ago, Brandon. It’ll cause me an uncomfortable moment or two at the dinner table. Nothing more. Is that all you have?” She tries another laugh but it catches in her throat.

  “You look just as beautiful as you did three years ago, Darwin,” I repeat. “And I know a very dependable guy who can change the timestamp on that little video of ours to indicate it was shot yesterday morning. Don’t you have a prenup that says if you are unfaithful you get nothing?” I pause, she says nothing. “I wonder how many uncomfortable moments at your dinner table there will be if your husband thinks it was yesterday morning you were getting the fucking of your life.” I fall silent.

  “You wouldn’t!” she spits, panicked.

  “Don’t be silly, Darwin. Of course I would.” I’m suddenly tired, so tired of these games, but the stakes are too high. “You’ve got Rachel’s number.” I hang up.

  I finish the scotch, then the gin. I tackle the vodka and I have no idea what I open next. Time goes by, I don’t know how long I sit here in my misery. I have quite a collection of the tiny little bottles. The phone rings. I pick it up. I don’t say anything. It is St. Claire.

  “Icarus?” She sounds nervous.

  “Yeah.” I don’t trust myself to say more.

  “I just got off the phone with Darwin. She told me the truth. Fuck, Icarus, I’m sorry. Everything is happening so fast. I got scared. I fucked up. I asked you not to let me fuck things up. Fuck, just fuck. I’m babbling. Say something, Icarus, please.”

  I love that voice. The tone tugs at my very core. Even through my alcohol induced haze I can hear her vulnerability. I want to tell her everything is okay. I want to tell her I love her. I’m drunk. The stupid rises to the surface.

  “You’re sorry? Well, I guess that makes everything okay. Right, St. Claire? Fuck, I can’t call you that, can I? What the fuck do I call you?” I want to hurt her. It’s petty. She had hurt me so badly. I want to give her the hurt back.

  “Call me St. Claire...” I had wounded her, I can hear it. I hate to admit that it gives me a modicum of satisfaction. I don’t let her finish what she might want to say.

  “You didn’t even ask me if I fucked her, Rachel.” I use her name like a dagger. “You were so quick to fucking believe her. Fuck.” I know I’m drunk. I never curse this much, fuck, I never curse. I hate the bile I’m spewing, I hate that I’m out to draw blood. I can’t stop.

  “Please, Icarus, haven’t you ever made a mistake? Haven’t you ever done something stupid? Something you wished you could take back? I’m sorry, Icarus.”

  “I loved you, Rachel, and you dumped me. You broke my fucking heart!” It’s not how I wanted to tell her I loved her. I’m sure it’s not how she wanted to hear it.

  “You thought I dumped you? I didn’t dump you, Icarus. We had a fight. A big fight. We’re going to have fights. You don’t throw away a relationship because of a fight,” she says. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

  “I’m fucking wasted
, Rachel.” I continue to twist the blade. “I got drunk yesterday. I’m getting drunk now, and chances are pretty fucking good I’m getting drunk tomorrow. I don’t know the first thing about relationships. I’m the one-date fucking wonder. Nothing but a slut, right? You fucking scare the shit out of me.”

  “Come home, Icarus, please come home. I’m sorry, I was scared,” she pleads. “It was just a fight, I was wrong.”

  “Just a fight? You thought I fucked her!” I can’t stand that I’m hurting her, but I can’t put away my pride. I know I’m acting like a child. I can’t bear her voice anymore, her pain, not with me as the cause. I don’t just hang up, I yank the phone from the wall.

  I throw the phone at the mirror, shattering it. It is cathartic. I grab the lamp from the side of the bed and throw it through the television. I know now why rock stars trash their hotel rooms. I do a job on my suite that any rock star would be proud of.

  I stagger to the bathroom and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’m unshaven, my eyes are red, I’m wearing the same clothes I slept in. I hear my mother’s voice and I look at my hands. My hands are dirty. I turn the hot water on and wash my hands. The water is soon scalding. I can’t stop washing my hands. They are dirty, so dirty. The water is burning me, but I can’t stop washing my hands. I need my hands to paint but I can’t take them from the agonizing stream of hot water.

  It is the hotel’s policy to call the police when a guest is destroying one of their rooms. This is information I thought I'd never have. I am rescued from myself by two police officers. We stop at the hospital on the way to jail so doctors might tend to my burned hands. They apply salve and bandage them. What have I done?

  I’m put in a holding cell but am bailed out quickly. St. Claire is waiting for me. I’m sure they’ve told her everything. She’s here now; she must have gone to the hotel sometime after I ended our call. She steals a quick glance at my hands, but doesn’t comment. She’s holding a shimmering gold scarf. She puts it around my neck and draws me close. “Come home, Icarus, I’m sorry,” she whispers in my ear.

  “I love you,” I finally say.

  She bites her lip. “Tell me again when you’re sober,” she says softly.

  “Advantage, St. Claire.” I’m not even sure if I say this out loud.

  There is a throng of paparazzi waiting for us outside. My legend has surely grown. St. Claire and I go home together. I pass out in her arms.

  Wednesday, Day 17

  I wake late and St. Claire and I are in bed at our condo. I like that so much I will set it down again... our condo. I’m ferociously hung over, and I’m wearing the same clothes I’ve slept in twice now. This is becoming a habit and I really don’t care for that. My hands throb painfully. My head is on St. Claire’s bare stomach. She is naked. My eyes run over her exquisite body.

  I look to the clock it reads 2 p.m., I look up at her and she is gazing down at me. She has been watching me sleep as I usually watch her sleep. She runs a hand through my short blond hair and smiles down at me.

  “Rehearsal?” I croak through dry lips and a parched throat.

  “I’ve cancelled rehearsals for the next couple of days. I’ve been driving everyone hard. I’m happy with where we are.” She laughs quietly. “That’s a lie. I’m taking a couple days off to spend with you. I've even shut off my cell phone. That’s a big deal, Icarus, so tell me you love me!”

  “I love you, St. Claire.” The words flow from my lips without hesitation.

  “I love you, too, Icarus.” It is harder for her to say the words, but she says them.

  We look at each other and smile as the gravity of our twin admissions sink in, then St. Claire is reaching for my sweater.

  Undressing is a chore St. Claire helps me with. I can’t use my hands without terrible pain, they are wrapped like a mummy’s. St. Claire doesn’t ask about my hands. What have I done?

  St. Claire orders room service. A mountain of food. I didn’t eat yesterday, my stomach seems to roar when reminded. She also orders chilled vanilla chai tea. “Great for a hangover,” she explains.

  I am naked and St. Claire runs a fingertip up my shaft. I harden at her touch. “I love that cock!” she exclaims before moving to the bathroom. She comes back with a bowl of warm water, a washcloth, and soap. She washes every inch of me. It is the most selfless and sensual thing anyone has ever done for me. She disappears back into the bathroom and emerges with shaving cream and a razor. She straddles my chest, and lathers up my face. “You’re not going to cut my ear off are you?” I tease.

  “It worked for Van Gogh, didn’t it?” She shakes her head a little and laughs, sending red ringlets into motion around her beautiful face. “If I can shave my pussy I can shave your face.”

  With her first stroke she nicks me. She laughs nervously. “You moved! Don’t move!”

  “I didn’t move, St. Claire! I’m going to die in this bed, aren’t I?”

  “Not if you don’t move!” she laughs.

  Finishing, she appraises her work, she looks pleased. She then leans down and claims my lips. The kiss is soft, slow, and passionate. “It seems I have you in a very vulnerable position.” She grins, mischief dances behind those emerald eyes. She slides down my chest and stops to rest straddling my abs. She runs her hands up my chest and her fingertips circle my nipples. My nipples are sensitive. I let out a soft gasp. She leans down and takes my left nipple between her lips. This draws another gasp from me.

  It strikes me that St. Claire and I don’t do a lot of foreplay when St. Claire slides down me, and reaching my throbbing dick, rears up, places me at her entrance and in one stroke engulfs me in her scorching pussy. We both cry out as I fill her.

  There is a knock at the door. It is room service. “Leave it at the fucking door!” St. Claire yells, then looking back at me her eyes fill with lust. “No more interruptions.” I buck upwards and she throws her head back and lets out another tiny cry. “I love the way you fill me. I’ve never felt so complete.” She starts to move her hips a little. She keeps me buried to the hilt but moves in a slow circular motion.

  Fuck, it feels good to be inside her. I move my bandaged hands to her hips. She takes one of my hands and gently moves it midway up her stomach. “Use your fingertips. Feel this.” Through her stomach I can feel my hard cock. I marvel at how deep I am inside her. She moves her hips in that agonizingly slow motion and I can feel myself, through her abdomen, inching further inside her. I don’t know why I find this such a turn on. “Can you feel it?” She smiles down at me. “You’re in me so deep.”

  I need to fuck her. I need to drive into her. I need to take her. What she is doing feels incredible, but I have to take her. I push her down on her back, her eyes widen. I prop myself up on my elbows to protect my hands. I think she sees the lust in my eyes, the need. We tried it in this position our first night together and it didn’t work. I’m still buried completely in her as I move on top. I see a flash of fear in her eyes. “I need to fuck you, St. Claire.”

  She bites her lip, readying herself, she nods. “Do it, Icarus.”

  I pull out of her hotness until only the tip of my cock is inside her, and then I slam it all the way home. She cries out, screams. I hold myself all the way inside her for a heartbeat or two before I slide all but the head of my cock out of her. I drive my hips forward and in one motion am enveloped in her fully again. She cries out as I come to rest completely sheathed in her pussy for the briefest of seconds, before I am withdrawing again.

  I continue fucking her hard. Pounding her. She cries out with each stroke and is clawing at my back, soon she is screaming as I relentlessly take her again and again. I can feel her coming around my cock but I don’t stop.

  “Fuck, Icarus, fuck!” she calls out again and again. “Fuck, me, oh god, fuck me!” She is screaming. She is soaking me. I can feel her hot juices running down the bed.

  I fuck her through two orgasms before I can’t take it anymore. I bury myself fully in her and start to come. I cr
y out her name as I fill her. She moves her hips to squeeze every drop from me. It is my turn to call her name. “Fuck, St. Claire, I’m coming. I’m coming inside you,” I cry out. I can see her close her eyes and she smiles each time another jet of my cum hits her uterus. I collapse on top of her. Her hips continue to move, I squirm, I’m softening and so sensitive, but she wants every drop of me.

  “You’re going to stretch me out, Icarus. You’ve ruined me for other men,” she jokes, catching her breath.

  “Good!”

  I withdraw and roll off her. A river of my cum and her juices flow out of her after I pull out. I rest my head on her stomach, she runs her fingers through my hair.

  “I want to meet your sister,” she says much later as we lay in post coital bliss.

  “We can go tomorrow.” I would give her anything.

  We spend the rest of the day in bed.

  Thursday, Day 18

  Last night St. Claire made all the arrangements for us to fly out to visit my sister today. I try to explain my sister’s appearance, to give her some warning of my sister’s shocking visage. It’s not easy for me. I warn her that even I am taken unaware each time I see my sister, and that she should be prepared. Elise had taken the brunt of my mother’s madness, had taken the cross from me, and now look what I had done to myself. I look to my hands. St. Claire stops me. She knows. Guy had done his research, apparently.

  Much of my life, and my sister’s life by extension, has been well documented. Not that my sister failed to capture headlines, but there has been much written about me, including whatever could be gleaned from public records. I have no doubt that much of my life has been laid bare before St. Claire if Guy is half as efficient as Wayne.

  St. Claire helps me dress. More accurately, St Claire dresses me. She loves me in jeans. I wear a pair of fashionably faded blue jeans and a black turtleneck. She fuses with the gold scarf she had draped around my neck at the police station. Finally the scarf hangs perfectly in her eyes. She looks at me and smiles. I get the highest praise St. Claire offers: “Fuck, you’re hot.”