When We Were Bright and Beautiful(5)

I widen my eyes and ask, “Something wrong, Officer?” Even I’m embarrassed by my breathy voice, as if we’re filming a porn video. It’s my weak attempt at humor, but this guy barely glances my way. Instead, he shines a flashlight into the backseat and then up front, across the dash and over to me. “License, registration, and proof of insurance, ma’am.”

I gather all three and hand them over. “I was driving too fast.” I say this contritely, in my own voice. “I apologize.”

“Sit here.” Marching off, he’s coiled tight, with the pigeon-toed walk of a ballplayer.

Still, I’m hopeful. I have youth on my side. In a few years, by, say, twenty-eight, thirty, the whole enterprise will start to sag. For the moment, though, my face is unlined, my ass round and firm. I’m extremely tall, almost six feet, and lanky, with long legs, slim waist, and large breasts. I have a wild mass of auburn curls and freckles that trail into my cleavage. I’m not a conventional beauty. But because of my height and thick, glossy hair, I’m striking. Besides, money hides a multitude of sins, and I have unlimited resources.

The cop returns, looking peeved. “Speed limit’s sixty-five. You were going—”

“A lot faster.” I nod. “I know.”

“This is—”

“My last chance. I know that too. One more ticket and I’ll lose my license.”

“Your left taillight—”

“Is broken. I’m on it.”

Finally, he smiles—and pulls out a ticket pad. But just as I admit defeat, he steps back and shines his light along the Porsche’s curvy exterior. So, I stay quiet, watch him, and wait.

There are two states of male arousal: feral and submissive, each with its own unique tell. Feral men get jacked up in two seconds; they fuck anything in their path. Submissive men are sneakier; they beg for intimacy while pawing their way to climax. On the hunt, both are equally dangerous. Feral guys are fast and ferocious, their aggression is laced with violence; one wrong move and you’re done. Submissive men make no explicit demands, but they lack a core, so you serve as filler. They destroy you from the inside out, inflicting deeper wounds that won’t heal.

This cop is feral, for sure. He’s ogling my car with glazed eyes. “Nice ride,” he notes as he chews the inside of his cheek.

I don’t let myself breathe.

“You drive too fast,” he says. But he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at my car, at the rich leather seats and high-tech dashboard. The Porsche is a gorgeous piece of machinery, clean lines, smooth surfaces, curves in all the right places.

“Want a ride?” I ask softly.

Around us, traffic shrieks, sirens howl, the wind is deafening, but he’s moved beyond sound, beyond language. Where he’s gone, nothing matters but want. I understand, Officer, I want to say. I too have unbearable urges, needs I can’t satisfy. Without thinking, I take my keys out of the ignition and extend my hand.

He won’t look at me, or the keys. “I’ll let you go with a warning,” he says sharply. His stance, his tone, the way he presses my license into my palm—it’s all deliberate. He’s reminding me, and maybe himself, who’s in charge. “But you better slow down.”

“Thank you, Officer.” I start the car. Rocketing forward, I go from zero to sixty in a single shot. I glance back every few minutes, but when there’s no sign of him, it’s both a relief and a letdown. A half hour later, I cross the bridge into Manhattan, still checking to see if he’s behind me.





4


HEADING UP PARK AVENUE, I SPY THE VALMONT’S FAMILIAR Gothic spires. In a city that thrives on exclusivity, the Valmont is one of the earliest and most private luxury residences—and has been since the streets of New York were first paved in gold. Finished in 1880, the building was designed to look like a European castle with turreted towers, medieval-style doors, endlessly high ceilings, and stained-glass windows. Since then, it’s housed Mayflower descendants, captains of industry, and political scions. Here, in the kingdom of old money, the Valmont is the most desired castle, and my family holds the keys.

When I pull up tonight, I see the grounds crew working on the exterior. They’ve positioned Klieg lights along the semicircular driveway, and smoke billows off the glass, bathing the limestone fa?ade in a soft, dreamy mist. Despite its pedigree, the building is only twenty floors high, and one city block wide. It’s basically ten mansions stacked on top of each other, with long hallways, hidden alcoves, and doors that lead to doors that lead to secret rooms. The Valmont is Manhattan shorthand for an exclusive way of life, and while our neighbors might appear in the society papers or financial news, we aren’t celebrities. Indeed, my parents pay PR firms a sinful amount to keep us out of the press (and have forbidden my brothers and me from social media). Even so, our wealth makes us a sideshow act, even among our own gilded circle, so I can’t say we’re anonymous either.

As I pull into the driveway, Anton Rivera, head of resident relations, strolls out to greet me. Like the carved statues of Venus that line the walkways, Anton is a permanent fixture.

Opening my door, he bends at the waist, as if I’m a visiting diplomat. “Good evening, Miss Cassandra.” Anton has the regal bearing of an aristocrat, and it’s only when his shift is over and his tie is loose that you hear the Bronx in his speech. Raised somewhere near the Grand Concourse, Anton is a “barrio boy made good” (his words, not mine).