Page 22 of Privilege
“I do love it there,” he finally says.
“Hmm?”
“The shack. I’ve always loved it there.” He turns to face me, and he looks tired.
“Why?” I ask, gently.
Something unreadable passes over his face. “Because it was ours.”
“You and your brother’s?”
He kisses me gently, but doesn’t say anything else and turns back to the window. And if I weren’t half asleep, I’d swear that Arnold was staring me down in the rearview mirror, trying to tell me something.
Chapter Eleven
Dane
We all manage tostay out of each other’s hair for a while, meaning I spend an inordinate amount of time at the club. There’s more money than God and more boob jobs than Hollywood in that place, but I need these people. They’re the whole reason I’m here: the wives and mistresses of the Hampton Yacht Club know more about New York real estate than anyone on earth.
Every time I see their double Ds bouncing in my face all I can think about is Cara’s perfect, surgically unaltered tits in that mirror. I want to scream “CARAAAA!” like Marlon Brando inA StreetcarNamed Desire.But whenever I think about Cara naked, I also think about Rich.
And then I get very, very drunk.
It’s useful though, the information I fuck out of them like free chocolate when you kick the vending machine hard enough. I wish it didn’t have to be this way, but I know this is it for me. This is my last visit to Blackstone. I’m done with all of it, after this. I can walk away for good.
Can you really walk away from Rich, though?
Fuck. That part never seems to get any better, no matter how much time goes by. Or how many beers I consume.
I slump backwards into the striped seat of the yacht and try to stare up at the sky, but there are so many levels that it blocks out the sun. And doesn’t that feel apt.
I crack open another beer and chuck the lid as hard as I can at the box of empties by the gangway.
“Ow!”
I sit up, surprised, and can’t help but wonder if I took a bunch of drugs and forgot.Am I hallucinating? What is Cara doing here?
“Why did you throw a bottle cap at me?”
“I didn’t see you.”
“Ah yes,” she grumbles. “Because women are obviously invisible to you.” She gestures to the bikini top dangling from the railing while rubbing the red spot on her thigh.
I swallow—don’t picture her naked, don’t picture her naked—and politely remind my cock to chill while my brain takes notice of the pockets sticking out past her ridiculously tiny shorts.
“What are you doing here Cara?”
“It’s the Hamptons. I’ve been told you can’t visit the Hamptons without going for a ride on a yacht.”
I arch an eyebrow at her and she rolls her eyes.
“Look. Dane. Can we just… be friends?”
I snort. “Doubt it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m picturing you naked.”
