Page 44 of Alone With You in the Ether

Green was an interesting color. It had so many connotations, so many forms. Sometimes it was brilliant in emerald, sometimes muddied and dull. Sometimes green could be so dark it looked black at first glance, or at least like a shade far darker than it was. This dress was the latter. Difficult to place, though in certain rays of light it became intensely obvious; green, definitely green; so green it was incomprehensible that it might be perceived as something else, or that others could fail to notice. Green in the light of an armory. Green against the backdrop of a church. Green over drinks, over cake, over trivialities. Green in his reflection, staring back at her, his fingers penitently wrapped around her calf. The cut of the back was low and sleek, and a bra was out of the question. Underwear probably was, too. When he danced with her,ifhe danced—she had an odd suspicion he would if she asked him to—then his hands would have no place to rest without finding open skin. She remembered the feel of his fingers tracing patterns on her thigh, some indistinguishable sequence of calculation. Mentally, she rearranged her memories of him, taking the lightness of his touch and imagining it on the small of her back, rising up her spine.

Then she shuddered.

She placed the dress down on her suitcase, heading to the bathroom. Marc was somewhere in the living room, keeping safely out of range, but some things still required secret places, closed doors. She slid out of her leggings, pulled her sweater over her head, and lay down naked in the bathtub, shivering a little at the coldness of the porcelain.

She thought about calling him. A not-insignificant thrill ran through her at the prospect of it.This isn’t a conversation,she imagined saying,so don’t speak. Just stay here with me, just breathe.She wondered what he’d think of that, just listening to the sound of her. Marc, of course, would love that sort of thing. He was a lover of all things beautiful, all things sensual, though he loved them best as a caretaker, a keeper.

Aldo, Regan said behind closed eyes, did you learn anything about me?

(Haven’t you been paying enough attention to run?)

Her palm slid down the parts of her that had been built from hours and hours of sweating through yoga and Pilates; consequences of “no desserts, thank you” and light dinners and whatever else it had taken to remain a flat, uninterrupted plane. Regan had worked hard enough on her body to appreciate her view of it; genetics hadn’t doneallof this, even if it had dealt her a favorable hand. The bones of her hips were shards like stalagmites, jutting up from the valley of her waist, and she loved them best for that. From this angle, she looked like a weapon. Or at least like a landscape that could provide some defense.

Her view of Aldo’s chest and back, real and reflection both, was committed to memory by then. She’d always had a good eye for that sort of thing, and for inconsistencies, too. The muscles around his shoulders, the places where his wings would be, were too big. If his suit wasn’t custom-tailored, which she felt certain it wasn’t, she doubted it properly fit. Her mother would give him a scathing glance and oh, (cue a shiver:) he wouldn’t even notice. Aldo would be looking elsewhere, his mouth formed to the shape of her name, the whole of him tensed and uncertain and angled firmly and conclusively toward her.

The bastard, he’d been right. Not even six conversations and she knew him well enough to bring him to life. Green eyes, that cushion of muscle lining his spine, the sharp bone of his clavicle. That mouth. The bones of his cheeks andthat mouth. Those eyes. Left-handed.I need you to lie to me.A little buzz that fluttered through her veins. His hands, long fingers laced through hers. Would sex be a math problem for him? An equation to solve? She’d always considered it fairly methodical herself. Penetration and friction, a plus b. So easy a hedge fund-whatever on coke could do it.

Her phone buzzed and her eyes snapped open. She leaned over the lip of the tub, hand still between her legs, and glanced at the screen. It was Aldo; speak of the devil.

She reached over with her free hand, swiping to answer. “Hello?”

“A suit? Is that all?”

His voice was always a little dry, almost sharp. It reminded her of brut champagne.

“Something for the drive, if you want. And something to drive home in.”

“You sound out of breath,” he noted.

“I am. Kind of.”

“Been running?”

“Sort of.” She glanced down at herself, thighs clamped around her hand. “Sure.” From his end of the call, she heard a siren. “Where are you?”

“My roof.” She heard him take a drag of something. “Wanted to talk to you, but unfortunately I’m out of logistics.”

“We can talk tomorrow,” she said. “It’s kind of a long car ride.”

“Got a topic in particular?”

“We’ll see what comes to us.”

He exhaled slowly; a little gooseflesh broke out over her skin. “Alright.”

Could have ended there.

Shouldhave ended there.

“Aldo,” she said. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “How do you like your coffee?”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

Of course he didn’t. “Well, what can I bring you?”

These were logistics. “I don’t need anything, Regan.”

“You’re doing me a favor, Aldo. I should bring you something.”

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