Captive of a Commoner Read online

  There was something else that prevented me from resenting Chase’s high-handedness. It was the way he looked at me, like he cared, like my safety mattered to him. It was the first time I felt that from anyone other than family, and it tickled something inside my belly that no one has succeeded in doing since. Hence, kiss number two.

  He hesitates, just for a heartbeat, then holding the back of my head, he pulls me into him and kisses me back, hard and long, his tongue seeking mine, teasing, tasting, I melt into his touch, sighing softly.

  Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise.

  We separate and he blows out a gust of air then eyes me angrily.

  “Where did you learn to kiss like that?”

  My head is fuzzy, my feet have yet to touch earth, and my first cohesive thought is a loud: what just happened? Followed by: is he for real? I look again, just to make sure. Oh yeah, definitely angry. I haven’t seen or spoken to him in over three years—I barely know him for heaven’s sake—and he’s trying to dictate how I should behave. Besides, I’m no longer a high school student disobeying rules. Filter lifts. Mouth moves. Anger slides into place.

  “Oh, you know, the college scene offers lots of kissing practice, as well as training in other kinds of … exercises.” The implication hangs between us.

  “Careful, missy,” he responds, but has the grace to smile before continuing, “So little Alicia is all grown up. Sweetness with a dash of vinegar.” And just like that the tension is broken and we fall into easy conversation.

  He tells me about a new condo building he’s developing in Midtown. His voice is deep, melodic, and the hint of a cleft in his chin draws my eyes back to his mouth. Dangerous territory.

  “So, what else have you been up to besides kissing and … calisthenics?”

  Funny. But despite my former boasting, I don’t have much to offer.

  “Just work and studying. I’m hoping to intern in one of the larger fashion houses.”

  “Good for you. Send them the sketch of that jacket. It’s sure to get you a foot in the door.”

  I hadn’t thought of that, but it makes sense. Without giving me the chance to comment, he gets up and starts to leave. Then, almost as an afterthought, he leans in, raising my chin to expose my neck, and brushes a cluster of kisses from the back of my ear to the end of my neck. Heaven’s alive, three more kisses ratcheting it up to a total of six, and I don’t know how long I hover in ecstasy before realizing he’s disengaged.

  “Well good luck with your studies.” His tone is casual, almost dismissive, and I’m disheartened to see how quickly he triggers his on/off switch. Not so for me.

  “Wait.” My lips flap before my brain can stop them, and when he pauses, holding me in his sharp gaze, words freeze on the tip of my tongue.

  “Yes? What is it, Alicia?”

  My eyes move from his mouth, across his cheek, and down his neck where I spot a smudge of my lipstick. Red against white, a branded affirmation of our kiss. My confidence kicks into gear. “Would you like to meet for lunch some time?” The words tumble out in a hurried succession of syllables.

  He grasps my hand and brushes his lips over my knuckles. The tally now stands at seven, if knuckles count, and my heart skips several hopeful beats.

  “Let’s make it dinner when you can meet for a drink first.” And with the snap of a finger, he’s gone.

  I stare at the empty space where half a second ago he was standing, and my mind spins in humiliated confusion. I can be kissed but not dated because I’m only nineteen? A ludicrous rejection but a rejection none the less. What was I thinking, asking him out on a date? We may have known each other for a while, but I’m just a college student and he’s on his way to becoming some real estate tycoon. Let’s not forget a decorated Marine, oh, and wait, a Yale graduate! I’ve even seen photographs of him in the society pages, each shot showing him on the arm of a different woman. Idealized as a young upstart who made his way from nothing, he’s a favorite of the media.

  Well hotshot or not, I won’t waste another moment of my time thinking about Mr. High and Mighty, Chase Reardon. Even before I can wrap my head around the vow, I know it’s a lie. There is no forgetting Chase Reardon and his kisses that cause that delicious quickening in my stomach.

  It’s when I’m gathering my materials to leave that the thought first springs to mind. Rubbing the side of my neck, it takes form and shape and on my walk home, I resolve to turn the image into a reality. First thing in the morning I’ll phone David at the tattoo parlor in Williamsburg and schedule an appointment. His artistry will serve as a liberating tribute to a future of new kisses while acting as a talisman of the magic of Chase Reardon.

  Now – Three years later

  “Mamma?” I knock on the closed bedroom door but only silence answers. “It’s me … Alicia. How are you feeling?” Opening the door, my eyes adjust to the dim light and focus on the prone figure burrowed under the bedcovers. “I brought you something to eat.” I place the tray of food on her night table and gently rest my hand on her shoulder, but she doesn’t rouse. Sleep is her escape from a depression that’s transformed her into a shadow of her real self.

  I lie down on the bed next to her, her signature Chanel scent wafting around the room, a reminder of all the times she’s graced Papa’s arm at his restaurant, effortlessly moving from table to table, chatting and telling jokes to customers.

  God, this current slide is lasting long.

  “Is that you, Alicia?” her voice is strained, as if she’s summoning the strength of colossus to wring out the words.

  “You’re awake. Why don’t you try to eat something?”

  There’s a feeling of helplessness that clutches your insides when watching a parent suffer from depression. It’s like my mother is physically here, but her mind and spirit have been sucked into some black, fathomless hole. No matter how hard I try, I can’t pull her out. Sometimes I want to shake her back to life while shouting the thoughts that traipse through my mind, but I don’t. Mostly because I know there aren’t any adequate enough to change the past. Death is final, and ensuing remorse all encompassing. G for guilt. I wear it like an invisible brand of scarlet letter.

  Word has it my mother suffered from depression after my birth. I was the change of life baby, the happy surprise, and only daughter in a family of three sons. Although everyone was celebrating, the age-related hormonal changes coupled with childbirth ignited a postpartum depression. The real truth is something else entirely, something so shockingly sad, caused the decline of mental health in an otherwise vibrant mind. Worst of all, I’m to blame.

  “Thank you. I’ll have some in a bit.” She closes her eyes, and I see the melancholy wrapping itself around her, like a spider’s web trapping its prey.

  Propping myself on my elbow, I lean closer. “I’m leaving for Europe soon. Remember?”

  This trip, a graduation gift from my father, caught me by surprise. Although, these days I notice he’ll do anything to see a smile on my face. Sometimes I catch him looking at me, and I can imagine him thinking: is she going to sink into the same abyss of sadness as her mother?

  Overprotective to a fault, he worries when I’m out on a date with someone he doesn’t know. If he has any inkling of where I’m going to be, one of my brothers materializes out of nowhere, offering a feeble excuse like “I just happened to be in the neighborhood” or “Fancy meeting you here.” One time Francesco, who was dating one of my former classmates at the time, “accidently” appeared at the same restaurant I was at with some guy Beth had set me up with. Peter was his name, I think.

  Beth is fond of saying, “You have to stop being hung up on someone who’s nothing more than a stray planet that every now and then orbits your space.” Humph, more like a moon with a strong gravitational pull is my thinking, but I’ve known Beth since the third grade and there’s no better friend. Concerned, obstinate, and relentless, she’s forever ready to vet and set me up with someone who’s not Chase Reardon.

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; I don’t know who was watching who more that night. Francisco didn’t stop ogling Peter, who was a smooth talker and a touchy-feely kind of guy that kept stroking my arm, reaching for my hand, and leaning in close when he spoke. I couldn’t get past the fact that my older brother was out with mousy Pamela Anderson. That is until I lowered my gaze and saw her two new additions. Little Pammy Anderson now sported a whopping 32DD chest. When I went over to say hello, mostly to escape Peter’s roving hands, she had no qualms gushing how much she loved her new “babies” while she cupped her hands under their newfound girth and beamed. It was cleavage that could slice a shank of beef, but tits or no tits, it obviously didn’t bother Francisco that she was only nineteen and a good six years younger than he was. He drank wine, she sipped diet cokes. No big deal.

  I rub the three delicately tattooed stars that extend from behind my ear and down the length of my neck and my he thinks you’re too young thoughts morph into words that shout, you’re just not good enough.

  My mother’s eyes flutter open, and she attempts to sit up, turning onto her side to face me. “Of course, I remember. You’re traveling with Beth.” She takes a strand of my hair and places it behind my ear. “How long will you be gone again?”

  It’s easy to pull my wandering mind back to my mother because there’s always a spot reserved for her plight and my self-blame.

  “Three weeks, but if you need me, I can come home at any time.”

  “You go and enjoy yourself. I’ll be fine.” She forces a smile that fails to mask her struggle to remain focused and upbeat. Her eyes are on me, but she doesn’t see me, and if I don’t initiate conversation, she says nothing.

  The lengthening silence is interminable. “Can I get you anything else? She shakes her head no, gives me another fake smile, and rolls away, slipping back into a torpor that rivals a coma.

  “Then I’ll let you get some rest,” I add, placing a soft kiss on her forehead. I leave her to deal with her demons, feeling even more distraught than before I came in.

  “Thomas.” I wave and point to the empty barstool. Catching my eye, he heads toward the back of Larkins Pub, our local hangout when we’re all visiting home.

  “Hey. Waz up?” Taking me in a hug, he brushes my lips with a kiss, then flashes his thumb to the bar. “Who’s the guy with Beth?”

  “Don’t know. Never saw him before.” I casually turn my head so I can get a better look at sexy-mussed-hair guy. “They were together when I got here. He’s kinda cute.”

  “Not my type. But you on the other hand …” He wraps his arm around me and nuzzles my neck with his lips until, a tad uncomfortable, I pull away. Like Beth, Thomas and I have been friends for as long as I can remember. We go to family functions and friends’ weddings together and often just hang out, sharing jokes and stories. Plain and simple, he’s a good friend. I thought he understood that.

  “So, are we still meeting in Nice?” He causally tosses the question out and the awkward moment passes.

  “Yeah, that works. Beth and I will be taking the train from Paris.” It’s hard to contain my excitement. I envision strolling through Paris and Milan, soaking up the window displays of the great fashion houses, studying the Mona Lisa at the Louvre and the sculptures at the Rodin, absorbing the vibrancy of the works of Picasso and Matisse while strolling along the same beaches in the south of France that sparked their talent, and touching and smelling and blending in with the medieval cobblestone towns that dot the landscape like painted canvases of preserved moments of time.

  Ever since I began sketching and sewing clothes for my dolls, I dreamed of combining art and fashion. Now I hope to use this trip to help transform this dream into reality.

  “Where are you staying?”

  And we earnestly begin discussing a travel meeting plan. Several cocktails and a round of bad jokes later, we decide on one more drink before calling it a night. I offer to get them and head toward the bar.

  “One Negroni and a rum and coke,” I shout to the bartender above the din of the crowd that keeps expanding as the evening wears on.

  Another glance at Beth shows me she’s still locked in conversation with Shaggy Hair. Their tête-à-tête could end in a one-night stand, so I give him another once-over just to assure myself that he’s not some serial killer or rapist on the prowl. Probably not. He’s got the look that’s more bohemian than drifter. Torn jeans in all the right places, faded T-shirt, stylishly mussed hair. Still, I hope Beth doesn’t plan on leaving with him. We’re in a bar in our hometown and I’ve never seen him before. The bartender places my drinks on the bar. Eyes glazed like some robot who’s done nothing but make and serve hundreds of drinks in the course of one evening, he turns and taps in the charges on a computer screen to add to my credit card.

  I scoop up the two drinks, turn, and bump into a rock-hard mass of muscled chest that sends me reeling back. Two hands catch me by my forearms to steady my unbalanced momentum, and I hear the familiar timbre of a deep voice.

  “Trying to set a personal best drinking record tonight?” I look up and my eyes lock on the curve of Chase’s beautifully sculpted lips.

  Trouble waiting to happen.

  Only this time I hold back. Seems navigating a kiss while balancing two drinks after having one too many proves challenging, even for a bull’s-eye record holder like me.

  “Maybe.” I shrug flippantly, pausing for a heartbeat of a moment to gain momentum before pursing my lips and continuing. “I hear drinking is a pre-requisite for going out to dinner for some people.”

  His lips curve into a grin that reaches his eyes so that they too smile back at me. Again, I resist the urge to reach up and kiss that lovely mouth. Instead, I cavalierly throw out, “See you around, Chase,” before I walk away with my back straight and my head erect without once looking back. There must be some type of award for a performance like that.

  Breathe in. Breathe out. I repeat it like a mantra, but it’s no use. My heart is pounding like I just set a record in a 100-meter dash. Brushing my hair back with my fingers, I plaster a forced smile on my face, take a sip of my drink and focus my attention on Thomas.

  “Aleesha.” He leans in close, his voice vibrating in my ear like pounded piano keys. I wince. Good heavens he seems to have vaulted from buzzed to hammered in the short amount of time it took to have that run in with Chase.

  “We are going to have a fucking blast in Nice.” He sways and swipes a strand of blond hair that’s fallen onto his forehead. I try to shush him, but he’s oblivious. “My buddy’s hooking us up with the sickest hash for some par-dee time.”

  The last cluster of words are spoken so loudly, several people next to us pause their conversation and stare. One calls out, “Hey, bud, can I come?” All loose and butter faced, Thomas just looks at them and grins.

  “Say it again, Thomas. I think there’s one person left at the end of the bar who DIDN’T hear you.” I widen my eyes in warning, making sure to lean in closer, so he takes my hushed tone as an indication to lower his voice.

  “I get it,” he pantomimes, slightly swaying as he brushes the tightened tips of his fingers across his mouth, pretending to lock it and throw away the key.

  I need to get him home. I go to close our tab and to my surprise the bartender tells me it’s already been paid. When I look confused, he points to the middle of the bar. My eyes follow until I spot Chase whispering in the ear of a striking woman dressed entirely in black: sexy silk halter top exposing just the right amount of alabaster skin and matching loose-fitting trousers that extend down the length of her endlessly long legs. When my eyes travel down, I have to force myself not to gasp out loud. Are those what I think they are? Yep. Black strappy Jimmy Choo sandals that are to die for. What’s even more unsettling is that he has paid my tab while on the arm of another woman, and not anyone shabby either.

  Almost as tall as he is, she’s all legs and angles. Even her raven hair falls to her chin in a sleek slant. Crimson painted lips curve with mirth as she leans tow
ard him, letting her hand linger on his shoulder to counter with something that makes him smile. The tenderness in their shared moment knots my stomach and a lump grows in my throat.

  I feel like the happy little afterthought, the good friend’s younger sister who’s tossed a treat while out with her date and then … what the hell, why not pay his tab too? Aw shucks, look at the cute picture they paint. It’s enough to make me want to gag. It seems a bit crazy that I think I’m capable of knowing his thoughts, but instead of dismissing them, I’m reminded of the book, He’s Just Not That into You. Why should he want me when he has some exotic Countess Dracula hanging on his arm? I grab my drink, finish it in one gulp, and take hold of Thomas’s arm.

  “C’mon let’s call a cab and get the hell out of here. I’ll pick up my car in the morning.” I’m too tipsy to drive and he’s flat out drunk.

  Beth tears her eyes away from New Guy long enough to notice me leaving and shouts, “Wait, Ali. I’m coming.” When she catches up, she puts her arm around me. “Are you OK?”

  I don’t want to talk about it, mainly because what is there to say? All Chase and I share are some chance encounters and a few kisses that I mostly initiated. All obviously very forgettable for him.

  “Who do you think she is?”

  “Who?” I feign ignorance. It’s humiliating to be so hung-up with someone who hardly notices you.

  “Don’t play dumb, Ali. The woman with Chase who had that whole Dracula look going on.” Beth circles her face with her hand and eyes me cautiously.

  “Right? I thought the same thing,” I sneak another look. Oh yeah. Definitely Transylvanian.

  Beth shoots a furtive peek over her shoulder and lets her eyes scope the height and breadth of the Countess. “He better watch his neck tonight. Even if she doesn’t bite, one hit with those stilettos will make the kill.” Beth doesn’t know shoes, but I’m thinking even Chase’s noggin is not worth damaging those beautiful shoes.

  “C’mon, Ali, we should be celebrating.” She wraps her arm around me and guides me out to where Thomas is wobbling, a smile plastered on his face that’s as lopsided as his gait. “School’s ended, we’re off to Paris in two days,” and quirking her eyebrows, she chortles, “I hear Thomas is scoring some good hash in Nice.”