BODY AND SOUL Part 34 EPILOGUE (Duncan Shepherd/Mackenzie Stone Millory AU)
BODY AND SOUL MASTERPOST
Author’s Note: Here we are at the end. I keep imagining myself four months ago, on the edge of all of this--a completely different self, one that was so deeply discontent with everything in her life, unable to confront it all. I wonder what I would have said if you told me that soon not only would I have written a book, I’d have broken up with my partner of almost 8 years, changed my diet utterly, and tested the limits of my endurance for a broken heart. WELL, SELF, HERE WE ARE, ON THE EDGE OF OBLIVION. I’ve charged through all of it, and now I’m floating in the ether, unsure of where my path is going to lead next. To say I’m terrified is an understatement; but mostly I’m just drifting inside all of this, trying to take it an hour at a time. BODY AND SOUL was, and is, and always will be, about the bond between two luminous souls that cannot be broken by anyone or anything--a bond that is capable of changing the fabric of time with its strength and endurance. Love is everything. Love is the gold that you see in dappled sunlight and in the coolness of the evening and the sunset that floats down a horizon; it’s in the touch of hands, the quiet moments of stillness when you’re alone (yes, it’s there too), the earnest eyes of another heart seeing into yours. In the end, the love we give will always determine the love we’re capable of receiving--and if we can both take the love we’re given and give of ourselves with abandon, we’ve found the secret to life. My sincerest thanks to anyone and everyone who has supported this journey for me here on Tumblr specifically, but especially to these luminous beings: @misslunarayne, who has now become one of my dearest friends and closest confidantes, @ladywriter94 who has been my CONSTANT cheerleader and has sent me so many asks to rekindle my drive when my brain felt empty and my candle burned low, @surprisebitchwrites who was a ray of light from the beginning (and who coined Duckenzie--for which I am forever in her debt), @hi-ilovedamien who has been so earnest and attentive and made so many wonderful Instagram edits, @kahhlo who seemed to overcome her shyness along the way (hey baby doll), @deanfinite and @goddess-of-inferno who also felt moved to make edits, and last but certainly not least, @nat-de-lioncourt, who made the edit for my masterpost (the first one anyone did for my story), and was one of BODY AND SOUL’s most vocal supporters from Day 1. Without you, this story could never have been what it became. I’m indebted to all of you. Here, words fail me. I’m just so grateful.
When it comes to the garden house, it’s an idea most of all--I avoided too many details, because the garden house is what YOU want it to be. It’s my dream, but it’s your dream too. It’s the dream that comes to life when you open your heart to love and beauty. This is Kenzie’s dress in the painting. I made my AO3 (I’m @witchqueenofdarkness there too). Look for Part 1 there this week along with the BODY AND SOUL Spotify playlist (coming soon) and a masterpost that includes every BODY AND SOUL edit anyone has made for me. I’ll be seeing you.
EPILOGUE
ONE YEAR AFTER THE WEDDING
Kenzie was elbow-deep in her tomato plants. They were bursting with ripe fruits; tomatoes so large and red and perfectly formed they seemed unreal. All of her vegetables were growing that way; this was the first yield since the garden’s initial planting, and she still couldn’t quite believe how utterly spring and then summer had burst upon the house. There were a million flowers; the dahlias and lilies she and Duncan had planted together in March were blooming in lush rows along the south side of the greenhouse, stretching along its frosted glass facade. Beyond that, the house itself was surrounded by lavender and hydrangeas, towering sunflowers, yarrow and catnip, all growing with lush abandon, dazzling her eyes with their color under the shade of her straw sunhat.
We suspected this might happen, but we could have never imagined just how beautiful it would be. In this place, the laws of nature are greater. Held in the palm of Her hand, things grow endlessly. The Fates weave their endless tapestry through time and space; She creates and destroys, always.
Kenzie turned her head as she heard soft neighing behind her, the steady, slow sound of horseshoes on earth. Crocus was coming up to the fence, tossing his head at her. Whatcha doing? The soft drift of his low, large energy drifted across the yard to her; his tail flicked lazy flies from his hindquarters, silky cream in the June sunshine. Kenzie couldn’t quite hear the horse’s thoughts, but sometimes she felt like she could get small little pieces of his mood, tiny drifts of strange horsey contemplations; happy, she felt from him. Content. Kenzie stood, wiping the dark earth from her hands on the pair of old cut-off denim shorts she wore. She approached the post-rail fence, craning to look beyond Crocus for a moment to the field behind him.
“Where’re they, huh, honey-sweet?” She murmured, reaching two fingers to his damp nose. Crocus tossed his head; the braids in his mane slapped on his long neck. Beats me. Chasing dragonflies. Eating tidbits.
Kenzie stuck a finger in her lips, against her tongue, and whistled out into the low breeze. “Ivy! Pepper!” She whistled again, sending drifts of golden thought out beyond the hill the fence stretched around. She paused for a moment, hand drifting up Crocus’ long snout, then smiled as she heard the telltale sound of galloping horses; their two dark shapes drifted around the hillside and she grinned.
“Pepp, Ivy, come on over here, come on, come see me,” she chanted, hitching herself through the fence’s slats and carefully over the enclosure. Pepper made it first; his dark-chocolate coat shone in the haze of the afternoon, blindingly smooth, his flanks rippling. Black-eyed susans were woven into the darkness of his mane; Kenzie had spent hours with him yesterday, braiding them through. My sweet dark Pepper, she thought, turning an arm up to him; he pressed his long forehead into her hand and she cooed up at him. Ivy was tossing her head, eager for attention; her black coat was like a dark, reflectant pool, luxuriously smooth. She had tiny daisies in her mane; one of Kenzie’s favorite things to do this summer had been spending hours on their manes in the morning, hours with their quiet, huge spirits, the strong scent of them, their wide eyes, the overwhelming aura of them. My sweet Crocus, Pepper, Ivy. My beauties. She rode Crocus most often; Ivy had gravitated to Duncan from the start, eager to be near him, though he’d take Pepper out with Kenzie sometimes, beyond the field and through the woods to the far northwest of the property. Kenzie could often feel the presence of the Goddess in them; they were ever sweet and mild to her, far more inclined to be ill-behaved and mischievous toward Duncan. But I’m their beloved, Kenzie knew. Even they know who I am; who I was once. My sweet ones.
She turned away from them as she heard the screen door to the side of the garden house creak open; River stood there in a tulip-sleeve white summer dress with lemons printed on it, a floppy sun hat covering her straight black hair.
“Kenz, I got somemore paperwork from the court ordinance, I just need you to sign it when you get a chance. And Frederick called--he heard of some Waterhouse painting coming up for auction and wondered if you and Duncan would be interested in it.”
“Thanks, River, I’ll come in in a second, is that okay? Did they say anything about how Mr. Carothers is doing?”
“They said something about him doing well with the program, almost being done with it, I think. That was all, really.”
“That’s good. Can you call Frederick back and make an appointment for us with him next week? It’s a good excuse to visit him. I’d love to see the peacock again, anyway.”
“Sure, Kenz. I made some yerba mate iced tea a little while ago, if you want some.”
“Oo, that sounds lovely. I’ll be in soon, Riv.” Just giving my babies some love, she thought, and knew River understood without her needing to say it aloud. She turned back to Crocus and heard River swing the door shut; long, languid ivy was growing along that side of the house, dipping down through its stony facade, and the sight of it lingered in her mind as she stared into Crocus’ damp eyes. Her thoughts drifted to the court appearance several months ago; the time the man--his name was Jeremy Carothers, and he’d spiraled into deep alcoholism when he’d been fired from Shepherd Unlimited several years back--had broken into the Post building and accosted her seemed like ages ago, another life; revisiting it in the court room had been surreal. But as soon as she’d gotten to the court house that day, Kenzie had known she wouldn’t be pressing any charges; in fact, it had become clear to her that she wanted to pay for the man’s mental health services entirely. There’s no room for animosity in my heart, she thought. I am far too blessed. The point was always to share it with others. Always. The work the Foundation had been able to accomplish over the past two years was so extraordinary and moving; every major city in the United States was now implementing a solar program, and green house gas emissions, through the Foundation’s initiatives and new laws passed by the President with the help of Shepherd Unlimited and newly elected progressive candidates to public offices, were plummeting.
The world was changing.
Because of our love, Kenzie thought. Because of everything we’ve been able to do. Together. Spreading it far and wide and making it grow. Grow over everything. Touch everything with golden light.
Kenzie kissed her fingertips then pressed them to Crocus’ cool nose. The sun had become oppressively hot; she stepped towards the stable, beckoning to the horses.
“Come on, beauties, let’s get in the shade, shall we?” Ivy and Pepper eagerly followed Crocus, who was always the leader; he lumbered up lazily beside Kenzie as she made her way through the cool enclosure of the vaulted stable, carefully pushing the gates closed on each of the horses in turn, their paddocks side by side; a golden gate for Crocus, blue for Ivy, red for Pepper. She gathered their grain bags from the storage on the side-wall, pouring a cup full into each, attaching them to the hooks on inside walls of the three stalls; her eyes roved over the horses as they ate, pressing a fingernail against her mouth.
Miss you, baby, she thought out into the ether. Can’t wait for you to come home. Kenzie felt out with her mind; let her goldness drift through the stable doors, out and down to the beaten path that led in two directions, one to the house’s front gate (white-washed and covered in Zinnias this time of year), the other to the side greenhouse, its frosted, slanting rooftop glittering with sun; the double doors were open and she could almost smell the scent of the ginseng and ginger that were growing wildly within, her towering bamboo plants and pachira aquatica. She pushed her thoughts beyond; far, far beyond, out of the sphere of the property, beyond the forest that surrounded them, down the long roads and the highway to the city, where Duncan was working today. Come home, she thought. Come home and hold me, my love.
For a moment, she felt the drifting column of his blue energy falling against her, despite all the distance. Soon, beloved. Soon, my angel. On my way to you.
Kenzie trailed her fingers along each of the horses’ foreheads for a few moments; then she stepped outside of the stables, along the path towards the house; for a moment she took a detour through the greenhouse’s blown glass doorway, skirting under the canopies of ivy and through the palms that were growing with abandon now in the summer heat. My own little jungle, she thought, and not for the first time. She went on, past the daylilies, petunias and marigolds, bursting with color--here the backdoor led out to a little courtyard between the greenhouse and the main house, a fountain with the forms of Hades and Persephone in the center; Hades and Persephone, but made to look like us, Kenzie thought, gazing over it for a long moment as she passed through. It was Duncan’s face encased in stone there; and hers, hair falling back, petals drifting through its stony waves. His hands drifted at her arms, their faces turned up to each other. This stony Duncan wore an aegis; an aegis that had been carved in the likeness Duncan had described to the sculptor who created it. In the image of the one I saw in my dreams, he’d told her. The one I had in that other place, in that other time.
Kenzie went on into the house, sighing with relief from the heat. Here in the back hallway, there was no sound but the cool drift of a grandfather clock; in its face were the moon, sun and stars, and the likenesses of three women, one young, one of middle age, and one ancient; between them drifted gossamer threads in shining gold and blue. The triple-faced goddess. Her. And Time, which she created after we’d found our love; after we were the first true Soulmates. And now, everlasting.
Kenzie looked up as she heard soft music begin to drift down from the office at the end of the hall; River had put something on while she was working.
I’ll be seeing you, in all the old familiar places....that this heart of mine embraces...all day through...
The light was beginning to fall lower over the hall and the oaken staircase above the clock; evening was coming, and that meant Duncan would be home soon. Kenzie’s eyes drifted up to the end of the hallway beside the door to the office; a huge painting hung there, one that still took her breath away every time she saw it. It’s us, she thought, smiling, tears gathering in the corners of her vision. In the painting of them, commissioned over a year ago after their wedding, Duncan stood with his hand nestled gently at her shoulder; he wore a long black coat that dipped down over his chest at an angle, his curls on his forehead, his blue eyes piercing out towards the onlooker. Kenzie sat in a gold, gilded chair, her expression calm and discerning; the artist, who was known for his comparisons to Sargent, had painted her eyes with an ethereal golden glow, her honey-chestnut hair around her shoulders. Her dress was blush and rosy; flowers drifted through its tulle folds around her feet and the floor. Her hand was lifted around Duncan’s fingers, and her moonstone and diamond wedding band glinted there, painted to a lifelike perfection. The Young Royals, the artist had named it; anyone who beheld it regarded it with a sense of awe, often staring at it for a long while, seeming to lose themselves in their eyes, its calming aura.
In that small cafe, the park across the way…
Kenzie was reminded of taking Duncan to Emissary that morning two years ago; the softness of him as he pulled her against him on her constellation coverlet. She thought of how he’d kissed her with such abandon in front of One Franklin Square; in front of a crowd, and she smiled, blushing at the memory. We didn’t care at all.
I’ll be seeing you, in every lovely summer’s day, in everything that’s light and gay, I’ll always think of you that way…
The oak circle, she thought, clutching her hands around her waist--overcome, suddenly, in the drift of memory. That first time at the beach house. The Gala. That night at Le Diplomate, when my heart felt about to burst, his lips on my cheek. The first time I saw The Youth of Bacchus, the first time I saw him, in the roses, on that balcony. And I felt Her; I felt the hand of Fate. Rosemary. The knowledge of our destiny, our past, our future, our task. And we’ve begun to accomplish everything. Despite that other world, or our other selves, or our other fates in those other places; in this world we’re together, and we’ve accomplished wonders, and we’ll do more wonders still. It’s the love between us that did that. It’s the love between us that will go on and spread over this whole world--it’s love that heals everything.
She heard his footsteps on the pathway outside before she saw him; sensed him, drifting stormy blue. The door behind her opened; she turned and fell into Duncan’s arms, the jasmine and cedar of him causing the tears to fall from her eyes now, her mouth leaning up into his.
“Hey, baby,” he whispered into her lips. Here I am. Home with you.
I’ll find you in the morning sun, and when the night is new
I’ll be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you
The light continued to fade over the painting at the end of the hall; if Kenzie and Duncan had been paying attention to it, they would have noticed the glowing, ethereal quality of the eyes of their likenesses in it, the way the gold and blue of them seemed to shimmer and pulse as they often did in the evening; they would have noticed how ethereal, incomprehensible wings seemed to shimmer behind their likenesses, how their painted clothing seemed to shift into impossible geometries; but they were too mesmerized with each other, too wrapped up in each other’s arms; there was nothing in this moment but the two of them. As it ever was.
I’ll be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you
BODY AND SOUL Part 14 (Duncan Shepherd/Mackenzie Stone Millory AU)
BODY AND SOUL MASTERPOST
Author’s Note: I think this is the longest chapter yet; there was so much I wanted to see through Kenzie’s eyes here. For those of you who live for tiny details like I do: this is Duncan’s pepper mill. These are his glass coffee mugs. This is his beard oil. This is the dress Kenzie wears on this day. Harris is an Axeman/Danny Huston AU; mostly a Danny AU, as I promise he is not an axe murderer in this universe. I just love Danny and thought he’d make a perfect bodyguard, he’s huge and he will lay hands on anyone who tries to touch Kenzie, amen, Expect him regularly for the rest of this story. Duncan’s grandmother Adelaide is a Fiona Goode/Jessica Lange AU. Here’s WHATEVER LOLA WANTS. Here’s the photo of Carrie I based the one in Kenzie’s bathroom mirror on; her clothing is different, but that’s the expression I imagine she has in it. Golden Pothos look like this and make good indoor plants as they need very-little-to-no sunlight. Nancy Pearlstein’s boutique relish is real, but I took some creative liberties (the back room where Nancy put the rack for Kenzie is made up, and I have no idea what Nancy is like in real life; I made up a personality for her here, though her appearance is genuine) and found the model clothing for Kenzie’s shopping on Neiman Marcus’ website--her comment that Kenzie’s like a little piece of cake I borrowed from a similar line in Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette. This is the dress Duncan and Kenzie ultimately decide on for the dinner with Annette (soon to come); here are the others Kenzie liked the most: 1, 2, 3, and the red one that sends Duncan over the edge (don’t worry, she’ll get a chance to wear it soon): 4. The way Kenzie hoists herself onto the counter to reach the cabinet is the way I hoist myself onto our counter to reach the extra coffee k-cups at the top of the cabinet. Here are Duncan’s champagne coupes. Kenzie and Claire dancing to Seven Wonders is obviously a nod to Stevie’s iconic music video towards the end of Coven. I wanted to mention that I plan to upload the entire fic to AO3 when it’s finished; Tumblr’s tags algorithm is absolute shit when it comes to fics, and this one continually will not show up under them for whatever godforsaken reason, so I’ve kind of given up on reaching a wider audience for it here, but I also feel strongly that I want it to be done before I put it up there so as not to be influenced too much by other people’s thoughts or desires regarding my story; I love all the feedback I’ve gotten from those of you who are following along, but I do want to stay true to my own objectives. Those of you who continue to shower it with love: I see you. You are absolutely the best. Mackenzie and Annette will finally meet in the next chapter.
“You should put something up on this wall,” Kenzie said, staring at the blank stretch along the corner where the boxes of her belongings were neatly stacked in Duncan’s room (my room, I can’t believe it yet, my room too), sitting cross-legged on Duncan’s bed (my bed), her back to him. Duncan’s left hand was falling along Kenzie’s back, gently rubbing, feeling the rise of her under the tee-shirt with the tips of his fingers, his face turned down to his phone’s glowing screen in his right.
“We should. You live here now, baby, this is your space too.”
Kenzie swung her legs down and went over to the boxes; she was wearing the Led Zeppelin tee again (mine now, smiling to herself), her damp hair, brushed out, over her shoulder. She leaned down and opened one, looking for the telltale greenery of her little plants and succulents; this box had some of her jewelry boxes and lots of pairs of socks and stockings in it. She moved to the next one, letting out a little delighted “aha!”, pulling out one of her falling sedum morganianum in its little terra cotta pot from the box, cradling it in her hands, standing, gazing down at it happily for a moment.
“I didn’t tell Momby I’m moving in here,” she said, glancing over her shoulder to Duncan, who was propped up against the slats of the headboard with his black pillows between his back and the wall, one of his bare legs outside of the cover up to his thigh, slightly raised, his chest bare and rising slowly, contentedly, damp hair on his forehead. He was still looking down at his slender black iPhone, smiling at something now. He looked up at her, the smile playing there still. So beautiful. Archangel. Hades. My dark Prince.
“It’s fine, baby. You’ll tell her when you feel ready to tell her. I understand. Everything is going to be fine...because we’re together, and that’s what matters.”
Kenzie smiled across the room at him; then she shivered a little, cheeks warm, remembering the flashes of thought she had imagined she heard from him before and during their passionate fucking; If I’m a Prince, you’re a Goddess, and I will go to your temple to lay down all my sorrows and my sins and my fear, and all my devotion...
How could I have heard his thoughts, though, she wondered again. Could that have been me pretending to hear his thoughts? Why would I do that? Why would I call myself a goddess?...are we really hearing each other’s thoughts? How the fuck is that even possible? I can’t even think about this right now, I don’t understand how that could happen...that’s just...impossible.
“What are you looking at, baby?” She asked him, pushing the thought away, stepping to the bed on her bare feet. She set the succulent carefully on the nightstand on her side (my side, my fucking side, my side of the bed, oh my god) of the bed, and Duncan pouted a little at her, his mouth turning down at the corners. “I want one on my side too,” he said, his voice sweet and low and tingling at the back of her head. She leaned down over the bed to kiss him; he lifted his mouth up to her, hand falling into her damp hair; then she picked the succulent up and walked around to his side, setting it carefully next to his smooth alarm clock. “There, no more whining.” He laughed a little, reaching out and brushing the succulent’s spindly, bulbous leaves gently, then lifted the screen of his phone up to her eyes.
Duncan had the Instagram app open on it, and on his profile he’d just posted a photo: oh my god, a photo of me, Kenzie gasped a little, snatching it out of his hands as he continued to grin at her with his perfect teeth, a misbehaving sheen in his blue eyes. Yep, that’s me. Duncan had clearly taken it a moment ago when she’d been looking at her succulent; her head was turned down and her damp hair fell around her face, a little smile around her mouth, her eyes gazing at the plant clutched in her hands, the big Led Zeppelin shirt falling off one of her shoulders, its hem at the middle of her thigh, bare legs stretching down out of the photo. My love @kenzielouwho and our little plant baby, he’d typed, adding the little sprouting green leaf emoji at the end and the double-pink hearts.
“Oh my god, baby,” she breathed, unable to conceal the grin that fell across her face, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth, gazing down at the photo, dazed. He’d posted it only a moment ago; it had already racked up 1,200 likes and hundreds of comments...that she dared not look at. “Everyone is gonna freak the fuck out. Your mom is gonna kill you.”
“I guess I’ll die happy, then,” he answered, and reached for her, grabbing onto the hem of the tee-shirt, pulling her against him, burying his face in the space between her little breasts through the fabric, wrapping his long arms around her. “...I just want everyone to know.” She felt his lips press against her as he murmured the last part into the fabric, his eyes closed, breathing her in, and Kenzie was filled to the brim with a delicate tenderness for him, terrible in its softness, bringing a lump into her throat. “Oh, baby,” she whispered. “I do, too.” They stayed that way for a moment, his arms around her, his face pressed into her body, her hand coming up and falling through his hair, still holding his phone in her other one; I love his hair, I love it so, like the sheen of coppery autumn leaves, the warm, dark embers of a fading fire, the way he smells, like wood and jasmine soap and musky smoke...
After the quiet stretch, Duncan lifted his eyes up to her; they were like the sky after a storm, gray shot with bursts of brilliant blue. “Should we get the rest of your things tomorrow? I can clear my schedule. I don’t want you to go to your apartment alone, bodyguard or no. I want to help.”
“Okay. I’ll email Candice I need to work from home tomorrow. My article’s done anyway. I was thinking we could have Claire over for dinner--I miss her, and I’d love for her to see the penthouse.”
“That sounds perfect.” He let go of her and she slipped his phone back into his large palm, sliding the underside of her hand against his, his eyes flickering over her face. “I already contacted the security detail service, they’re sending someone over here tomorrow morning. If you don’t like them, we’ll find someone else, okay? We’ll find the perfect person. And it’ll only be for a little while, this will calm down soon--I’m sure of it.”
“You making Instagram posts like that isn’t going to calm anyone down anytime soon, babe.” Kenzie grinned, though, feeling the smile dissolve down into her body, making her shiver; she picked her phone up from the nightstand (it was on his side) and opened her email, sending a few lines out to Candice, setting the phone down again, willing herself not to look at Instagram. “...But I do want everyone to know that you’re mine. Prince Duncan Shepherd and his pauper mistress.”
“Kenzie, no. Don’t call yourself that.” His eyes went dark, a frown creasing his beautiful face, a shadow falling across him. “You belong here. You, beside me. This is your world now, too. Everything I have is yours. Anything you want. Everything you’ve ever wanted.”
Kenzie said nothing, suddenly feeling frozen under that gaze; so sure, as definite as the expanse of some ancient wilderness, some high mountain peak, the depth of some unutterable ocean. You truly are my Dark Prince of the Underworld, she thought. You have such depth, a well of hidden light, but you can be terrible, terrible in your beauty, terrible in your resolve, terrible in your determination, and in your will. Like a King. Like a God of Hidden Places, a God of Gold, the God of a Shadowed Realm, your crown heavy, your eyes like blue flames.
“I was telling Madeline something important tonight, Kenzie, while you were in the bathroom.” Duncan planted his feet on the floor, sitting on the edge of the bed, pushing the cover off him, bringing his hands down to the edges of the mattress at his sides, looking down at the floor. His gaze floated up, to her feet, her legs, the tee-shirt covering her little body, the incline of her arms, up into her face, her eyes, down the fall of her hair. “I’m going to tell you now, too. My Uncle Bill is sick. He has terminal malignant prostate cancer, and his diagnosis at this time is six months...and that’s with chemo. When he dies, my mother is going to make me her partner in the company; I know she’s going to do this, for absolute certain, regardless of what my Uncle ultimately wants. That means all of my Uncle’s shares pass on to me. 65% of the company will be mine...billions of dollars, ten different major publications, a major television outlet, a foundation pulling in massive revenue, an accredited dance school that will soon expand into four new sectors, a public investment firm, twenty of the largest manufacturing companies in the United States…” Duncan trailed off, and Kenzie realized she’d stopped breathing.
“I plan on consulting with your mother regarding how best to proceed with this new responsibility ethically, Kenzie...and with you. I want to shift the direction and objectives of Shepherd Unlimited. And I plan on attempting to build a bridge, an understanding, between the company and President Underwood. And...I want to buy the Post, the better to protect it...and to protect you.”
“Duncan. Oh, baby. I…I--” Kenzie didn’t realize it, but her hands had come up to her mouth, covering it, her eyes wide and stunned. I knew the Shepherds were rich...I guess I didn’t really understand what that meant, though. Not really. I guess I still don’t, but I’m getting an idea.
“And I want to give you everything you’ve ever wanted. Because your joy is my joy, and your happiness is my happiness now, and...only your contentment will make me content. Only your light--”
Kenzie rushed into his arms--she stopped his mouth with an urgent kiss, not being able to bear the quivering edge in his voice. “I am happy, baby, because I found you, I found you, my dearest love--” she whispered this into his mouth, and his eyes closed, and Kenzie felt she could feel the wave of relief that flooded off him, down through her body; a wave like the slow passage of time all at once, the eons of ages condensed into the relief of one moment, and he brought his arms around her and pulled her down to him, tossing her into the bed, and his kisses rained all over her face and her neck and her hair, her eyelids, her cheeks, her mouth.
“I think we should get a mirror for this room,” Duncan whispered into her as he pressed the fervent, warm kisses into her. “I wanna see us when we fuck…you’re so beautiful, I just wanna see every inch of you, I wanna see your face when I’m fucking you from behind--”
Kenzie blushed, biting down hard on her lip, lifting her neck the better to feel his mouth there, sending little pinpricks of sensation up and down her skin. His hands (those hands) were flitting down to her thighs, pressing, hot and so soft, suggesting their desire and promising all they could do to her, I was thinking about that tonight, how did you know, I thought that when I was in your lap and I was forcing your head back and gripping your throat because telling you what to do thrilled me and I wanna do it more and I wanna be your Goddess who you lay down your devotion to, baby, I wanna see us fuck, too-- “Fuck, baby, shhhh, don’t talk that way or you’re gonna make me want you again--”
“I always want you, since I saw you standing on that balcony all I’ve wanted is you, all I can think about is you, you looked like an angel and you are an angel, Kenzie, how did I get so lucky, how am I so blessed to be near you--” Duncan brought one long-fingered hand to the side of her face, into that crook of her jaw and ear, his favorite spot, to hold me. She leaned into his fingers, closing her eyes, overwhelmed by the wildfire in his, the coiled brightness, the depth of him.
“We must have done something really good in the life before this one...or something really hard. Or something...painful. And this...is our reward for all that suffering.” Kenzie’s voice began to drift, to rise and fall--as soon as she’d closed her eyes she realized how tired she was, how sleep was pushing at the corners of her mind; and a wave washed over her, one that wanted nothing more than to sleep in the arms of her lover, held under the shadow of the night--there was a new moon tonight, the new cycle, the new beginning, a new doorway opening--a time of change, auspicious, and our new destiny falling into place, the wind of Fate pushing us on into this new life…
“Baby, let’s go to sleep,” Duncan brought his hand down her arm, to the dip of her waist, his nose pressing into her long golden-brown hair, breathing her in. “Sleep, and no alarms for tomorrow.”
“Yes, please,” Kenzie murmured, and her voice sounded tiny and far-away to her. She felt Duncan get up beside her for a moment, his hands pulling away (“come back, hold me,” she heard herself say, and he replied “I will, baby, I will”) and the lamp on his side of the bed switched off, darkness falling behind her eyelids, and they were bathed in thick shadow, only the vague glow of the city somewhere behind them giving the room any iridescence. Kenzie opened her eyes a little, and could see the outline of Duncan (tall, standing in just his black briefs, hair over his forehead, long arms reaching down), plugging her phone into the charger beside the bed (I’m always forgetting to do that, he’s so thoughtful) and he turned to her, his eyes glowing in the dark, as if they were truly made of blue flames, lighting shadowed places, like Hades on his throne of bones, staring down his dark hall.
“I keep imagining you have flowers in your hair,” he said to her softly, climbing in beside her, pulling the blanket and sheet over them, his hand coming up to tuck strands of hair behind her ear, resting his fingers in that little space again for a moment. Kenzie turned her back to him so she was nestled into the crook of his body, his form, much larger than her, enveloping her like a cocoon, his chest pressed into her, his face coming against her hair, his arm, crooked, coming to the center of her body, his hand reaching between her breasts, possessively. “So many flowers, like a crown, petals drifting down through the waves of it...I keep seeing you that way, and you look so beautiful...Kenzie, I love you...”
“I love you too, Duncan, I love you…” And Kenzie felt herself drift away, her fingers twined through his between her breasts, into the shadow of sleep.
------
Kenzie woke to soft sunlight falling over the bed, and Duncan’s spot empty beside her, her face buried in the pillow, her head foggy with the depth of her sleep. As soon as she lifted it up, though, she could hear soft strains of lo-fi electronic music coming from the kitchen and front room (call your friends, I’ll call mine...we’ll head out for a long ride...sun is coming out now...it all feels right), and smell the savory, dark sweetness of coffee and butter and fat in a frying pan. Kenzie rubbed her eyes--in her dream she’d been leaning over Claire, who was unconscious, on the white floor of some gigantic house. Claire had been choking...and Kenzie had leaned over her and opened her and pulled the piece of food out of her neck that had been choking her. What a strange dream, Kenzie thought, shaking her head back and forth, locks of golden-fawn hair falling over her shoulder. That dream didn’t make any sense. How could I open Claire’s skin that way? Ugh, weird. The dream had already begun to slip away from her, and Kenzie was glad to let it go. The dream had left her with a funny, sour feeling in the back of her throat, and she swallowed, willing the taste away.
Kenzie lifted her legs onto the floor on Duncan’s side of the bed, reaching for her phone, opening her email. Candice had replied; Everything’s all set for your article. Good luck with everything, let me know if you need my help with anything. Ben won’t stop talking about getting an interview with Duncan. Make sure he knows what he’s getting into there!
Kenzie went out of her email, to her text messages; Clairebear. Mom.
Clairebear: Oops, I was so bothered about those BPF links that I forgot to reply to your request to have me for dinner! OF COURSE I WANT TO SEE DUNCAN’S FUCKING PENTHOUSE, what should I bring tonight? How did everything go with your Mom?
Kenzie typed. Bring your beautiful self only!!! You should see how much wine Duncan has, and every bottle is probably worth hundreds of dollars. It’s insane. We’ll order takeout or something, I need to make sure Duncan eats regular human food, not just foie gras and shit like that all the time, and this is a good litmus test (I’m kidding, he loved my chicken and dumplings and ate salmon last night, but still). EVERYTHING WITH MOMBY WENT SO WELL, I honestly can’t believe it, she loved him so fucking much??? She’s ready to marry him herself, I think. She hugged him and they drank each other under the table. Clairebear, it made me so fucking happy.
Kenzie looked at the other text, this one from her mother.
Mom: I love you so much, sweet pea. I’m sorry I doubted you. Duncan is a dream, but you knew that. Your safety and your happiness are at the center of my world. Steel yourself against Annette. I worry she won’t be as easy to convince as I am. Duncan knows her; he’ll know that, too. Be the brave Kenzie I love so well. Love you to the moon and back. Give Duncan a squeeze for me.
I love you too, Momby, so much. I’ll put on my journalist poker face for her. You know the one, Kenzie typed, standing as she did, softly stepping out through the living room to the kitchen, looking up. Duncan was at his slick silver electric stove, gently pushing at two eggs sizzling in a shiny copper frying pan. He heard her; or sensed her, Kenzie wasn’t sure--he glanced over his shoulder, smiling immediately as he met her eyes.
“Good morning, baby,” he said. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Mmhmm,” she smiled back at him, clutching her phone. “Weird dreams, though. What time is it?”
“Ten after 9.”
“Wow, I can’t believe I slept so long...Momby was texting me. She said I need to give you a squeeze.” Kenzie padded to him on the balls of her bare feet, wrapping her arms around his back to his stomach, and clenched them. Duncan’s hands were still at the frying pan, but he reached his neck around to bring his face to hers, lips falling into her hair, then to her cheek, then with aching softness to her lips, lingering for a moment, then turning back to the eggs.
“Tell her I said hello, I hope her ride with Samuel went well.”
Kenzie let go of Duncan reluctantly, adding these things to the end of the text, then hitting send. She turned towards the long black obsidian island in the center of the kitchen, glancing up at the diamond-drop chandelier, glinting in the early sunlight, then back down; on the table was a carton of fresh strawberries, two coffees, and two orange juices, and two plates with slabs of crispy turkey bacon, waiting quietly for the eggs he was making. Kenzie reached out and grabbed one of the strawberries, bringing it eagerly to her mouth, biting into it so a stream of juice fell down her chin. Ugh, this is the best strawberry I have ever fucking had, she thought. Everything tastes better lately. Everything looks brighter, more beautiful, music sounds better...Kenzie sat at the island, turning back to look at Duncan at the stove, admiring the fall of his hair in the sunlight, the concentrated look in his blue eyes as he flipped one of the eggs over with a deft flick of his wrist, his tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip.
“Claire texted me too, about coming over for dinner later. I can’t wait to see her…what time should I tell her? 7?”
“7 sounds perfect, we should be done with finding your escort and coordinating with the movers by then. I’m looking forward to spending more time with her. I know she’s important to you. ”
Duncan was still looking down at the eggs, but Kenzie could hear the tender tinge in his voice; the sweetness extending out towards her. He means it. His sweetness takes my breath away. I wonder if the other people in his life see that sweetness, or care about it.
“Thank you for being so wonderful, Duncan.” Kenzie looked up into Duncan’s face as he came around her side, sliding the eggs onto her place deftly, lifting the hot pan carefully away from her. Dark stubble rose along his cheeks; Duncan wore a soft black tee shirt and black sweatpants, and he looked far too beautiful at this early time of day to be real, his hair slightly mussed in sleep but still looking deliberately styled, somehow, his tall form leaning down to kiss her forehead. He smelled like musky sleep and coffee and the smoke from the stovetop and Kenzie wanted to pull his neck into her face and breathe deeply, like he was oxygen.
“Baby...I’d do anything for you. I told you that, and I meant it, and I’ll say it as much as I need to, I’ll do everything I can, until you believe me.” Duncan said this so matter-of-factly, one would think he had been commenting on the weather, the bright May morning, the temperature outside, the driving conditions. He was looking at her, the frying pan still in his hand, a spatula in the other. Kenzie was struck again by an enveloping tide of affection for him; she felt suddenly unable to speak, mistiness coating her eyes as they stared at each other; she grabbed a piece of the turkey bacon instead, lifting it into her mouth, lowering her gaze away from him, too overcome to stare into his piercing blue gaze any longer. It was perfect; just a little bit burnt, just how she liked it.
She could feel Duncan still staring at her for another moment, then he turned back to the stove, cracking two more eggs into the pan with one hand, carefully discarding the shells in his steel sink for now, twisting a smooth, coppery pepper mill that was sitting on the counter beside the stove over the eggs. “The service detail is sending their candidate at 10:30, baby. I know I said this already, but if you don’t like them, we’ll find someone else. We’ll find someone who makes you feel comfortable, no matter what.”
Kenzie shoved the rest of the bacon into her mouth, fighting off the urge to cry. No crying today, Kenz, she scolded herself. Today is good vibes only. “Okay, baby,” she murmured, grasping the handle of her coffee cup (it was made of glass, the most beautiful coffee cup I’ve ever seen, she thought, how did I not notice these cups the first time I drank coffee Duncan made me, that first morning, I was in a daze), sipping carefully at the steaming liquid. “I feel nervous about it.”
“I’m here. Everything is gonna be fine. These people are the best at what they do. The absolute best. They’ve been protecting my mother for decades, her mother before that. My grandmother, Adelaide Shepherd, she was an absolute force of nature, but she needed a detail, too. Once, a man tried to blow her up with a pipe-bomb he’d hidden in his sock.”
“Oh my god, really?”
“Yep. And that was in the ‘60’s, when that sort of thing was less common.”
“Was she okay?”
“Oh, yeah. She refused to cancel any of her schedule that day, so the story as told by my mother goes. And her detail was unharmed, they managed to wrestle the pipe-bomb away from him and throw it out of range of any civilians. And that’s the same service that’s sending someone for you today. They are truly the best...almost uncannily so.”
Duncan came back over to the island, sliding his own eggs onto his plate (done over medium just like mine, that’s such a stupid small little thing but I love that he likes his eggs the same way) and walking back over to the sink to place the scalding pan into it.
“When we go to your apartment, Kenz, there are going to be paps there. They’re going to shout questions at you, and you’re going to want to answer them. I know the feeling. Sometimes I reply when I really shouldn’t. Do whatever you need to to ignore them. I’ll be there right beside you. They want to get a rise out of you, piss you off enough that you’ll say something. Don’t give them the satisfaction.” Duncan had come back around behind her, his arms coming down over her shoulders, his lips pressing into her hair again, his mouth moving against her head. “It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks or says. I love you. Please remember that.”
Kenzie nodded under the pressure of his touch, still feeling too overwhelmed to speak beyond a trembling “I love you too, baby”, stabbing her fork into the eggs. She noticed her phone light up with another text; Mom. Samuel is an angel from the highest heaven, I loved him immediately. Kenzie smiled widely and held her phone up to Duncan’s eyes so he could see. Duncan grinned. “Absolutely true.”
He sat across from her, pushing one long hand through his hair, picking up a slab of the bacon between two fingers (oh thank god, Kenzie thought, you don’t use a fork for your bacon, because that’s just wrong), ripping it hungrily with his teeth. His eyes came up to her, into hers, around the oval of her face; Kenzie was struck for what felt like the thousandth time by the beauty of his eyes, sapphiric in this light, glittering with depth and emotion. She reached her hand out, almost involuntarily, and Duncan twined his fingers around hers, his expression one of open affection and happiness. I wonder if the other people in his life get to see this Duncan, she wondered again. This open, loving soul. I want to hold it, hold him, with gentle hands.
“I love this. Eating breakfast. With you.” Kenzie bit her lip, the words drifting across the island towards him, over his skin. Duncan was silent for a moment, a little nod cascading down his head. Then he said, “I’m happier than I have ever been in my entire life, here, with you, Kenzie.” And she knew he meant it. She lifted the glass coffee cup to her mouth again, blowing carefully, too speechless to reply, so she sipped again, her eyes lifting up to him over the rim. Duncan had brought his hand to his chin, along the bottom of his lip, glancing back and forth between her and his plate now, and then over to his phone as a text lit up the screen. Kenzie peered. Mom. She couldn’t make out the message.
“Mom wants us to meet her at a bar called Plume tomorrow, around 6,” Duncan said, turning his phone over, not looking at the text. “It’s inside the Jefferson Hotel. Kenzie...Annette can be...very particular about appearances. This is a first impression, so she’s going to be particularly critical of you. You were blessed with a warm mother, but my mother is...a politician and a businesswoman, first and foremost. It’s made her inclined to be cold.”
Kenzie reached for another strawberry, pushing the hair that had fallen into her cheek behind her ear. “Mr. Shepherd, are you saying you need to approve of what I’m wearing?”
“I love your clothes, Kenzie. They’re a part of you, and I can see that. But my Mom doesn’t know you yet. She will judge you immediately, and I just want it to be fairly. I was thinking we could go to the shops after we’re done coordinating with the movers and find you a dress that will satisfy her. And I have my own selfish reasons…” Duncan turned her hand over gently, and dragged a thumb down her palm, suggestively. “I’d love to see you try things on.”
“Normally, Mr. Shepherd, if you were anyone else, I’d tell you to go fuck yourself.”
She could see Duncan trying not to smile, his thumb still pressing into her hand, achingly warm.
“But seeing as I do want to make a good impression on your mother, and you’re suggesting you’re buying me more clothes...if you insist.”
“I do insist, Miss Stone.” He pulled her hand towards him, leaning to her over the island, his energy suddenly hungry, but not for food, longing and intense. Kenzie hovered up for a moment, dipping her mouth down to him, her lips sucking at his bottom lip for the briefest moment, falling away as she leaned back into her seat. He tried to come after her, his head arching into the space where she’d been a moment before, and Kenzie giggled with delight. I could kiss him all fucking day, forever and ever, and he’d still want more. How fucking wonderful is that. Duncan went back to his seat, reluctant, eyes roving down her hair to her bare shoulder peeking from the shirt. Kenzie glanced behind her at the clock over the stovetop. “Oh, fuck, it’s 10 already, we should get dressed, baby.”
“Or I could just watch you get dressed…” Kenzie had jumped up from her seat, a strawberry clenched in her teeth, trying to skirt past him towards the bedroom, but Duncan’s hands grabbed her at the waist and pulled her against him, lips at her neck, and she yelped, hand coming up to the strawberry in her mouth and bringing her hand to his cheek, pressing it into his lips instead. Duncan bit at it and Kenzie brought her mouth against his again, loving the sweet taste of the fruit lingering there, the wetness of his mouth, his hand coming up to cup around her breast, possessive. “Or I could undress you…”
Kenzie twisted out of his arms, (fuck, I love teasing him this way), smiling at him over her shoulder as she slipped away. “I’ll just go to dinner naked, your mom will love that.”
“Fuck, baby…” Duncan stood, his eyes clouding with lust, coming after her as she ran into the bedroom, into the closet, purposefully trapping herself in the corner as he advanced on her; Hades takes Persephone down to the Underworld, she thought; it flickered through her mind, then was gone. Duncan pressed her into the corner, near where his leather jackets hung in a pristine, dark-smelling row, his arms coming down around her waist to her hips (he’s so much taller than me, fuck, I’ll never get over it) and lifted her up into his mouth, his hands coming around the back of her thighs, the shirt riding up so her bare ass pressed to the cold plaster there. “I just want to kiss you all day, all day, baby, I want to go back to bed all day with you and worship you…” His murmurs slipped between his kisses, like smoke around her mind.
“Duncan, we really do need to get dressed,” Kenzie whispered into him, elated, between his lips. “Put me down.”
“No.”
“Do as I say, baby.”
Duncan let out a little whine of protest, but lifted her down with aching softness, so she stood, trapped in his arms in the corner of his walk-in closet, her head barely reaching his shoulder, looking up into his eyes.
“Later. I promise. Later, you can worship me.”
He pressed his head down against hers, hair falling across his forehead, arms holding her with coiled, hungry strength. Kenzie’s heart fluttered wildly between her breasts; that’s all I want too, to stay in bed with you and fall into your eyes and disappear into you, the world to fade away in your arms, my beloved, the only One.
“Okay, baby. Okay.”
--------
Today Kenzie had chosen one of the dresses Duncan had retrieved from her apartment yesterday to wear; I’ll have to move everything into Duncan’s closet later, she thought, slipping the rust-colored, long-sleeve shirt-dress over her head, pulling her hair out of the collar, straightening the skirt, buttoning at the torso. The bodyguard is gonna be here soon. God, I hope they’re not horrible. Duncan was in the bathroom, and she could hear the water running, the soft sounds of him picking things up and putting them back down, using the bottles around the sink. She’d already brushed her teeth, standing next to him as he stared down at his phone, typing rapidly (Annette), his own toothbrush dangling from his mouth, his eyes concentrated. I’m sure he’ll tell me, don’t be nosy, Kenz. She ran the cold water into her hands, sucking some into her mouth, gurgling it, her eyes dancing at him. He glanced up and grinned at her; “you are so cute,” he murmured and she jiggled her eyebrows, cheeks bubbled out from the water swirling in her mouth. She spit into the sink. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. It’s fine. Mom’s angry about the Instagram photo. She’s trying to control the access the media has to...us (me and you, baby). But the sooner everything is out, the sooner it calms down. That’s how it always works. She needs to get used to us and I’m going to do what I can to help speed that along.”
Kenzie couldn’t help but feel little waves of satisfaction; she felt them still as she had slipped on her dress, felt pinpricks of them as she went to the walk-in closet where the Tiffany moon necklace now rested on one of the rising shelves, some of her other necklaces lined carefully beside it (the quartz cluster, the inverted moon choker, memories of the past few days, like the best dreams she’d ever had). She picked it up carefully, unhooking the clasp and closing it around her neck. She gazed down at the moon pendant, fingering it affectionately, then moved to the bathroom; Duncan was rubbing some sort of balm into his jaw, and it smelled wonderful, that woodsy, cedar smell that she was beginning to tie to him so innately. Kenzie was thrilled to see he hadn’t shaved this morning, and the stubble still lined his jaw, darker than yesterday. “I love your stubble,” she said softly, rubbing her kohl pencil under her eyes, just a little, staring at him through the mirror, reaching for the square jar of her perfume, spritzing it around her neck and behind her hair, onto one wrist, rubbing them together.
“I love your perfume. I love your hair and your eyes and your mouth--” Duncan turned to her, reaching for her. She leaned into him, his head falling down against her, eyes closing, arms cradling her. Kenzie looked into the mirror for a moment; her breath caught at the reflection they cast, his much larger, much taller form encompassing her small one, his dark gray high-collared shirt pressing into her rust-colored dress, his dark hair falling into her golden waves, brushed out, falling down her back, his wildly handsome face, almost angelic in this light, leaned against her little one, his full lips next to her slender ones. We look so beautiful together, fuck. He is so beautiful, it makes me want to die right here. My One. My Prince. Beloved. How is he mine.
The bell rang at Duncan’s front door; it was a cadenced chime, a lilt of a doorbell, and it fell over them with a pointed urgency. The world is expecting you. Duncan lifted his head, opened his eyes. “That’s the service.”
“I’ll get it,” Kenzie said, slipping out of his arms, running on bare feet through the bedroom, before he could say anything. She wanted a first impression of this bodyguard without Duncan there; she needed to know how this person would behave around her when he wasn’t around. She stopped, breathless, at the door, pulling it open with a jerk. A handsome, middle-aged white man stood there; he was quite tall, taller than Duncan, Kenzie thought, and broad-shouldered, his eyes bright and sepia, with eyebrows that arched, giving him a mischievous, friendly appearance. His hair was salt-and-peppered, but he wasn’t balding at all, some falling over his forehead, and he wore an immaculate black suit with a crisply pressed white shirt and thin black tie, his long legs extending down to highly polished Oxford shoes; his hands were behind his back, and he towered over her, looking down at her expectantly. The man grinned at her; his smile was wide, open and kind, and Kenzie liked him, instantly. She could see a thin wire extending around the curve of his ear, with a black, rounded end inside his eardrum.
“Thomas Harris, a pleasure. You must be Mackenzie Stone.”
He extended a large hand (he could break my hand off with one jerk, easily, Kenzie thought) and Kenzie slipped her small one into it; his hand was cool, and she could feel the callouses that lined the inside of his palm. This man knows how to hurt someone with his hands, Kenzie knew, immediately. If he has to. But his grip on her was delicate and careful.
“I am. Are you my bodyguard, Mr. Harris?”
The man laughed a little, showing two rows of very straight, very white teeth. “I suppose I am, Miss Stone. I daresay I could easily hoist you over my shoulder and run if need be, also.”
Kenzie grinned. I really like him.
“Most people call me just Harris, Miss. Do you have a preferred title?”
“Mackenzie. Or Kenzie.”
“Very well, Miss Mackenzie.”
“Come in--please.”
Harris stepped through Duncan’s tall doorway, and Kenzie sensed Duncan coming up beside her, his arm snaking around her back for a moment, giving Harris an appraising gaze. He stepped up to the taller man and extended his hand.
“Duncan Shepherd. I heard you were an escort for Adelaide, for a time. Before she passed. I would have been only eight or nine, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t remember.”
“Oh, Adelaide. A firecracker of a woman. A very fine woman, indeed. I still think of her sometimes...I miss that smile terribly some days.” Harris nodded in deep recognition. “I always thought she was far too great a woman to die. I’m still surprised she isn’t here. Thomas Harris, at your service.” The two men shook hands; Kenzie saw Duncan stretch his fingers as he lowered his hand back to his side, as if to bring feeling back into them. This man is fucking strong.
“Thank you for saying that. I feel lucky to have known her for a short time. There’s another woman in the Shepherd family now, in need of your assistance.” Duncan’s hand came around Kenzie’s arm, his fingers warm and heavy. “It would mean a great deal to me if you would consider this job your most important yet.” Oh my god, in the Shepherd family. Duncan’s phrasing made Kenzie’s heart rebound in her chest, a cool sweat break out at the back of her neck. In the Shepherd family.
“I think I can see why that’s so, Mr. Shepherd.” Harris’ warm gaze fell on Kenzie again, and she smiled at him, shyly. “What a bright soul you are, Miss Stone.”
“Mackenzie, Harris, please. What a lovely thing to say,” she replied, blushing. “I’m so grateful for your help...this is all so new to me and I have to admit, I feel strange about it. It’s comforting to me that you looked after Duncan’s grandmother, though. I wish I could’ve met her.”
“She would have liked you very much, I think, Miss Mackenzie. And it’s perfectly understandable, I think, to feel strange about needing protection in this way. But we live in strange times. I vow to do my utmost to keep you safe. I’ve been doing this job for almost thirty years, and I take great pride in it, if I do say so myself.”
Duncan’s hand was still carefully around Kenzie’s arm; she could feel him gazing at her closely, gauging her reaction to this very tall man who was meant to be her buffer between the outside world and her safety. Kenzie looked up at him, into his storm-colored eyes, and smiled, nodding. He’s good, baby. I like him. I trust him. She hadn’t said it, but somehow felt that Duncan heard her anyway; his face relaxed, and he smiled back at her.
“I understand I’ll be escorting you to work at the Post regularly, and for other activities as you and Mr. Shepherd see fit,” Harris said to Kenzie, looking down at her, attentively; “If you ever feel as though you’d rather do without my presence, I won’t take it harshly--this is your prerogative, of course. I am your escort when you have need of me, and my contract is per-day. Also, I’m required to note that only in the case of a direct threat to your physical safety am I allowed, legally, to use physical force. But I will not hesitate, Miss Mackenzie. You have my word on that.”
Duncan nodded at Harris, gratefully. “Thank you, Harris.” Kenzie bit her lip; a direct threat to your physical safety. She had to admit, the idea of having someone trailing after her constantly was unnerving, but at the same time, the idea of someone protecting her from any unwanted attention was an attractive one. Being a woman is often so scary, and nobody is gonna fuck with me with this gigantic dude next to me, I can’t deny that. And obviously; Duncan couldn’t always be with her. Not that I want that...being away from him makes me miss him, and I like that, too. Those reporters scared the shit out of me, and it would be nice to use the front entrance of my work again. Go with it, Kenzie. Fate is trying to give you a sign again. If this man looked after Duncan’s grandmother, he’ll look after you, too.
“Harris, do you need anything? Water? A coffee?” Kenzie said, moving toward Duncan’s espresso machine.
“Thank you, Miss Mackenzie, but no. I’ll wait for you outside. I see I’ve interrupted your breakfast. I look forward to this partnership, and hope my service to you, Miss Mackenzie, will be satisfactory.” Harris glanced down at the island in Duncan’s (our) kitchen, still littered with the plates and glass coffee cups and orange juice glasses. Then he nodded to them, smartly, and stepped out, the door snapping shut with a clean sound behind him.
Kenzie went to the mat by the door where she’d discarded her shoes last night (running to Momby), picking up one of the brown leather Reagan boots and pulling it onto her foot, then the other one. She felt Duncan come up behind her, his soft hands enveloping the middle of her waist, the incline of her abdomen. “I love him already, baby,” she said, righting herself, turning in his arms. “I didn’t know he was going to be one of the bodyguards your grandmother had.”
“I didn’t know either, honestly, until the detail service texted me this morning. It makes me feel so much better, especially after having met him. God, I feel so relieved.” Kenzie wrapped her arms around Duncan’s neck as he spoke into her, consumed with the tenderness that floated into his eyes as he pressed the incline of his nose and lips into her forehead, picking her up just a little, so her feet lifted off the floor and dangled in midair. “Let’s go get your other things, okay?”
“Yes,” she breathed into him. “Yes, baby, yes, I’m so happy, I’ve never been so happy--” and he spun her around in his arms and pressed his face into her neck and she could feel his smile there, feel the heat coming off his body in a wave that felt like summer sunlight.
------
Harris had sat in the front passenger seat of the BMW, next to Samuel; the two men seemed to hit it off instantly, grinning at each other and delving immediately into a mutually interested conversation about their pasts as escorts, drivers, and military servicemen. “Army,” Harris had said to Samuel as soon as he sidled in next to the Nigerian. “I bet my life on it.” “Right you are, sir, in my native Nigeria, that is. And you are Navy.” How they could tell these things about each other Kenzie had no idea, but their exchange made her smile widely; I love Samuel so much, and if he loves Harris, I know I can trust him. Duncan grasped her hand loosely, languidly, his thumb trailing down the dip of her index finger, into the crook of her skin; he was looking down at his phone, his eyes dark.
“Baby, what is it?” The partition floated up; they were alone, shielded from the eyes of Duncan’s chauffeur and Kenzie’s bodyguard.
“Someone took pictures of us last night at the restaurant,” he said, holding up the open Instagram app on his sleek black iPhone. “I guess...I’m used to people taking pictures of me, but I don’t like them taking pictures of you and Madeline that way.” Kenzie looked down at his phone; the shot was the three of them at their corner table at Busboys last night, a side-view, Madeline holding her Jack and Coke and gazing at Duncan with a bemused expression, Duncan saying something animatedly, Kenzie gazing at him with a small smirk.
“You have to admit, this is a nice picture, baby,” Kenzie said, looking up at him. I love this photo, she thought. I love him and Momby talking together this way. I love them both so much.
“It is. I had a wonderful time with you and your mother last night. I’m so glad she...I’m so glad she likes me.” Duncan’s eyes went into hers, soft, and Kenzie was overcome with the need to hold him, clutch his face in her hands. She gripped his hand, and he held hers tightly in turn. “Of course she does, baby. You’re lovely, and I love you, and I knew she would.”
“I’m sorry right now, Kenzie, if my mother isn’t as lovely to you. Please know, Mackenzie, how much I love you.” Duncan leaned over the seat to her as the BMW travelled towards Dupont Circle; his hand fell down to the moon necklace at her throat, his fingers trailing down its circular diamonds, down between the space of her breasts, to her waist, down the pleats of her long skirt, the lift of her thigh and the space behind her knee. He gripped her at that juncture; he pulled her legs softly into his lap, and Kenzie’s skin broke out into goosebumps at the force of the his gesture, the subservience and desire of it. The car was smooth, low strains of Sarah Vaughan floating through the speakers today (whatever Lola wants, Lola gets, and little man, little Lola wants you...I always get what I aim for, and your heart and soul is what I came for); Kenzie reached into the pocket at the side of her dress, pulling her phone out, opening the Instagram app as Duncan gazed at her in open lust, his hand falling up and down her smooth calf, lazily. The icons at the bottom of the tool bar flashed: 20562 new followers, thousands of new comments and mentions. She went to her most recent post, the one of she’d taken in the office in her moment of abandon, her eyes downcast, fingers on the moon necklace she now truly held her fingers against. He gave me the moon on a string. Over 15,000 likes. And now all of you know he’s mine. Kenzie raised her eyes to Duncan; his hand was on his jaw, thoughtful, pensive, his eyes unwavering from her. Somehow she knew he was thinking about putting a mirror in the bedroom again; a mirror and a hook extending from the ceiling, a hook to extend that long black velvet ribbon from, to tie her up again...
Nope, this is never getting old.
------
As Samuel pulled up to Kenzie’s apartment building, her eyes went wide with disbelief. A huge crowd of paparazzi were milling around outside the buzzer-locked entrance; there were at least ten different cameras and dozens of reporters with microphones and recorders, and they had clearly noticed the BMW coming down the drive; several of the microphones turned eagerly; a crowd of people rushed towards the car.
“Kenzie, stay calm, baby, be calm,” Duncan said to her quietly. She had pulled her legs off his lap immediately, her heart catapulting into her mouth, her phone forgotten, her eyes going wide, clutching his arm. “Duncan, fuck, what the fuck,” she breathed. “How are this many people here, holy fuck, holy fuck.” The partition rolled down. “Miss Mackenzie, I’m going to get out first and check the perimeter, and then I’ll give a nod; an okay to proceed. Is that acceptable?” Harris looked over his shoulder at her through the window, his sepia-toned eyes waiting for her go-ahead. Duncan clutched her hand softly, staring at her; you’re in charge, baby, you got this. Be calm. Kenzie took a deep, shuddering breath, staring out the window at the reporters pressed against the BMW; “okay, Harris, okay,” she said, and he opened the door; reporters immediately started to shout questions to him, “Are you with Duncan Shepherd and Mackenzie Stone? Is this Miss Stone’s current residence? Are you aware of the ongoing relationship between Shepherd and Stone? What is your relation to Miss Stone?” Kenzie noticed Harris ignored them as though they weren’t even speaking to him; his eyes scouted the sidewalk sharply, through the crowd pressing towards them, and then he nodded at the window. Time to move.
“Come on, baby, I got you,” Duncan gripped her hand, looking into her eyes; his were clouded, dark, but determined, and Kenzie felt suddenly full of determination, too; fuck all of you, she thought. Fuck you people, let me in my apartment. “Ready,” she breathed, grabbing the handle of the little black convertible bag she’d picked out a few days before, having switched to it from her Margaux satchel before they left the penthouse earlier. Ready as I’ll ever be.
Duncan opened the door, Harris standing near it, his back to the reporters as a buffer; Duncan exited the car, standing straight; the paps immediately swarmed around him, shouting, though they didn’t get too close; Harris gave one man a particularly dark look when he tried to shove a microphone under Duncan’s chin (Kenzie watched, worried, as Duncan’s head came back a little, involuntarily, his expression dazed for just a moment), and the man scurried back. Duncan leaned down, reaching a steady hand out to Kenzie where she still sat in the BMW’s backseat; Kenzie grasped his hand with tight fingers, and let him help her out of the car, their eyes locked; trust me, she knew he was thinking. “Trust me,” he mouthed, and she bit her lip, and nodded. The shouted questions around the car suddenly reached a crashing crescendo as Kenzie stepped onto the sidewalk beside him, Harris shielding her from behind; Kenzie felt as though she could no longer make out phrases, just words; “MISS STONE, DUNCAN, MISS STONE, MR. SHEPHERD, MACKENZIE STONE, YOUR RELATIONSHIP--DATING--SHEPHERD UNLIMITED--POLITICAL OPPONENTS--RESIDENCE--A STATEMENT--” and the clashing of a dozen cameras clicking at once.
“Come on,” Duncan said into her ear, and he pulled her hand gently but firmly towards the building entrance. Kenzie could feel Harris’ forearm gently pushing into her shoulder blades, his tall form hovering behind her, protecting her from the back. Kenzie couldn’t help it; she looked down at the sidewalk, her head pounding with the noise, an overwhelming nausea washing over her; a sudden claustrophobia set in as the reporters closed in around them, still shouting. “Jesus, step the fuck back,” she heard Duncan say, his voice clipped and demanding, and he pulled her through the flapping suit jackets of several reporters who had gotten unnervingly close; they dispersed as Harris came through, his arms coming up as a shield around Kenzie’s body. Then, mercifully, they were inside her apartment building; several men were standing inside the doorway, each wearing a polo shirt with Moving Unlimited sewn into the breast. Duncan nodded at them, while Kenzie stared out the glass window, dazed, at the reporters and camerapeople, still snapping pictures of her. Is all of this really for me? Harris stood at the door they’d just entered, holding it shut as paps crowded against it, attempting to get inside.
Duncan pulled the keys Kenzie had given him days ago from his pocket; the silver crescent moon charm glinted at her as he turned it in the door, snapping it open, and she suddenly felt grateful at his speed; her keys were still buried somewhere at the bottom of her bag, and she noticed her hands were shaking badly. Duncan pulled her gently, still grasping her hand tightly, into the hallway; the movers came behind her, and Harris followed them, carefully checking the door was securely shut behind them.
Duncan was at her door now; the gold moon she kept hung there was winking at her. Strange times, Kenz. He used the second silver key, this one slightly smaller, to unlock her apartment door; “Come on, baby, we’re here,” he said into her ear, softly. Kenzie stepped into her apartment (my little, shitty apartment); there were empty spots here and there where Duncan had gotten her things yesterday, her plants along the windowsill gone (now sitting in Duncan’s bedroom; they’ll go on his windowsill now, our windowsill), about half of her clothing gone off the standing rack against the wall (now hanging in a neat row beside Duncan’s--our--bed). Kenzie looked around, still feeling dazed. There was a stack of unbuilt boxes on the floor next to the front door, left from the day before. Her bed lay undisturbed, though; Kenzie remembered in a wave how she and Duncan had fucked on it after he came to her so breathlessly, after that long day, such a long day, seeing Momby, telling her; the last time she’d slept in it. What a wonderful night to be my last in this bed.
“I just remembered my lease doesn’t turn over until August,” she said aloud, as if to herself, her voice quiet, sounding like it belonged to someone else.
“That’s not important, baby, I’ll have our lawyers talk to your landlord. We’ll pay off whatever you owe for the rest of the lease.”
“Duncan, I--”
“Kenzie, please let me do that. It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”
Duncan looked at her; his eyes were warm, soothing, open. She met his gaze for a moment, then looked behind him. The movers and Harris still stood in the hallway; the movers looked bored and impatient, but Harris was calm and collected, looking carefully back at the doorway where several paps had now gone inside the entranceway. He said something quietly, as if to himself, and Kenzie couldn’t make it out; then, she remembered the thin wire extending into his ear. He seemed like a lion to Kenzie; a lion, or a giant leopard, the predator, not the prey, not concerned about his place on the food chain. She had no doubt he wouldn’t hesitate to remove someone from her path, as he’d said to her so calmly. The paps had parted for him like he was Moses parting the Red Sea.
“All you need to do, baby, is tell them how you want them to pack up your things. Then we can go and they’ll take everything to the penthouse.” Duncan spoke to her carefully. “Are you okay? Do you need some water?”
“Yes, please,” Kenzie said in a small voice. She breathed in, deeply, and sat on the edge of her constellation bedspread. I can’t believe all of that was because of me.
“I think it would be best if we left from a back entrance, Mr Shepherd,” Harris said to him from the doorway. “There are too many people for me to properly cover Miss Stone on the way out. I’ve called for backup; they can act as a distraction if need be until we can get her back into the vehicle.”
“That sounds fine, Harris. Kenzie, is there a back entrance?”
“Y-yes. Down the hallway, another right. There’s a patio area and a gate to the side-street.”
“Very good, Miss Mackenzie. I’ll go check the perimeter.” Harris moved down the hallway briskly, his Oxford shoes quiet on the carpet. Kenzie breathed out as Duncan handed her the peony glass, half full of water. Kenzie swallowed a mouthful, reaching for his hand; he wrapped it around her fingers, and the warmth of his touch filled the pit of her stomach with a blooming flower of calm. “Baby, everything is going to be fine. I promise.” His expression was so tender; it made her cheeks hot, her lip tremble. She handed him the glass back with a shaking hand; he grasped it, his hand steady, brushing her fingers, his hair falling over his forehead as he looked down at her, patient, calm.
“Let me get something,” Kenzie said, standing, letting go of him, moving into her tiny bathroom, pushing aside the long lunar tapestry that covered the doorway. Duncan didn’t follow her; he seemed to sense that she needed a moment alone. She moved against the sink, grasping the edge tightly to steady herself; stared for a long moment at the photo of Momby, when she was young, that was tucked into the mirror; the one of her in the bell-sleeves and very short cut-off shorts and flat sandals, leaning against a brick wall, smiling at something or someone unknown to the side of the unknown cameraman, her body and face in profile, her teeth visible, her eyes sparkling, her hair falling around her shoulders and forehead. I need to keep this safe, Kenzie thought, and tucked it carefully into the little black bag at her hip. She breathed again, once, twice, three times, staring at her tiny bathroom, thinking of Duncan’s huge one, so pristine and beautiful and big, with its marble countertop and silver-gilded mirror, the clawfoot bathtub (full of roses), the shower where they’d fucked that morning after, where last night they’d held each other so tenderly. Your new bathroom, Kenz. No more balancing your speaker on the toilet. She went to the corner where she had a small shelf with toiletries stacked in its cloth drawers beneath the tiny window; on top of it was a Golden Pothos plant, its leaves climbing down around the legs of the shelf, growing wildly. “You need a bigger pot, baby,” she whispered to it, and picked it up, gently, bringing her face down to it, pressing her nose into it for a moment. Then, Kenzie turned; Kenzie, you are brave, and you can do this, you can be this brave person, this fearless person, you can pretend she is you, that you are golden, you can see yourself the way you know Duncan sees you, because you can see into his heart, somehow, you can see into his thoughts, somehow, and you know he believes in you--you know he thinks you are golden, and so you must believe in yourself, believe you are golden, too, and make it so. You have to, Kenzie. You have to be her now. You have to believe you are her. Only you can bring her to life.
Kenzie looked down at her Golden Pothos again, pressing one foot against the other; circling her foot out, pointing it from front to back. Then, gripping the plant in her arms still, she moved out of the bathroom, pushing the tapestry aside with her shoulder.
“Okay,” she said, looking up at Duncan, who had sat quietly at her little round, wooden dining table, his hand against his chin; that telltale sign of his concern. He met her gaze, and nodded. “Let’s do this.”
------
It was about an hour later when Duncan and Kenzie moved quietly through the gated backyard of her apartment complex; Kenzie still held the Golden Pothos tenderly in her arms; Duncan had offered to carry it, but she shook her head. “I want to hold it, I need to hold it right now.” He’d nodded, his hand trailing gently down her arm, protectively. The movers had almost finished packing everything into neat boxes (her clothes were kept on the rack, but they’d tucked vinyl sheeting around it, covering it from prying pap eyes as they pushed it into the moving truck on the curb--several cops and other men in dark suits had arrived about fifteen minutes after Harris had placed his discreet backup call, and they were keeping the paps quarantined a few yards from the entrance of the building); Kenzie had insisted on lifting her wind chimes down with a chair and tucking them, inside her constellation bedspread, carefully into one of them herself; she placed a few of her other plants that had been left behind yesterday on top of the spread to cushion them. Duncan had personally, carefully carried the box into the truck, writing HANDLE WITH EXTREME CARE on the side with a sharpie, ignoring the paps who shouted at him (even when one of them called out “how’s Annette feeling about you fucking Madeline Stone’s daughter, Duncan?”). Kenzie was having her furniture moved into Momby’s storage unit in Arlington, though she wondered, absently, if she’d indeed ever end up using any of it again; Duncan’s things are so much nicer, why would we use mine? She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sadness; it’s not that I even love my furniture. The change is just...so abrupt. My life changing so quickly, so utterly. It feels so soon, and yet, it feels like the right thing. It feels like pieces of a puzzle falling into place. It feels like the new moon. Duncan was right; this is our destiny. But nobody told me finding your destiny would feel so strange.
Samuel was idling the BMW on the back stretch of the side-street, and Harris was closely behind Kenzie again, his eyes, hawk-like, scanning the backyard for any stray prying eyes. Duncan held her arm, gently, pulling the rear door open, gripping her carefully as she leaned down into the seat, the plant still clutched in her arms; Duncan slid in beside her and and Harris shut the door behind him with a firm click from the sidewalk, moving quickly to the front seat and shutting the door as he scanned the area again; he spoke low, pressing the earpiece, as he settled into the passenger seat, and Samuel accelerated, the BMW quietly leaving the curb and turning toward Georgetown. “Samuel, drop us off at relish, in Cady’s Alley, thank you,” Duncan said, reaching for Kenzie’s hand; he pressed the button for the partition. He turned to her as the privacy of the backseat enveloped them. “Baby, Kenzie, are you alright? Can I do anything?”
Kenzie turned to look at him; oh, Duncan, I love you so. His eyes had that same tender expression as when he’d handed her the water glass, the clarity of their blue like a clear sky; she felt as though she could somehow sense the drifting color of his emotions, seeping out of him and enveloping her like an embrace, golden and bronze and delicately soft, sunlight and warm sand. “I’m okay, baby. I’m going to miss my apartment. It’s the first place I ever lived alone; I lived there for three years. And I’m going to miss living so close to Emissary...I’m okay. But I am a little sad. Just a little.”
“Do you want to cry? It’s okay if you want to cry, baby.”
Kenzie shook her head, biting her lip, clutching the Pothos.
“No. I don’t want to. Kiss me, okay? Duncan. Kiss me.” She turned her head up to him and he was smiling and his lips fell on hers and his hand came around hers where they clutched the terra cotta and he felt so warm and he felt golden and in his embrace Kenzie thought I don’t want to cry, I want to laugh; you make me feel golden, I told myself I am that girl you see inside me, and I feel her there and I know she’s there, I know she’s in me, and you’re bringing her out, bringing me to myself, in you I’ve seen the reflection of my own self, and in me the reflection of you.
-----
Duncan stepped out of the BMW, reaching for Kenzie’s hand, where Samuel had pulled up in front of the stony facade of the boutique; Kenzie gazed up at it, curious. She still held the Golden Pothos in her arms; Duncan reached down to her arms, gently pulling it away from her. “Is it okay if Samuel takes this back to the penthouse, baby? You know you can trust him.”
“Yes,” Kenzie breathed. If only this dazed feeling would fade; this feeling that I’m suddenly in someone else’s story. Harris was getting out of the passenger seat, buttoning his suit jacket, his hawkish sepia eyes scanning the area carefully again. I doubt he ever misses a thing, Kenzie thought. I wonder if he ever deviates from being extremely calm. Samuel leaned down from the driver’s seat to peer at her. “I will protect this small creature with my life, Miss Mackenzie,” he said as Duncan tucked the potted plant into the seat Harris had just vacated, pulling the seatbelt around its wide pot with measured gentleness. “Thank you, Samuel,” Kenzie replied, her voice sounding small in her ears. “Can you give it a little water when you get back?” “Of course, Miss Mackenzie.” Duncan shut the door and Samuel pulled away; “I’ll text him when we’re done,” Duncan said down to her, his hand finding the small of her back, his long fingers pressing gently down to the incline of her hip. Kenzie nodded up to him and grasped his hand as he pulled her into the shop; its interior was very cool and very quiet, the walls calming white with wooden dais raised here and there, shoes and accessories carefully and meticulously arranged, minimal racks against the walls, some clothing displayed on mannequins, red summer dresses and black pea coats and crisp white blouses. Harris hung back by the door as Duncan pulled her further into the shop, his eyes lighting on a woman approaching them, and he smiled at her, brilliantly.
“Nancy, how are you? It’s wonderful to see you.”
“Duncan, darling, I’m well, and you--you look wonderful, god, absolutely luminous.” The woman was middle-aged with an open, makeup-free face, round glasses perched on her nose, frizzy curls falling around her face, her smile genuine and unpretentious. She wore a long tartan skirt that fell to her ankles in navy and gray, and a mock neck top, darker navy, with pointed sleeves that went to her elbow. A golden-yellow argyle scarf was tied around her neck. She stopped in front of them, reaching out to Duncan, pressing her cheek against his, for a moment. “You smell lovely, as to be expected.” She turned to Kenzie, her expression friendly and curious. “And you must be Mackenzie. Madeline and I have brushed shoulders at parties in the past, but I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting you, my dear. I’m Nancy Pearlstein. Duncan tells me you’re meeting Annette tomorrow and need to look a part she’ll be...gentle with.”
Kenzie felt heat seep into her cheeks, and smiled a little. ”It’s nice to meet you.”
“What a doll,” Nancy said, eyes falling down Kenzie’s small form, from her strawberry-gold hair to the pleated dress, lingering on the moon pendant for a moment, then to her dark brown leather boots, glancing at Duncan approvingly, then back to her. “You make quite the striking couple, it’s no wonder the media is losing its collective mind; and you, my dear, you’re like a little piece of cake. We must give you the proper frosting. Come.”
Nancy led them up a smooth staircase of wooden slats; around more displays, tasteful racks, and mannequins on the second floor, and through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY around a corner. Here there was a wide white room, painted similarly to the rest of the store, warm light streaming in from two high windows against the far wall facing them, some empty mannequin stands in one corner and a curtain pulled over the opposite one as a makeshift dressing room, with a mirror so long against the wall to their left it reminded Kenzie of one in a dance studio; to one side of the mirror there stretched another long clothing rack, this one stocked with at least twenty different dresses of varying colors and styles.
“So, I brought together some pieces I think would suit you based on the pictures of you Duncan sent me. If you don’t like them, we can find more. Take your time. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything at all.” Nancy nodded back and forth between Duncan and Kenzie, her smile clearly delighted at the two of them; she pressed two fingers to her lips, as if lost in a private thought, then left, closing the door quietly behind her.
Duncan turned to her, smiling. “Isn’t she lovely?”
“She is. You know so many lovely people, baby.”
“She and my mother have been friends since high school. Nancy helped her dress for her first TV appearance, back in the late 80’s. Her store has been here for over twenty years. She’s the best...baby, try something on for me?” Duncan stepped close to her, his arms snaking around Kenzie’s waist, his face coming down to the side of her face, lips trailing down her neck. “I wanna see you in every single one of these. Please?”
Ugh, baby, you’re so gorgeous, you smell so fucking good, Kenzie thought, unable to stop her eyes from closing as he pressed into her, his much larger form enveloping hers in an achingly strong embrace, his hair against her mouth, its woodsy smell making her heart fall into her stomach and fly back into her mouth. I want your hands down between my legs where they belong. As if he heard her, Duncan moved one long-fingered hand over her thigh, but Kenzie pulled away, teasingly, before he could reach down further, her lips hovering achingly close to his for a moment, eliciting a moan from him that reverberated against her, his desire palpable in the quiet of the early afternoon.
“Sit down, baby,” she commanded, and his gaze was heavy with lust for a moment as he stood very still, almost touching her but not quite, his hand hovering up, fingers extended towards her. Then, he turned to where some folding chairs were stacked against the wall; he pulled one with ease over to the center of the room, opening it with a snap, setting it firmly down, and sitting, crossing one leg against the other in a lazy, low crook, hands settling into his lap, his eyes steady on her.
Kenzie turned her back to him, setting her convertible bag on the floor; she went up to the rack lined beside the mirror, and began to push through the dresses carefully, mentally selecting five or six she liked immediately, and a handful of others that struck her for one reason or another. She lifted one up to Duncan; it was black tweed with tiny, tasteful sequins and a boat-style neck, and sleeves to the middle of the lower arm with slit cuffs. “This seems like an Annette Shepherd dress to me,” she said, and he nodded, his eyes shifting over it with a confident look.
“It is. I think that might be the one. Try it on?”
“I will. Be patient, Mr. Shepherd.”
“Yes, Miss Stone.” She felt his eyes on her back, falling down her wavy hair (golden and soft as silk) along her hips and over her ass (thinking about your beauty last night, baby, fucking you with that plug, fucking you, tied up, my come dripping down your leg, riding me so hard into that oblivious ecstasy…) and Kenzie blew her breath out, trying to calm her racing nerves, am I imagining this again, or is that really what he’s thinking, but pushed it away from her mind, trying to clear it. She opened the makeshift curtain, and stepped behind it, easing her dress off over her head, slipping the first of the dresses Nancy had picked for her on; it was black and tiny, hem high on her thigh, with two dual strips of fabric that covered her breasts. A va-va voom dress, as Momby would call it. He wants a show, so I’m going to give him one.
“What do you think,” Kenzie said coyly, pushing the curtain aside. She twirled as Duncan’s eyes lit up and he leaned forward, eagerly, her gold hair tossing over her shoulder.
“We are definitely going home with that one, angel.”
Kenzie grinned and stepped up to him, leaning down, pressing her mouth eagerly down onto his, standing between his legs; Duncan tried to put his hands around her, but she pulled away before he could. “I’m busy, baby,” she said, turning her head up, swinging her hips as she walked away from him. “You need to wait.”
“Ughhh, Kenzie, baby…”
“Shhhh.” Kenzie pushed the curtain closed again, her nerves thrilling under her skin. This was fun. When she opened it again, she was wearing a long-sleeved crewneck black dress with white lines around the waist and through the flaring skirt. More of an autumn dress than summer, she thought, but definitely something I’d wear.
“I like this one,” she said. Duncan smiled and nodded. “As many as you want, baby. I think my Mom would like that one, too.” Kenzie made a little face and went back behind the curtain. She tried on several other dresses; one that was a tawny color that didn’t seem to fit her correctly around the shoulders (not this one) and another, a black mini-dress with flowers embroidered along either side. “I love that one,” Duncan said, his eyes flickering over her little breasts, the curve of waist, and the incline of her thighs in its form-fitting confines. “I love you in flowers.”
“I like this one too. It’s summery. But maybe not right for dinner with your mother.”
“Still, if you like it, we’re getting it.”
Kenzie smiled at him; fuck, baby, this is so much fun. His hand was on his jaw, trailing along his bottom lip, and his eyes glittered at her, full of affection and adoration. Just look at me, baby, she thought. Just look at me like that always and I’ll never be sad again.
Kenzie opened the curtain again a minute later; this dress made Duncan’s eyes widen and his mouth fell open, his hands coming out, resting on his knees with urgency.
“Fuck, baby, fuck me,” he whispered. The dress was long, lacy and red, with a fitted bodice and two tiny straps over her shoulders; the lace was transparent around her legs, exposing her skin, extending up to a very short flesh-colored slip around her hips, the neckline low, her back exposed, her hair brushing against her shoulder blades as she turned around for him, heart beating against the moon pendant around her neck. Kenzie smiled at him over her shoulder; I want you so fucking bad, baby, his thoughts seemed to drift towards her again, his eyes roving up and down her body, hungrily, achingly; I want you right now, I want your clit in my mouth, I want your neck under my fingers, your hair against my skin, your mouth against mine. Goddess, angel, my Kenzie, most divine--
Kenzie moved up to him, close, between his legs again, and this time, she let him press his hands into the lace around her, let him press his mouth, achingly soft, into the skin just above where the moon pendant lay against her. “Kenzie, I want you so bad, baby, you’re so beautiful, so fucking beautiful--”
“We can’t, baby, not right here--” but her mouth was opening to him and he was pressing one of his beautiful hands between her thighs, pulling her into his lap, fingers flitting under the hem of her underwear into the wetness spreading from the gathering heat there and she arched into his hand, their tongues coming against each other, and his thumb brushed up and down along her clit, making her shudder; Duncan worked his index finger up, rubbing it into her, the hardness at his crotch grinding up into the emptiness between her legs, and he said “I can make you come, though,” and he brought his finger down to the moisture at her cunt and brought it up to her clit, soaked in her arousal now, and he bit softly into her neck, once, twice, three times as he ground all of his concentrated devotion into her and she arched on his lap and he said “Kenzie, baby, fuck, I love you--” and she shuddered into his hand, her release abrupt and achingly hard and dizzying, and he brought his other hand up to her mouth and she stifled the scream of her orgasm into it, lips wet and kissing his palm.
“We are definitely getting this dress,” he murmured into her ear as she gasped against him, coming back down to earth.
Kenzie stood, wobbling a little; she could feel the wetness stuck against her panties now, and Duncan slid his finger away, still glistening with her; he pulled a tissue from his pocket, wiping her release onto it from his hand, bringing it to his nose for a moment (oh my god, baby) and tucking it back into his pocket. “Bad, bad baby,” she whispered as he grasped her hips to steady her. “Bad boy.”
“Uh huh,” Duncan said, flashing his beautiful smile at her, burying his face against her bare skin again. “I need to be punished, I guess.”
Kenzie gazed at him; he looked up into her face (blue like summer seas), mouth pressed into her with open devotion, wanton need. “Oh, you do, do you?” Kenzie whispered.
“I think so. If you want to. I think I’d like that. I think I’d like it if you tied me up.”
Oh my god, fuck yes. A shiver ran down Kenzie’s spine, cool air touching her bare shoulders in the red dress. “Okay, baby. I will. But you need to be patient.”
Duncan let go of her, but his eyes glittered still, and his smile was suggestive, a promise of things to come. “Okay, baby. I’ll be patient.”
“Good boy.” Kenzie stepped away from him, back to the curtain.
------
Kenzie tried on several other dresses, but the one they decided on for dinner with Annette was the first one Kenzie had laid eyes on; the black tweed with tiny sequins, a dress that looked like it belonged on the body of a Congresswoman having a tasteful lunch at a bistro. It’s not really a Kenzie dress, Mackenzie thought, but I’m terrified of this dinner tomorrow, and every little bit helps. I just hope she isn’t planning on dressing me all the time. Kenzie remembered the appointment she was supposed to go to with Annette on Saturday morning, to fit a dress for the Gala. Yep, 100% dreading that. In the end, they left Nancy’s boutique with five of the dresses that she’d hung on the rack for Kenzie; the tiny black one with the plunging neckline, the one with flowers embroidered along the sides, the black dress with white stripes, the lacy red dress that he made me come in with just his hands, Kenzie thought, good thing we didn’t get anything on it, her cunt twinging as Duncan grasped her fingers at the counter, and the dress she would wear to their dinner at Plume tomorrow. Kenzie dared not even look at the bill; she turned away from the register as Nancy and Duncan conversed pleasantly and nonchalantly, Nancy slipping them into vinyl hanging bags, wheeling a rack around to take to the BMW, Samuel already having driven back around to pick them up, Harris watching carefully from inside the doorway of the boutique, his expression relaxed and neutral. I guess thirty years of being a bodyguard makes you extremely patient. Kenzie felt dizzy and tired again; I can’t wait to see Claire, she thought. Claire always makes me feel like myself again, and I want her and Duncan to like each other so much.
“Sweet Mackenzie, it was lovely to meet you, I’m so glad I could help with this.” Nancy pushed the wheeled rack towards them and Duncan grasped it from her, carefully.
“Thank you for everything, Nancy,” Kenzie replied, blushing, remembering Duncan’s hands between her legs in the room upstairs, a short while ago. He looked at her, his smile sly, a promise to her that he was thinking about the same thing. Harris came up and pulled at the other end of the rack, bringing it out the door, carefully pressing the vinyl bags into the trunk of the BMW; he opened the door for Kenzie, smiling at her.
“Today has been so long,” Kenzie said, looking up at his friendly face, “But meeting you has made it wonderful. I’m so grateful…” She grasped the large man’s calloused hand for a moment as Duncan watched them from the opposite side of the car before he got in, his blue eyes full of affection as they fell over her gesture.
“Miss Mackenzie, I am grateful to have a charge who is so lovely in every way. The pleasure is mine. Today is one of many where I will be faithfully at your side. I look forward to this partnership.”
Kenzie slid into the seat, and Harris closed it behind her. Duncan laid a hand on her thigh, his face falling down to his iPhone for a moment, and Kenzie closed her eyes, tiredness washing over her; when she opened her eyes again, Kenzie noticed he’d had it raised up in front of her and was lowering it now, smiling at it. “Oh no, Duncan,” she murmured, “did you take another picture of me?”
Duncan bit his lip. “You looked so lovely.” He held it up to her; he’d already posted it on his profile. In the photo, Kenzie’s eyes were closed and her face was serene, the late afternoon sunlight falling over her cheek, the moon pendant glittering at her neck, golden waves thrown down her shoulders, a little pout at her mouth. “Oh no, ugh,” Kenzie complained. “Blackmail.” Sleepy angel. With the beating pink heart and ZZZ emojis. 800 likes and it’d only been seconds. “Fuck, people do not waste time on your photos, baby,” she murmured. But Kenzie felt too tired to care. Let them look. Her eyes drifted closed again, and her head fell onto Duncan’s shoulder, though she didn’t realize it; Kenzie felt the soft brush of Duncan’s lips in her hair, then she remembered nothing until the pulled up in front of the high-rise a few minutes later, the setting sun streaming against its glistening surface, Duncan shaking her awake, gently, his fingers on her cheek.
-----
“Let’s just get takeout for dinner,” Duncan said, and Kenzie grinned at him. Oh, thank god, you are an actual human being. “Ugh, yes, baby, definitely.” She was standing in the bedroom, surrounded by boxes, bringing her plants out one by one; Kenzie was still in the long-sleeved pleated dress, but her feet were bare, and Duncan had peeked his head into the room from where he’d been typing at his Macbook on the coffee table, deeply immersed in emails. “I’ve been dying for Chinese food, do you people eat that?”
“You people,” Duncan mimicked, making a face. “Are my horns showing again?”
“Yep, they’re glorious and terrifying. But I know I can defeat you with tickles.”
Duncan laughed. “You wouldn’t dare.”
She wiggled her fingers at him and he disappeared from the doorway in faux terror. “Oh, wouldn’t I, Mr. Shepherd.”
“Please tell me Claire likes eggrolls, because I’m ordering like, at least ten.”
“Of course Claire likes eggrolls, she’s not a monster.”
“What a relief.” Duncan appeared in the doorway again, throwing his phone lazily onto the bed; he gathered her up in his arms. “I love those little plants you put in the kitchen, it looks like you now, like you and me, together. I love it so much, baby.”
“Mmhmm,” Kenzie sighed into him; when Duncan held her, it seemed as though every ache, every drop of tiredness floated away from her; I feel alive in his arms. Truly alive. She kissed him; “I love kissing you,” he said into her mouth, their lips parting then meeting again, and she nodded up into him as he lifted her, his body enveloping her, his hands at the back of her neck, the dip under her arm, threading through her hair. “I know today was a long day for you--you were so wonderful, so kind and lovely, and you always are--”
“Not always, baby,” she whispered into him. “I’m human too, I can be a cruel mistress.”
“But I’m yours, and I will forgive you every time.” His words fell against her and Kenzie felt her heart shake; she was struck again by the heavy hand of Fate, merciful, having brought them together. Please be with us tomorrow, I beg of you, for I am fucking terrified of Annette Shepherd. She went to speak; but the doorbell chimed again, for the second time that day.
“Claire!”
Kenzie ran to the door, jerking it open, and throwing herself into the arms of her Clairebear, Claire’s blonde shag bouncing back and her mouth shrieking into Kenzie’s ear as they hugged each other tightly. “Oh my god, I’ve missed you, bitch!” Claire pulled Kenzie back to look at her, then wrapped her arm around the back of Kenzie’s neck, tightly, squeezing her again. Kenzie dragged her inside the penthouse, grinning so widely she worried her face would split. Duncan came up behind her and Claire yanked him into a hug. “Get used to this, Duncan, I’m a hugger.”
“I could use more hugs, so that’s fine.” Duncan put his arm around Claire’s back, smiling at Kenzie over her shoulder.
Claire patted his cheek, pulling back. “I brought some really fucking good weed from Colorado.”
“Fuck yes!” Kenzie hopped up and down, her bare feet bouncing against the smooth marble kitchen floor. “Get this, Claire, Duncan eats Chinese food, I’m so fucking relieved.”
“What am I, a science experiment?” Duncan was smiling, though. “What kind of wine do you like, Claire?”
“Pfft, every kind, what kind of question is that, honey.”
“Every kind it is, then,” Duncan went into the fridge (it belongs in the future with the toaster, Kenzie thought), and brought out a bottle of vintage Moet, opening it deftly, the satisfying pop of the cork reverberating off the crystal-drop chandelier. “Champagne glasses?” She asked him, her eyes falling into his with desire.
“Right side cabinet, top shelf, but how are you gonna reach them, baby?”
“I have my ways.” Kenzie hoisted herself up onto the counter so she was kneeling on its smooth black surface, and she reached up carefully, bringing down three beautiful Waterford champagne coupes. “A lifetime of shortness has made me crafty.”
“Kenz, be careful.”
Claire was watching them with bright eyes; Kenzie looked back at her, and Claire shook her head. “You two are so stinkin’ cute, it’s pretty disgusting.”
Kenzie lept down from the counter and brought the glasses over to the island. Duncan poured the icy champagne into the first glass, cordially handing it to Claire; she smiled, delighted. He handed the next one to Kenzie, fingers lingering on her skin; and lastly, poured one for himself.
“To all the happiness in the days to come,” he said, his eyes shining at her, raising his coupe.
“To your mother not murdering me tomorrow,” she countered.
“To this fucking great weed we’re about to smoke,” Claire added, and clinked her glass against them both.
After they’d shared a bowl, Kenzie had dragged Claire from room to room, watching her friend’s face with delight as Claire gasped at Duncan’s rooms, at The Youth of Bacchus, at the wall-long window gazing down on the city, 30 stories down and a mile away; our rooms, she corrected herself, our apartment, my apartment, my penthouse, god, so fucking weird, but get used to it, Kenz, he’s yours and so is this, so is all of this. The weed crashed through her in a wave, down the base of her skull into the pit of her body and through her limbs, and the champagne was the best she’d ever tasted, heady and bittersweet and high. Music drifted from the overhead speakers, a hard drumbeat with a playful guitar twining around it (looking out for love, in the night so still / oh I’ll build you a kingdom, in that house on the hill); Claire stared at the window in awe, coupe clutched in her hand, and Duncan was stretched out on the low leather couch, Kenzie leaning against his feet and the crook of his bent knees, her hair falling down his thighs into his crotch; Duncan’s hands fell through it, his eyes fascinated and mesmerized.
“This is the most amazing place, Duncan,” Claire said, turning back to them. “Like, wow, the energy here is special.”
“It’s because Kenzie’s here now,” Duncan replied, matter-of-factly. “She’s the gold.”
“The gold?”
“Yes. Kenzie is gold.”
Kenzie laughed a little. “You’re high, baby.”
“So what. You’re still gold, angel. Gold forever, gold divine, gold of mine...”
Another song drifted from the speakers; strains of electronic chimes, ethereal and full of magic. So long ago, certain place, certain time…
“You touched my hand, all the wayyyy, all the way down to Emmeline--” Kenzie clear voice burst out into song towards Claire, and Claire grinned.
“But if our paths never cross, well you know, I’m sorry, but--”
Kenzie jumped up, Duncan’s hands slipping out of her hair, grabbing Claire’s hand (Claire set the Waterford coupe down carefully beside Dike’s scales, laughing, “Kenzie, jesus, watch out!”), whirling her around as the music pumped out of Duncan’s speakers, and he gazed at her, a serenely happy expression in his eyes as the light faded and the city came up through the window. If I live to see the Seven Wonders, I’ll make a path to the rainbow’s end, I’ll never live to match the beauty again, the rainbow’s end...
BODY AND SOUL Part 10 (Duncan Shepherd/Mackenzie Stone Millory AU)
BODY AND SOUL MASTERPOST
Author’s Note: This part sort of stretched itself a lot further than I originally anticipated, there was so much I wanted to elaborate on that consequently, it’s Part 11 that will feature Mackenzie’s dinner for Duncan, and the fulfillment of his morning promise (hot sex y’all) & the revelation of the special gift (I also decided I wanted everyone to witness that part through Duncan’s perspective, so we’d be privy to his thoughts and feelings regarding what Kenzie did for him and how worried he is about her safety/his desire to soothe her, among other things, and I’m trying to stick to the dual perspective pattern, so). I know this part doesn’t have smut and Duncan isn’t in it very much, but it’s very important to the development of Duckenzie’s emotional trajectory, and it took a long time for me to write it and it was emotional for me. I really loved spending this time with Mackenzie; I did my best to give her room for doubt while also being clear that she is fiercely individualistic and does indeed have a core of strength, even if she can’t necessarily always see that about herself. A lot of new AU versions of AHS APOC characters crept into this: Ben Wilder is obviously Billy Porter/Behold, Precious is Queenie/Gabourey, Zadie is Zoe/Taissa, Anchaly is Ariel/Jon Jon, Candice (my Cordelia AU)’s lost love Mia is Misty/Lily. I’ve toyed with the idea of making Samuel canonically an AU several times, but even though I think of Lance Reddick’s Papa Legba for him sometimes, he’s not really Papa; he’s someone else, my own character. If anyone wants to make fake Instagram edits for Duncan and Kenzie, I’d fucking love that. Please humor me with all the clothes in this one; I modeled the stuff Kenzie picks after things you can actually get on Madewell’s website, for what it’s worth, and I tried to plot out her Georgetown shopping as accurately as I could; there’s both a Sephora and a Dean and DeLuca within short walking distance of the Georgetown Madewell. The prints in Duncan’s living room are Bouguereau’s Dawn, Day, Twilight (Evening Mood) and Night. I made an edit representing the statues of Dike, Nike and Athena Duncan has in his living room here. Here is Ella Fitzgerald’s BEWITCHED, BOTHERED AND BEWILDERED. Nirvana Rose is a scent I wear in the spring; I always planned for it to be Kenzie’s scent of choice (vetiver, geranium and rose are the notes). I have to admit I put a lot of my own thoughts and feelings about money and the fantasy of money in this part; I struggle a lot with feeling guilty about wanting luxurious things in my life, so I sort of channeled that for Kenzie’s shyness about spending money that Duncan wants her to have. Had to finally bring in the fact that Cody and Billie are both Cancers. Kenzie’s lifelong imagining that Persephone loved Hades is my lifelong imagining.
Kenzie ran into the Post, her heart fluttering around in her chest like a butterfly trapped in a net. At home. At home. Her parting words to Duncan danced around in her brain, spinning and swaying. See you tonight--at home. She vaguely registered that she and Duncan had had their breathless conversation, between passionate kisses, on the open sidewalk in view of at least fifteen people milling around outside Franklin Square. At least, she thought. Probably a lot more than that, if I’m being realistic. She remembered the blonde woman snapping pictures of them; remembered the eyes of everyone in Emissary staring at her and Duncan as the woman made a scene. Fuck. She rushed into the elevator, her boots clicking in her ears, her bag smacking against her hip. Fuck, she was late. Fuck. At home. See you at home. I’m gonna make you come so fucking hard. Baby. Angel. His breath on her ear as she woke to his touch, the overwhelmingly hungry look in his eyes--storms, thunder--as she sucked his hard cock, the way he’d grabbed her hand holding the water glass and pulled her close to him, his hands on her thigh and against her ass, looking up into her face with that worshipping glint in his sapphire eyes--
FUCK, Kenzie, focus! You’re late for work!
Kenzie just made the elevator, smacking the button for the 10th floor, squeezing in between four other people as the doors slid shut behind her; she glanced down at her phone, dazed, as she heard it trumpet: Clairebear.
MACKENZIE LOUISE, oh my FUCKING GOD! Duncan is fucking beautiful! I see what you mean about his eyes, they’re like jewels?!?! He’s so tall and his hair like WHAT, how does it do that?? Those women in line ahead of you, what the fuck was that all about? I was absolutely STARSTRUCK with how beautiful you looked together, no wonder they noticed you right away, you were like two movie stars or something. He was so lovely and polite, who the fuck knew??? I’m just speechless!!!! You looked so happy, you were LUMINOUS, like you were glowing, bitch, love looks so fucking good on you!!! And the way he looked at you, like you were made out of moonlight or gold or something, fuck! He’s got it fucking BAD for you, I felt like he was singeing the ends my hair with that energy, I had to drink a glass of water when you guys left, WHOO
Kenzie felt the smile spreading across her cheeks as she read her best friend’s ecstatic text. Oh Claire, she thought, you’re so wonderful. She looked up to check the floor (5) and quickly typed:
Clairebear, I was SO HAPPY you were there, oh my god, I’m just so happy, I never knew I could feel so happy, I’m so glad you liked him, I can’t wait for us all to have dinner!!! He said he liked you immediately! Those women took a picture (I think more than one) of us without asking? It was really weird. They recognized Duncan and got shitty when he asked them to delete whatever they took and that’s when they left. I feel weird about it but we couldn’t really do anything?? Oh Clairebear. I’m in love. I really am. I love you, I’m sorry we had to leave so quickly, I’m so late for work. She added a distraught-faced open-mouthed emoji at the end.
She sighed, as if to let out the weight of the emotion that was enveloping her, threatening to crush her, bouncing on her feet a little as she looked up again; 9th floor. Almost there. She checked the clock on her phone. 9:26. Oh fuck. So late. The doors finally slid open and she jumped out, eyeing her little desk in the corner; glancing from side to side. No Candice in sight. That was good. She started to make a beeline to her desk, head down to avoid eye contact with anyone she might see, when someone stepped in front of her, blocking her path--someone wearing wildly colorful, meticulously tailored pants; she looked up into the severe, unimpressed face of Ben Wilder, the Executive Features editor. He was wearing oversized black-framed cat eye glasses and a blazer made of some kind of iridescently shiny, cobalt-red material, a vintage Hermes scarf tucked meticulously into the black pointed hem vest he wore under it, and he was glaring at her with narrowed eyes behind his spectacles. His dark skin was flawless; Kenzie wondered absently for the hundredth time what kind of moisturizer he used. She doubted he told people secrets as important as that one.
“Miss Stone, I have a bone to pick with you.”
“Hi Ben, lovely morning,” she answered nervously, hand coming up to fiddle with her rose quartz. Ben’s lips were pursed and he looked at her with that appraising, Anubis-weighing-the-scales severity that so unnerved every journalist in at the Post. As Executive Features editor, Ben was in charge of surveying that the quality of the Post was always at a high standard; some at the office said an impossibly high standard with Wilder as the critic. His real passion was for the Entertainment and Arts features, however, and he was infamously thorough and up-to-speed with everything happening in the DC art scene. He also knew every hot bit of gossip about every politician in the District; his knowledge was encyclopedic, and exhaustive. And he was giving her a very knowing look indeed.
“I’ve heard a rumor, dear,” he went on, ignoring her hello, “that you had a very busy weekend.”
Kenzie swallowed, her eyes darting from side to side, plotting an exit, her heart slamming into the bottom of her throat, like a dumbbell was suddenly clattering up and down her esophagus.
“On top of some very interesting photos found on certain online rags since yesterday--photos that have begun to trend on Instagram, I might add--a few more photos have materialized on Instagram in the past hour.”
He was silent for a moment, pursing his lips again, staring at her, his eyes unreadable. Kenzie looked up at him; she knew innately that the time for lies was long past, but she thought, wildly: maybe if I don’t say anything he’ll just disappear in a puff of smoke--
“Care to guess what these photos feature, Miss Stone?”
“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
He pursed his lips further at that, lifting his arm and cradling the elbow against the hand pressed across his torso, holding the fingers out in an open gesture toward her that reminded her of Anubis holding some poor mortal’s heart, about to crush it into dust in his claw. Hers. He leaned down, bringing his face close to hers, his voice lowering conspiratorially, though as he had said himself: there wasn’t much of a secret left to keep, was there.
“Who knew a little thing like you would catch Duncan Shepherd’s eye.”
Kenzie pressed her lips together, trying to keep her expression neutral.
“I want an interview.”
“Ben, I--we’ve only been seeing each other for a few days--”
“Get me an interview and I will make sure your editorial gets to the top of the pile. I’ll ensure that when reviews come up, you’re considered very carefully for opportunities.”
“My editorial--my editorial is--” Kenzie suddenly realized wildly: my editorial is the kind of thing that’s going to make Annette Shepherd’s head turn on her shoulders. For real this time.
“You’re in the hot seat now, Miss Stone. You can’t smooch the heir of Shepherd Unlimited--a 3.5 billion dollar global enterprise trying to unseat the President of the United States--on the open sidewalk in front of a posh bistro and expect everyone to turn a blind eye. I suggest you take a look at the narrative unfolding online and get back to me. Promptly.” He stepped away from her, waving his hand a little behind him with infuriating sass, as if to say: see you soon, honey.
Kenzie watched his cobalt-crimson back retreat, her heart still pounding, her head fuzzy. An interview? Her temples throbbed against her skull harshly. How the fuck am I ever going to convince Duncan to do that? And my fucking editorial, FUCK, I didn’t even think about that. As if I need to add more reasons to the pile that is Annette Shepherd’s fuel to hate my guts.
“Mackenzie.”
Kenzie turned at the sound of her name; Candice stood outside her office in the short north hallway, hand resting on the door frame from whence she had just emerged, appraising Kenzie’s flushed face; today her boss wore a long, rose-colored pleated satin skirt, and a high-collared white blouse with a black ribbon tied in a neat knot falling down the front. Her dark eyes met Kenzie’s, framed by her wavy blonde hair that fell around her shoulders, shimmering in the overhead light; their concern sent an icy dagger coursing down Kenzie’s spine. Oh, here we go.
“Come into my office for a minute, please.”
Kenzie swallowed again as Candice vanished through the doorway, stepping up in resignation. I guess this was inevitable, Kenz, she told herself. Ben isn’t wrong. Clearly you’ve underestimated the difficulties that come with dating a man who is wildly rich, handsome, and reputable. And from a family known for stirring up controversy. Suck it up, buttercup.
She timidly stepped through the doorway of Candice’s office; a long window stretched along the back wall of the room, small ferns and falling ivy on the ledge of it, framing Candice’s golden head in a white glow where she sat behind her desk, which was meticulously neat. Kenzie’s eyes fell down to the gold plaque at the front of it, two gold paperweights shaped like open hands on either side of it: Candice Owens, Editor in Chief, The Washington Post.
“Shut the door and sit down, Mackenzie. Please.”
Kenzie carefully set her satchel down beside one of two lemon-colored upholstered chairs facing Candice’s desk, sitting slowly, her hands coming together in her lap. She felt resigned to whatever Candice was about to say; her brain felt fuzzy and faraway, as if she was observing all of this from someone else’s body, uncaring. At home, a voice whispered behind her ear. See you at home.
Candice looked at her for another long moment, her eyes unreadable. Then she spoke.
“I’m sure you’re aware of this already, but your relationship with Duncan Shepherd is about to become public knowledge.”
Kenzie couldn’t find it in herself to tell Candice anything but the truth.
“It’s only been a few days, but...yes. We’re dating.”
“Then I assume, or I want to assume, that you’ve considered the consequences.”
“I won’t let it get in the way of my work, Candice.”
“As you were late this morning, I’m not sure you’re doing a very good job at convincing me of that so far,” Candice replied, her tone even. She turned her head a little, questioning. “You do realize that Duncan Shepherd is a very controversial figure from a very controversial company led by a very controversial, very manipulative, very wealthy family?”
“Yes.”
“Whether you intend it or not, your relationship with him will bring scrutiny on the Post, and it’s going to change your personal life in serious ways as well. It’s only a matter of time before your name and occupation are spread around online. I anticipate that we’ll need to increase security in the building, which is already tight. Your mother being who she is--a staunch and very public opponent of Annette Shepherd’s political agenda--that’s going to cause a real controversy.”
“I’m sorry, Candice. This was all really unexpected...I didn’t expect us to...”
“Fall in love?”
Kenzie swallowed, blinking at her lovely, poised boss, feeling like she was unraveling under her dark-eyed gaze, feeling as though she were a sparrow under the eye of a falcon. Exposed.
“Anyone looking at those pictures could see it, easily. It’s clear that you are in love.”
Kenzie felt tears pricking the corners of her eyes, to her deep dismay. The idea of crying in front of Candice made her feel mortified; her respect for her boss was all-encompassing, akin to the deep admiration she felt for her mother; she was surrounded by so many incredibly strong women. And here I am, she thought, frustration seeping under her skin. A fucking mess.
“We are,” she whispered, her eyes looking down at her hands, afraid to look into Candice’s face again; unsure she could maintain her composure if she did.
“Mackenzie. Does Madeline know?”
Kenzie nodded; she tried to stifle the sniff that came out of her, but failed. She saw Candice lean to a box of tissues behind the desk, pulling a few out quietly. Her boss leaned over her desk, holding them out to her.
“She’s meeting him tomorrow. I haven’t met Annette yet. I’m terrified.”
Silence hung in the room for a moment; a little bonsai fountain in the corner of Candice’s office mingled with the sounds from the street outside; cars beeping and buses rushing by, pigeons outside the window, vague music, drums coming from the park across the street.
“I loved a woman once,” Candice said, surprising Kenzie, “who was the daughter of a prominent Republican Congressman. Her name was Mia. When I asked her if we could be together, she told me she could never disobey her father’s wishes; like we were living in feudal England. That she loved me; that she wanted to be with me; but that she couldn’t, because it would be a betrayal to her family. And she chose them.”
Kenzie wiped at her cheek, her wet eyes lifting up to her boss’ gentle face. She could see the vague shine that had cast itself over them; Candice too was on the edge of tears, but they didn’t fall; they hovered there, trapped in Candice’s resolve. I’m such a crybaby, Kenzie thought. Candice is so beautiful and so strong.
Her boss paused, then went on.
“Professionally, I have serious doubts about the advisability of your attachment to someone so infamous. Men in this town; they want power, and most of them are willing to crush anyone who becomes an obstacle to that power, Republican and Democrat alike. I don’t know Duncan Shepherd; but I know Annette and Bill Shepherd want one thing and one thing only; complete control of Washington D.C. and by association, the trajectory of this country.”
She paused. Kenzie lowered the tissues to her lap, now damp with the whisper of tears that had threatened her. She looks so beautiful this way, Kenzie thought. She thought of Duncan’s statues; Justice, victory, wisdom; all women. To Kenzie, Candice was a higher being, surveying all of humankind with an omniscient eye; like Cassandra, oracle of Troy, all-knowing, perceiving truth and future alike, cursed with her own sorrow and knowledge.
“But personally, I know what it’s like to be torn away from someone you want more than anything. And I would never presume to dictate the love that extends from one heart to another. Love is boundless and obscure, and it does not follow the petty rules set down by human philosophy.”
Kenzie felt her lip tremble again.
“If you need help, Mackenzie: come to me. Don’t hesitate. Promise you’ll do this.”
Kenzie felt another tear fall down her cheek.
“I will. I promise. Candice...thank you. I...I feel overwhelmed by all of this. I never expected this to happen to me. It feels like I’ve been living inside a dream for days.”
She hesitated, sniffing again. “I can’t help but feel...afraid. I’ve never felt this way about anyone, and it frightens me.”
Candice stood; moved around her desk, sat in the chair across from Kenzie, and reached out, her hand grasping around Kenzie’s in her lap, clutching the tissues. Mackenzie immediately felt a small wave of warm comfort wash over her, as thought Candice had lit a match and held it close to her skin; close enough for her to feel it, but not to burn her. The tears immediately dried from her eyes, as though someone had held a blowdryer against her cheeks for a moment.
“Fear? What has a man to do with fear? Chance rules our lives, and the future is all unknown. Best live as we may, from day to day.” Candice smiled at her, squeezed her hands a little, her eyes still shining with that hidden sheen. “Sophocles. Oedipus Rex. I was Jocasta in a production in college. I was awful. But I always loved that line.”
Kenzie smiled back at her, finding herself speechless. I still feel as though you know the future, she thought. I wish you could tell me.
“Back to work, Miss Stone. That’ll be all for now. Keep your wits about you,” and Kenzie thought of her mother, their words clashing together, echoing against each other.
Kenzie nodded, clutching Candice’s hand for a moment. Candice held it, and Kenzie felt that warmth spread through her fingers again; felt flashes of light behind her eyes. And then Kenzie stood, grasping the handle of her satchel, and walked to the door, looking at her boss over her shoulder.
“Leave the door open,” Candice said, and turned away.
Kenzie went to her desk, falling into her swivel chair with a heavy relief. She pulled her Macbook out of her satchel, setting it on her desk and opening it, her article coming up as the screen illuminated. She went to type towards the end of it, and balked. I guess I need to look at Instagram, she thought with another twinge of apprehension making its jagged way through her mind and stomach. She pulled her phone from her satchel, tucking the bag under her desk; as she lifted the phone to her face, the lock screen illuminated and she saw a text from Duncan.
I meant to mention it a few times, but keep getting distracted in you (Kenzie smiled at that). The Shepherd Freedom Foundation Gala is next week. It’s a huge event for the company every year and it has a strict dress code and a theme...my mother wants you to go to her personal stylist to find a dress for it. If you hate whatever he picks out, you don’t have to wear it. But my mother’s being really insistent about you doing a fitting with her. Is that okay?
Kenzie couldn’t stop smiling, despite her twinge of annoyance at the idea of someone else telling her what to wear; Are you asking me to be your date to the Gala, Mr. Shepherd? She typed.
She saw the telltale text bubbles appear under her reply almost immediately.
Yes, please? The theme is Gold in the Darkness: the juxtaposition of light and shadow in the works of the Pre-Raphaelite movement. I chose it, because it reminded me of you.
Kenzie breathed in sharply. Duncan had created the theme around her. The thought stunned her, made her skin feel hot, made her legs and the back of her head tingle. More to get used to, I guess. Whew, Kenzie Lou. Whose life are you living now?
That’s beautiful, baby, she replied. I can’t believe you did that.
Since you’re the only thing I can think about, it seemed natural. His reply popped up immediately. Kenzie imagined him sitting in the back of the BMW or in a meeting or in some gilded interview chair, staring down expectantly at his phone. She loved to think of him so distracted by her, though she felt a twinge of guilt. The drug that was his attention, his gaze, his touch; she wanted more, she couldn’t help it. She wanted him, all of him, his beauty within her sphere always.
I think those women from the coffee shop posted something on Instagram already, she typed, biting her lip. My coworker said something to me as soon as I got into the office. She left her talk with Candice out of it. She felt worried Duncan would be upset about her boss’ concern; there was a part of her that wanted to keep her conversation with the other woman between the two of them for as long as she could. I have to talk to him about it in person, she thought. When I feel less...unhinged.
Fuck, I had a feeling they wouldn’t waste any time, Duncan replied. My mother doesn’t want me to talk about you in interviews yet. She’s worried about the “optics”, her personal obsession in all things. But I don’t care. I love you. Let me know if anything else weird like this morning happens again. I have a feeling it will and I want you to feel safe. I can hire you a private escort as soon as you feel like you need one. And I’m going to send you Samuel’s contact right now; I sent him yours already. Please text him when you’re done with work, he can take you anywhere you need to go. I can take an Uber later. I don’t think you should take the train as often, at least, not for a little while, until the media stuff dies down. And I don’t think it’s going to for a little while.
The distinct iPhone contact bubble appeared under Duncan’s text; Samuel Adebayo.
A wave of dizziness washed over Kenzie again. I don’t think you should take the train as often. She thought of the way the woman had snapped pictures of them, the photos of them on the gossip website. A private escort? It was as if she’d been sucked out of the normal world and sucked into another one, a different timeline where nothing made sense.
Okay, baby. I feel overwhelmed.
Duncan: I’m here. Anything you need or want from me, tell me right away. This will get easier in time, baby. I promise. I’m already dreaming about how hard I’m gonna make you come tonight. At home.
Her nerves thrilled again. At home. The thought of living at Duncan’s penthouse even sometimes was too dreamlike to even really consider. The fact that she was going to go there tonight with her own key made her feel like her stomach was trying to turn over inside her. She felt goosebumps on her arms again.
I’m dreaming about you too, baby, she typed. She left the lipstick stain emoji at the end.
Kenzie opened the Instagram app on her phone, squinting in apprehension. An alert flashed at the bottom: 2,457 new followers, 1,345 new comments, 567 new likes. Her eyes goggled. What. She hit the outlined heart at the bottom of the screen; she scrolled down; mention after mention of her handle (@kenzielouwho) on several posts made by other accounts. Oh god, they found my Instagram, she thought, closing her eyes for a moment in horror. We found it she’s @kenzielouwho her mom is Madeline Stone omg omg one said. Holy shit remember this this is @kenzielouwho’s mom ripping @duncanshepherd’s mom a new asshole another one said, accompanied by a link. Kenzie clicked it; it led to the infamous YouTube video of Annette storming off the air at C-SPAN after Madeline’s comments. Kenzie went back to Instagram. I don’t know why @duncanshepherd would even be interested in her she’s not even that pretty another one said. Kenzie made a face. Because I guess he should date you instead, she thought, and then immediately felt guilty. Ugh, this is weird. Kenzie went to one of the photos that many of the comments seemed to originate from. It was clearly the account of the woman who had taken the photo of them at Emissary earlier that morning; her handle (@greatpatriotjane, Kenzie winced) was a dead giveaway, accompanied by a photo of her in an American flag bikini and a spray tan. The latest photo was Kenzie and Duncan, of course; they were looking to the side of where she’d pointed the lens, probably towards the other woman in pinstripes, Kenzie tucked under Duncan’s arm, her hair pressed into his leather jacket and falling against her cheek, a tiny frown crossing her features; one of her hands was at her breast, fingers around her rose quartz, the other hand disappeared behind Duncan’s back. Duncan’s hand was around the crook of her elbow, holding her close to him, his expression concerned, his brow furrowed; his black phone rested, forgotten, in his other hand, which was raised slightly, at his torso. We do look nice together. He looks so tall. His hair falls so perfectly. He’s holding me so gently. He’s so handsome. I look scared. That’s accurate. I felt scared. I hated it. God, he’s so beautiful. And he’s holding me.
He’s your boyfriend, Kenzie, of course he is.
Saw @duncanshepherd with his newest girlyfriend at the coffee shop this morning!!! The woman had written below. He’s so sexy in person it’s RIDICULOUS, probably has a new girl on his arm every day!!! Kenzie snorted, biting into her lip. I guess this could be worse, she thought. We look annoyed but we look really good, at least, Duncan does, and I don’t look hideous, and she didn’t know my handle...I guess someone else found that. She went back to her mentions; there was another prominent post that lots of people seemed to have commented on that was more recent; Kenzie went to it (the handle was @geminibabiered; the account photo was a selfie of a girl with long, dark, very straight hair and heavy eye makeup taken in a bathroom mirror). There were several shots of--oh my god, already--she and Duncan standing on the sidewalk outside One Franklin Square a mere hour or so before now, wrapped in a passionate kiss, clearly taken in succession; this one a true kiss, of course, unlike the photo that had been captured of them outside Le Diplomate; Duncan’s hands were around her, in her hair, at her cheek, their mouths open against each other, eyes closed. He’s so much taller than me, Kenzie marvelled. At Franklin Square and @duncanshepherd runs after this girl who just got out of his BMW ahead of him and MACKS ON HER LIKE CRAZY in front of like 20 people, they said something to each other and then she like RAN away from him into the Post building, omg I bet she works there, DUNCAN SHEPHERD fucking a girl who works for the Washington Post like I am REELING the caption read. Fuuuuuck, Kenzie thought. This one is a lot worse. She noticed the comment proclaiming excitement at having found her handle was under this post; couldn’t have been that hard, my photo’s up on the Post website.
She noticed that Duncan had followed her, though, a small silver lining, she thought, smiling at his profile picture. It was professionally shot and black-and-white (he looks like a classic movie star, she thought dreamily), his hair tossed back from his forehead in a perfect cascade, his eyes illuminated but looking off-center, his expression calm and serious, that constant five o’clock shadow prominent (I love that, she thought, I love that stubble, pressing my mouth along its prickly curve, clutching his face there as we’re fucking), wearing one of the high black Oxford collars he was so fond of. Kenzie hit the follow button on his account, scrolling down; some of his posts had to do with the company and the TV show, but most of his posts were a plethora of professionally-shot images, including some from a recent profile he’d done for Esquire (one of him in a long black coat, lounging lazily in a throne-like chair, his hair even more artfully tossed than it normally was, his blue eyes staring off toward unseen subjects, one of him in a thick, dark gray Irish Fisherman sweater, eyes squinted, hand at his lips in that tick he did when he was thinking or nervous, one of him in a well-tailored blazer and band-collared shirt, adjusting his cuffs facetiously, a silver band, like a very simple crown, across his forehead; Duncan Shepherd: Heir Apparent, Prince Presumptive the editorial read). She double-tapped them, the heart floating in front of her, dizzily admiring how ridiculously beautiful he was yet again; I still can’t believe any of this. 7.8M followers, 124 following. She inhaled sharply. 7.8 million followers, holy shit. Millions of people to critique her. Millions of people about to leave a comment that said she “wasn’t even that pretty”. Fun shit, Kenzie, a real hoot. You’ve really put your foot in it now.
She noticed he’d gone through the past few months of her photos and liked most of them; especially the ones of her laughing or smiling, or of her outfits or her plants, anything that was really her. On one photo of her (one Claire had taken of her at Emissary at the end of the previous summer, on a balmy September afternoon, under the canopy of their outdoor seating; Kenzie wore a white sundress and a light gray sweater that was falling off one shoulder in it, looking off to the side, a frosty Aperol spritzer in front of her, her hair down and wind-tossed, a little rose-gold moon pendant at her throat, a faraway smile on her face; Clairebear always takes the best pictures of me, she’d written for the caption, followed by the celestial sun face emoji), Kenzie noticed he’d left several heart-pierced-by-an-arrow emojis. She realized this was the first time she’d seen him use emojis; they were never in his text messages. His comment already had hundred of likes; she didn’t dare look at the comments under it. But it was as if she could feel the tenderness with which he’d looked through her posts, and it made her chest feel warm and hazy. She felt her cheeks glowing; she brought a thumb to her mouth, teeth biting her nail in her shyness. Deep into the funnel of love, she thought, unprompted. She shivered a little. The last time she had looked at her profile, she’d had 400-some followers; now, she had over 3,000, and counting. Fuuuuuck. Don’t even look at the comments, Kenz. Don’t do this to yourself.
Kenzie set her phone down on her desk, pressing her fingers into the corners of her eyes where she’d started to feel the low pressure of a migraine. Suddenly, she turned her phone over and shoved it away from her, shaking her hair back. Fuck this, she thought. I have work to do. To hell with Instagram. And to hell with Annette Shepherd for that matter. I refuse to be afraid of her. And fuck any-fucking-body who wants to try to tell me I’m not good enough, pretty enough, or ENOUGH for Duncan Shepherd. I am. I’m fucking great. Sun shines out of my ass. She turned to her Macbook, reading the last few lines she’d written: the prevalence of PAC donors manipulating political narratives and candidates is a serious problem in American politics, and new policies must be enacted to ensure upcoming elections are just and fair to all candidates, regardless of their ability to receive funding from wealthy donors. Good, Kenzie thought. Now, keep going. She got to work, leaving her phone face-down, determined not to look at it again until her article was finished. Or maybe never again, she thought, feeling a wave of nausea climb up the wall of her stomach. Maybe social media isn’t going to be fun anymore. So to hell with that too.
------
Kenzie rubbed her eyes. She’d just hit send in the email containing her finished article to Ben and Candice. She looked over at her phone, which was still face-down, hesitating. She’d eaten lunch without looking at it; gone back to writing without looking at it; left it on her desk every time she took a bathroom break. It’d taken all her resolve (what if Duncan texts me), but going on Instagram had shaken her badly; it had made a realization sink into the pit of her that she hadn’t really come to terms with yet. Your life is going to be different now, Kenzie Lou. And she wasn’t sure how to deal with that. She had always loved and appreciated privacy; had decided on a tiny apartment so she could avoid living with roommates; felt shy when she was the center of attention, and cried easily. How am I going to be this other person, she thought. This person dating the heir to billions of dollars; this person with thousands of Instagram followers, this person who has her picture taken by strangers in public places. I should call Momby. But as soon as she had the thought, she pushed it away. If she called her mother already, Madeline would say I told you so. I told you this man wasn’t right for you. And Kenzie couldn’t listen to that. Duncan was right for her; she felt that in her bones, in the pit of her gut, in the center of her heart. It was all this other stuff that was frightening and upsetting to her; not him. Not Duncan. He was her calm oasis in the scorching desert; her little island on a stormy sea, her blanket to hide under in the thunderstorm. When he was near her, her soul nestled into peace and joy and desire. It’s the best feeling I’ve ever had, she thought. Like going home after a long day and falling into bed, listening to rain fall outside your window. Only, it’s a person. My person.
She turned her phone over. Two texts. One from Duncan, one from Clairebear.
Duncan: I love the photos on your Instagram, they’re so beautiful. Almost as beautiful as you are. I saw the video and the photo that woman took. It doesn’t matter; don’t read the comments if you can help it, it’s all nonsense. This will all mellow out soon, don’t worry too much about it, it’s just something new for people to latch onto, and people get distracted easily. Let me know if you need anything from me. I can’t wait to see you in a few hours. I love you.
Kenzie felt a wave of warmth spread over her as she read it. Beloved, she thought, the word seeping into her as if it had drifted out of a dream. He is my beloved. I can see his hidden soul and it’s beautiful beyond all description. Her hands shook as little as she replied. I’m okay, it’s just disorienting. I love those Esquire photos of you so much (here she inserted the heart-eyes emoji). I finished my article, I’m going to send Samuel a message in a minute and go to Georgetown to get some stuff to make for dinner and some clothes and toiletries to keep at your house. It will be such a relief to see you...at home. I love you too.
She read the other text from Claire.
Clairebear: You’ve probably seen Instagram already, but holy shit, what a hot mess. Just don’t look at it if you can help it, some people are insane. I love you and I’m here if you need anything from me.
She felt another warm hand clutch around her heart. I’m so lucky, she thought. To be loved so genuinely by the people in my life. I’m so lucky to have these people to love. I’m grateful.
Thanks, Clairebear, she replied. You are a darling to me and I appreciate you every day. I’m gonna stay off Instagram for a few days, I think. I looked at it this morning and it freaked me out, haha. Duncan seems to think it’ll calm down eventually, so I’m following his lead here. He’s way more used to stuff like this than I am. He gave me a key to his apartment and an expense account, I’m just...he wants me to keep stuff at his penthouse. I still feel like I’m trapped in a dream. This is all so surreal.
Kenzie texted her mother next.
Momby, Duncan and I would like to have dinner with you tomorrow night at Busboys and Poets. Is 7 PM okay? We can pick you up or we can meet you there, whatever you want to do. He’s really looking forward to meeting you. I love you to the moon and back, she added; a phrase they’d used with each other since she was a little girl.
She took a deep breath, setting the phone down. She closed her Macbook, slipping it into her Margaux satchel; she noticed as she did that she must have put Duncan’s cardigan absently into her bag at some point between last night and today, because it was stuffed in the bottom. She pulled it out carefully, shaking it a little, pulling it around her shoulders. You can do this, Kenz, she thought. Just pretend it’s a game, like when you were little. You’re Princess Diana; you’re calling your magical car to take you to the movie theater, the imaginary one with endless pizza.
She was about to text Samuel under the number Duncan had given her when she noticed some of her coworkers milling around by the windows against the east wall of the office; staring down onto the street with curiosity on their faces, whispering to each other, some of them glancing over at her. She stood up and walked over to them; Ben gave her another coy, perturbed look with his lips pressed, as if he knew something she didn’t; he walked away from her as she approached him, waving a hand behind him again, before she could ask him what everyone was staring at. She looked after him, frustrated, an exasperated noise falling out of her. She noticed Precious and Zadie, two of her coworkers, talking in low voices to each other a few feet away, both of them staring out the window in concentration.
“Hey, Precious, hey Zadie--what’s going on? What are you looking at?” She felt suddenly afraid to peer out the window from the way Ben had reacted to her.
Zadie didn’t say anything, giving Kenzie an odd look, one that was sort of a mixture of pity and nervous excitement, her long, straight hair falling down her shoulders, her arms crossed under her little breasts, her lips closed. Precious gave Kenzie a look of vague annoyance and disbelief, one of her hands coming around to play with the big golden lion pendant around her neck. She nodded at the glass. “Kenzie, see for yourself. This is obviously for you.”
Kenzie bit her lip, set her nerves, and looked out.
Near the entrance of One Franklin Square, she could see the clustered heads of a group of probably twenty reporters with recorders and microphones, huddled on the sidewalk as if they were a pride of lions gazing carefully on unsuspecting antelopes at a waterhole, laying in wait. Oh shit. The press had found her.
“Fuck,” she breathed.
“Unfortunately, it would seem, kissing Duncan Shepherd in full view of a Tuesday morning crowd at one of DC’s busiest parks has some consequences,” Precious said, not unkindly. She looked at Kenzie knowingly, then turned, walking back to her desk, the graphic tee she wore flashing its cheeky mantra at Kenzie as she went; If you can’t handle the heat, the front said, and Kenzie watched her back retreat; get your face out of my oven. Zadie gave her another quiet, sympathetic look. “Maybe Candice will know what to do?” she said. Her brown eyes flickered over Kenzie with that same mixture of pity and odd thrill. It was clear Zadie couldn’t help but find this sort of exciting, and Kenzie envied her coworker’s ability to see it as an outsider; they aren’t here to follow you out the door, Kenzie thought. You get to observe and go home as usual. She wasn’t upset with Zadie for this; on the contrary, she felt a wave of envy wash over her. That sense of anonymity seems to have slipped away from me overnight, she thought. And now I’m not sure who this new girl is; the girl these reporters are waiting for.
She walked away from Zadie, feeling oddly disembodied, towards Candice’s office; Zadie’s eyes followed her as she went, curious. Kenzie rapped carefully two times. “Come in,” she heard Candice’s kind voice call out.
“Candice, I’m sorry,” Kenzie said, stepping into her boss’ office for the second time that day, meeting Candice’s warm eyes with alarm seeping out of her own. “But...I need your help already.”
------
With Candice’s help, Kenzie had managed to slip out through the back entrance; this one was usually reserved for delivery trucks, with a long ramp that slanted down, trash and recycling bins lined up against one side of the concrete. She’d texted Samuel less than ten minutes before; and here he was, to her vast, wild relief; the BMW idled on the corner quietly, its tinted window betraying nothing of the tranquil interior to the occasional pedestrian on the side-street. Kenzie stepped quickly down the ramp from the backdoor from whence she’d just emerged, looking carefully from side to side, hoping against hope; she’d almost made it to the car when she heard a loud voice to her left, a bark of sound that made her jump, her eyes darting in the direction it had come from.
“Miss Stone, Miss Stone! Mackenzie Stone!” A man in casual clothing, a smattering of beard around his face and the shiny pate of his balding head reflecting the late afternoon sunlight, was walking briskly in her direction, holding a camera carefully on his shoulder; he was flanked by a woman in a tight champagne-pink pencil skirt and blazer, and it was her sharp voice that Kenzie had heard; she was holding out a microphone, the kind Kenzie had used herself for press conferences and soundbites outside courtrooms, but the image of one being pushed towards her was odd and alien, and she balked, her eyes freezing on them. Her blood froze, and she suddenly felt as though she couldn't move; the microphone came under her and she shied away from them, her body singing with adrenaline almost immediately; she felt nauseous and panicked for an instant, and then she saw Samuel stepped out of the car, oh thank god, and his strong, warm arm was coming around her, and he was opening the backdoor of the BMW and pushing her gently inside, the man with the camera still trying to angle it onto her (“Miss Stone, are you and Mr. Shepherd romantically involved? Are you privy to the Shepherd Unlimited corporation and its assets? Are you engaged? What are your feelings about President Underwood?”, the woman’s sharp voice was ringing in her ears), and Samuel barked at him to step back (he did with an alarmed look; Samuel was at least a foot taller than him); the door shut with a sharp click and she could see them pressing against the dark window, trying to see inside, the woman still pressing the microphone into the window, the man still angling the camera on it; she could still see them but they could no longer see her through the tinted glass, and Samuel was suddenly, with supernatural swiftness, back in the driver’s seat, his foot on the gas, accelerating away in a blink.
----
“Miss Stone, are you alright?” Samuel’s eyes peered over the rearview at her, his brown eyes concerned and full of empathy. He was driving carefully, smoothly now; the last few minutes had been a blur as Samuel weaved through the narrow streets with an alarming agility; he was losing anyone who might try to follow us, Kenzie thought in a daze, but they were now heading south towards Georgetown, according to the GPS, at a much more measured, casual pace.
Kenzie was breathing slowly in the backseat, her fingers clutching the strap of her satchel with white hands; staring off into space. Her attention floated back from the nether into which it had drifted; adrenaline crashed down through her, and she noticed she’d started to shake. She noted, vaguely, that soft music drifted from the speakers; bewitched, bothered and bewildered am I / couldn’t sleep and wouldn’t sleep….when love came and told me, I shouldn’t sleep…
“I...I think so…” she murmured softly. She put her satchel at her feet, feeling for her phone; her hand closed around its smooth rectangle, and she felt relief flood through her. She held it in her lap, gazing down at it in a stupor; Duncan had texted her again.
Did you text Samuel? I’ll be in a meeting for another hour or so, and then I have to pick something up. I should be home by 7:30. I’m so excited to have dinner. At home. With you.
Kenzie looked dazedly at the time; it was just after 4:30.
There were a bunch of reporters waiting outside the building when I tried to leave work, she replied. My boss helped me through the back door, but two of them still found me. Thankfully Samuel was there, but I think they got me on camera. I don’t know who they were with. I’m okay. Samuel was wonderful. I’ll be so relieved to see you, baby.
“Samuel?”
“Yes, Miss Stone?”
“Please call me Mackenzie.”
“Of course, Miss Mackenzie. I would love to. Where should we go, Miss Mackenzie? This car is yours now, like it is Mr. Shepherd’s. I’m at your service, as I am at his.”
Kenzie hesitated, feeling disoriented. Her head was pounding.
“Miss Mackenzie,” Samuel went on, softly. “This will get easier. Duncan cares very deeply for you. I have seen it; I know it is true. You can trust him. He is cradling your heart in his hands. You have kindled the desire for life in him. Through love, all things are possible.”
Kenzie closed her eyes for a moment; Ella’s voice washed over her. I’m in love and don’t I show it / like a babe in arms…
“Thank you, Samuel. Thank you for your help back there. I was absolutely terrified.”
“I am here for you now, Miss Mackenzie. There is nothing to fear. Now, where do you want to go? I will take you anywhere.”
“Georgetown is okay, Samuel. I just need to go to Dean and DeLuca to get some things for dinner, and some of the clothing shops. It shouldn’t take too long. Thank you so much.”
“Miss Mackenzie, whatever you want, it is a pleasure. Mr. Shepherd is lucky to have you; I will do whatever I can to help him make you happy.” Kenzie smiled at him sweetly through the mirror; she felt full to the brim with emotion, far beyond words.
“I wish I could talk to him now,” she whispered softly.
“He’s with you. You will bring each other strength. This time of turmoil will be brief; your life will be long.”
Kenzie nodded a little, feeling the telltale stinging of tears in her eyes again. Someday, she mused, I’ll have cried enough. Someday, I’ll be done crying. But not yet.
-------
Samuel was an excellent chauffeur (of course he is, Kenzie thought); he pulled up smoothly to the side of Wisconsin Avenue, hopping out of the driver’s seat and opening the door for her, holding out his hand. “Miss Mackenzie, do you want an escort?”
Kenzie shook her head, as much to decline as to clear the residue of tears from her head and her cheeks, and stepped from the backseat of the BMW, clutching her satchel and his hand as she got out. “No thank you, Samuel. I really want to do this alone, if that’s okay.”
“Of course it is, Miss Mackenzie. Please let me know when you need me; I’ll be nearby.”
She smiled up at him, nodding. He smiled back at her, giving her hand a little squeeze before he let go, stepping back around the car into the driver’s seat, and accelerating away from her slowly. She slipped her phone into one of the pockets of her long skirt, bringing the strap of her bag around the crook of her elbow. The sun was still out, steady and strong in the late May sky; dreamy cumulus clouds scudded over it every now and then, and the sapphire of the heavens behind them reminded her of Duncan’s eyes; everything reminds me of him now, she thought. Colors, smells, the touch of his cardigan against her arms. I want to feel his faith that everything will be fine. So I’ll pretend I feel it. I’ll pretend I’m confident, despite all of this. I will pretend I’m strong.
She breathed deeply; then she stepped toward the open entryway of the nearest shop; it was a Madewell, the May breeze coasting behind her through the blue doors which were thrown wide to the perfect weather. Kenzie knew her own style and taste well; it didn’t take her long to find outfits she loved that she knew would suit her; of course, the idea of an unlimited budget was one she wasn’t familiar with, and she couldn’t deny it was thrilling. A girl could get used to this, too. She perused the brick-lined walls with a careful precision. She’d loved clothes all her life; she could see how much Duncan loved and appreciated them as well, and her skin tingled thinking of the way he’d gazed over every outfit she’d worn around him thus far; the thought of him admiring her in anything she chose today was electrifying; the memory of his eyes on her like that made her feel drunk. She thought of the clothes she was choosing hanging in his walk-in closet, beside his perfectly pressed, perfectly tailored black clothing, and shivered a little. Together. She found a strappy, hemmed denim dress that fell to her ankles; a slip dress in a color that reminded her of grapes in sunlight; a long black chiffon dress with short sleeves and a slit up the side, covered in tiny flowers; a sweater dress with buttons down the sleeves; her thoughts drifted towards oncoming summer, choosing short denim skirts and velvet cami tops, a denim bell-sleeve top with a wrap around the middle that reminded her of a shirt her mother wore in a photo (taken in the 70’s) that was tucked into Kenzie’s bathroom mirror; a black top with a front-tie, and several mock neck crop tops with long sleeves in several colors; gray, mulberry red, dark brown. She picked up a pair of black suede boots and a pair of darkly tan leather Reagan boots; boots go with everything. She found a long necklace with tiny stars; two tiny chain bracelets with moons; little rose-gold earrings that reminded her of her succulents, and a slim black convertible bag with a gold-button clasp that she thought would be perfect for going out on evenings. Everything she picked was personal; a reflection of her.
She piled the things on the counter; the girl behind it had long dark hair tied back in a casual braid, and a warm stare. She was looking at Kenzie with a funny expression, though her smile was friendly.
“Did you find everything okay?” She asked.
“Yes, thanks,” Kenzie smiled back at her. She pulled her long black wallet from her satchel; suddenly, she felt nervous about using the card Duncan had given her. Ever since she’d gotten her job at the Post as a staff writer, she’d gained a sense of pride in using her own money; money she’d earned herself, with her writing. Using someone else’s felt strange. Then, Duncan’s voice floated into her head. Everything is okay. It makes me happy to give you these things. Please, accept them? She pulled the card out of her wallet, gripping it firmly.
The girl quoted the price to her; it was over $900 for everything she’d picked out. Kenzie handed her the card, her lips pressed firmly together. The girl swiped the card, but not before Kenzie noticed her eyes go wide from glancing at the name, a long receipt printed out.
“I thought you looked familiar.”
Kenzie felt her blood chill in her veins.
“I--I saw that video on Instagram,” the girl said, putting Kenzie’s clothes carefully into two white shopping bags with Madewell in black lettering along the side. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be so nosy, shit. You’re so lucky. He’s, like, the hottest guy ever. Good luck with everything, really.”
Kenzie blushed deeply, unsure of what to say. Today is the weirdest day of my life in a long string of weird days, she thought. “Um, thank you.” The girl passed the bags to her, shyly looking back at the register, clearly embarrassed. Kenzie turned, feeling disoriented again, and walked out of the shop. Back on the street she let the sun fall on her, warming her skin; just breathe, Kenzie Lou, her mother’s voice drifting into her mind again. She draped the Madewell bags over her arm, her satchel slung over her shoulder. She felt dizzy with the money she’d just theoretically spent. Don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this, she thought. And every piece of clothing in Duncan’s closet costs as much as I just racked up.
Kenzie turned the corner, walking up to where she knew she’d find a Sephora; make-up is so fucking expensive, she thought. I’ve lived on ramen for days to buy hair products and foundation. She perused the perfect lines of lipstain and eyeliner, picking out her standards; it would be a relief to have makeup and face wash and a hairbrush at Duncan’s penthouse, at least, if she was going to be there constantly (in various states of undress and dishevelment, she thought, unable to suppress the giggle that bubbled up). She picked up a full-size bottle of Nirvana Rose, her favorite scent, relishing the feeling of it in her hands; she only ever bought the roller-balls, it was so expensive. She imagined it sitting beside Duncan’s bottles of cologne in his giant bathroom with a thrill. Together. She imagined her hairbrush on his sink, her toothbrush next to his, her shampoo and conditioner in his (fuck) shower beside his. Together. It made her feel absolutely high. Knowing he wanted her things there. Knowing he wanted her there.
Kenzie had one more stop to make; she carefully perused the shelves of Dean and DeLuca, the fanciest grocer’s she had ever been to and normally could not begin to afford. She had been planning the dinner she’d make in her head since she came up with the idea to cook for Duncan; cooking was something that gave her a lot of peace of mind and comfort, and she felt, somehow, that she wanted to give this to him; she wondered how long it had been since someone who loved him had made him food. It was something her mother did for her all the time; something that made her feel close to her mother, something that gave her comfort, soothed her. She could see the ways that making food for someone was like telling them she loved them; this is for you. I made it for you, because I love you. It will nourish your body and bring you joy and I made it. Despite the difficult trajectory of her day, Kenzie felt innately that having a meal together would be healing for both of them tonight; unlike the prying eyes of the patrons of Le Diplomate, this would be just the two of them, with no one to spy. The thought filled her with relief, flowing through her body like the first hit of a bowl of good weed. Alone, together.
Once she was finished, she texted Samuel, trying to juggle a half a dozen bags in her arms now; as was his way, he pulled around within minutes to where she stood on the sidewalk outside the posh grocer’s. He immediately jumped out to help her with all her bags; she smiled at him, thanking him warmly. This man is so wonderful, she thought, sending out all the warm energy she could muster towards Samuel’s back bent over the BMW’s trunk, where he carefully placed her assorted bags. I already trust him with my life.
It only took a few scant minutes to make it back to Duncan’s high-rise from where she’d been shopping; its glittering facade was very still in the afternoon sun, and the street was surprisingly quiet. Samuel pulled up quietly to the curb, hopping out again to pull her door open; “Miss Mackenzie, please go inside, I will be up with the bags shortly. Don’t you worry.” Kenzie hesitated, feeling self-conscious, tucking stray hairs behind her ear; she glanced at her phone. It was almost 6.
“Okay. Do I need to tell the doorman anything?”
“Miss Mackenzie, they will know who you are. Duncan has told them everything.”
She balked at that. Told them everything. I hope not. She blushed.
----
Kenzie stepped into the building; a tall, portly, middle-aged doorman opened it for her, nodding to her politely. She felt odd, being there alone. The foyer was spotlessly clean, everything in gilded gold and polished marble. Another man sat at the front desk; he was short with closely-shaved hair and a tiny moustache, his slender eyes indicating his Asian lineage. He was deeply absorbed in a copy of Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller. Kenzie approached him quietly, one hand clutching the strap of her satchel against her shoulder, the other buried in one of the pockets of her long skirt.
“I’m...going up to Mr. Shepherd’s penthouse.”
He glanced up at her, a gentle smile falling across his face. “I’m Anchaly. You must be Mackenzie Stone. Very good, Miss Stone. If you ever need anything, please let me know.”
“I’m a Cancer, you know,” she replied.
“I’m sorry?”
“That book you’re reading. My zodiac sign is Cancer.”
“Ahhhh. Children of the moon.”
She laughed at that, surprised. “I suppose so, yes.”
“Mr. Shepherd is also a Cancer. How fortuitous. Two moon children in love.”
She blushed. Two moon children in love. “Today has been a very strange day.”
“I find that strange days are often the best days, in retrospect.”
“It was nice to meet you, Anchaly.”
“Likewise, Miss Stone.”
Anchaly leaned back down towards his book; she stepped away from the counter. I’m not one to disturb a reader twice, she thought, walking over to the gold-embossed elevators and pressing the up arrow. She thought of the night she’d first come here with Duncan; both of them locked in a passionate embrace, locked in the passionate feeling of each other’s energy, locked in the moment. Who would have thought it’d become something so real? She thought. Who would have thought something so impulsive would become...what it’s becoming. Her heart shivered. Who would have thought I’d fall in love with him this way. She stepped inside, letting the doors slide shut behind her; staring at herself for a moment in the full-length mirror against the wall; her eyes looked tired, small dark circles vaguely visible under them, her eyeliner beginning to smudge. She brought a hand to the rose quartz at her neck for the hundredth time that day; for love, she thought. Duncan’s penthouse was at the top of a 30-story high-rise. She pressed the 30 button (it was silver with black numbers), knowing full well his penthouse was the only residence on that floor. It made her shiver a little again. She pulled her wallet out again, fingers falling over the credit card he’d given her for a moment before moving on to the keycard; she pulled it out, studying it. It had a another silver 30 on it, and the name SHEPHERD, DUNCAN in silver Garamond lettering beside the numbers. The card was jet-black with a strip on the opposite side; other than these features, the card was blank. It was heavy in her hand, made of some kind of metal (titanium, maybe...like that Black AmEx Duncan has). It felt expensive, like the card alone had cost a lot of money. It probably did. She was gazing at it still in the elevator’s warm golden light when the doors slid open on the 30th floor.
Kenzie stepped out towards Duncan’s long black door, thinking again of a few nights ago when he had fumbled the key there; her arm reaching out to steady him, her lips pressing against him. Where did all that bravery go? She wondered. I could use a bourbon now, honestly. She held the card out to the slot beside Duncan’s door, annoyed with herself when she saw her hand shaking; as if you’ve never been here, she said to herself. She pulled at the small gold knob and stepped inside as a low beep rang out; closing the door behind her, breathing out slowly, carefully, her eyes falling on the pristine quiet of Duncan’s apartment.
Being here alone was odd; she felt like an intruder, as though she was here without anyone’s permission, though she knew deep down that wasn’t true. She was struck yet again by how beautiful everything he owned was; how elegant and pristine and quiet and exquisite. She moved past the vast kitchen, the diamond-drop chandelier winking at her; into his huge front room with its low leather couch and the silent, watchful eyes of the three statues (Dike, the goddess of Justice, lifting her scales, Nike, goddess of Victory, headless and winged, Athena, goddess of Wisdom, in her battle armor) on three separate corbels, two against the wall of the study, one against the wall leading to the bedroom; the wall that she faced there was made entirely of one long sheet of weather-proof, bullet-proof glass, the view she’d neglected to admire the last few times she’d been in this room, too lost in the weight of Duncan to care about anything else. She walked up to it now, gazing out on the nation’s capital city. In the daylight, it was mostly smatterings of white and cream with patches of trees, gray against the blue and white of the sky. She supposed that if she ever remembered to look, it must be magnificent at night, with the city spread out in glittering electric lights. She turned to look at Nike, who was closest to her; she trailed one hand over the back of the statue’s left wing, loving the coolness of the marble stone under her hand. Three women, powerful and wise. She loved these statues; that Duncan had them displayed so prominently in his home was of some comfort to her. She had no doubt that he admired strong women; his fierce love for his mother most evident. Having been raised by a mostly-single mother herself, she wondered if it wasn’t so much of the reason he had turned out the way he had; with a hidden depth of feeling, a hidden shine of the soul, one that extended beyond his (admittedly overwhelming) physical beauty. She hoped again, in her own silent way, that she and Annette could find a way to be friends; find some meeting of the minds, at least when it came to Duncan. We both love him, she thought. At least we have that in common.
On the wall that faced opposite Duncan’s study was a series of four paintings of identical size in gold frames, and unlike The Youth of Bacchus, these seemed to be high-quality prints rather than the originals (I guess most of these paintings actually hang in museums, she thought); she had noticed them before, that first morning, (Pre-Raphaelites, she had thought then, and they were), but studied them more carefully now; each was a woman who appeared to represent a different time of day, the first with long red hair, bathed in soft lights with plants growing behind her (the morning, Kenzie thought), the next floating in sunlight, holding a branch out to a bird, leaves in her hair (the day), and then next, she with her pose of ecstasy, the waters of the sea at her feet, a moon rising behind her (twilight) and then she bathed in shadow, her mantle black, storm clouds behind her (the night). Kenzie loved them immediately and fiercely; goddesses of nature and time, she thought, a hand reaching out towards she of the Twilight; towards the moon that hung over her head. For women create all things.
Kenzie moved through the door to Duncan’s study, holding her breath; then she turned and gazed, eyes widening, at the beauty that was The Youth of Bacchus, in all its real splendor. Looking at it sober, she still somehow felt drunk on it. She could see the ridges and bumps of Bouguereau’s paint; see the brushstrokes around the eyes of the revelers, the skin of the maiden in the center, white and bare. Oh for the hundredth time today, she thought, feeling her tears. But she couldn’t help it. It was perhaps the most beautiful object she had ever seen. The thought of seeing it every day; of being near it, living beside it, moved her utterly. She turned away from it, toward his bookcases stretching along the walls behind the desk; they encompassed all genres, but she noticed that many of them were mythology books. Of course, she thought. I can see how much it means to him. I can see it in his house and behind his eyes and I can feel it. Justice, victory, wisdom. Three women; trios are always a pantheon of power. Like the Fates. Like Hecate in her shades. Like the Moon; waxing, full, waning. She thought back on her own studies of Greek mythology; she’d poured over the book by the D’Aulaires’ in the library for months the year she was 13; she’d read Bullfinch’s Mythology in high school and The Odyssey in college. She thought (drifting) of Hades stealing Persephone from the earth, bringing her down to the dark Underworld; in many versions of the tale, they called it The Rape of Persephone, an act against her will. But Kenzie had often imagined that secretly, hidden in the annals of time, lost somewhere, Persephone loved Hades; loved his dark sadness and his eyes like blue fire, loved his crown of curls, his dark cloak, his hands, his gentleness. As a girl she often imagined Persephone didn’t return to the Underworld because she had eaten Pomegranates; but that she returned because she loved him, loved him and could not choose between her mother and the bright flowers of the living, and her husband and the dark flowers of the dead. She thought of Duncan; his serious gaze, his eyes piercing through her like thunder; his lips pressed to her like the fervent whisper of a prayer; my own Hades, lost in his Underworld, only this one hovers above the masses in its own special limbo. And in that moment she did feel torn; torn between him and the world she felt she was leaving behind, whether she meant to or not. She went over to the little polished mahogany bar cart beside the wine case that stretched along the corner, admiring the Tiffany lamp on the shelf beside it, Duncan’s spotless turntable; she took one of the crystal tumblers and her eyes traveled over the bottles there, eventually choosing the spherical shape of Angel’s Envy bourbon, pouring a finger into the tumbler, bringing it to her lips, and sipping, slow, savoring the taste, moving it under her tongue. It coursed through her, down her throat; it filled her tired mind with heat, soothing her, and suddenly, she ached for the night to come and her lover to return to her. Today was a long day, she thought. And I long for him. She went to the turntable; a Beethoven record was sitting on it, the needle hovering just above. She pressed a button on the side of it, and the needle dropped; Moonlight Sonata, she thought. I love this one. I love that he was listening to this.
She gazed for a moment longer at Bacchus, bathing in the silence, relishing the sound of the music; the curtains in this room were light-tight, the better to preserve the priceless painting, she assumed; then she heard the front door of the penthouse open, and she went out of the study, the tumbler still cradled in her hand, to see Samuel stepping into the kitchen with her many parcels; he set the Dean and DeLuca bags on the kitchen counter, then moved through the living room to set her other bags on Duncan’s low leather couch; he nodded to her, smiling, then turned to leave.
“Samuel.”
He turned back, his brown eyes dancing.
“Yes, Miss Mackenzie.”
“Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. For everything.”
“Miss Mackenzie...it is my honor. Be well and be happy. I will see you again soon.”
He smiled a little; his eyes seemed to fall into him, deeper, stranger, like a universe unfolding and widening; Moonlight Sonata resounded in her ears, extending the moment. Than he nodded a little to her, turned, and walked to the door, closing it softly behind him.
Kenzie sipped from the tumbler again; lost in thought, in the fading light. Then, she went into the kitchen, flipping the switch on the wall so the diamond-drop chandelier burst into luminescence; she set the tumbler on the counter, and got to work on the grocery bags beside her; she reached up into Duncan’s cupboards, struck with excitement at his beautiful kitchenwares; only a man who cooks for himself has all of this, she thought. She hummed as she worked; and slowly, the light of day faded, and the light of the city came up, in the evening mood.
BODY AND SOUL Part 5 (Duncan Shepherd/Mackenzie Stone Millory AU)
BODY AND SOUL MASTERPOST
Author’s Note: The Youth of Bacchus is listed publicly as being part of a “private collection”, so AU-fictionally-speaking, who knows, it could theoretically belong to the Shepherds. I’ve been meaning to feature Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata in some kind of story for ages, as I’ve loved it all my life (I listened to this version a lot while I wrote this part). I had to include a little nod to my fellow Sagittarius, Jane Austen, with her famous line, spoken by Darcy to Lizzie in a moment of passionate abandon, from Pride & Prejudice (“you have bewitched me, body and soul”), though the title of my fic came originally from the song Hypnotised by Years & Years, as I’ve mentioned before. I mirrored the “breathing” advice from their mothers on purpose. That moment Kenzie stares at Duncan with tears in her eyes over dinner was my homage to that gif floating around of Mallory looking across the table (I always imagine she’s looking at Michael). I’m learning some fascinating stuff from my research for this fic, including the fact that in order to be issued a Black AmEx (“Centurion Card”) you need a special invitation and are required to pay an initiation fee of $7500 with an annual fee of $2500. Rumor has it (it hasn’t been confirmed on record) that Black Card holders need a net worth of around $16 million to qualify. I also learned that Bordeaux goes well with duck a l’orange, which, as a vegetarian, is a thing I probably would have never known otherwise. The line “Then I must be thy lady, but I know / When thou hast stolen away from fairy land” is from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The Bouguereau cunnilingus I came up with in my sleep last night and I’m totally in love with it. His painting Evening Mood (which Duncan thinks of when Kenzie is standing there naked in the candlelight) is enshrined at the Museum of Fine Arts, in Cuba. I’m so proud of this part; I worked really hard on it and put a lot of my own emotions into it. I’m proud of what I’ve written here and what I’ve done so far with this story, and that’s a wonderful feeling. If anyone else wants to do visual edits or moodboards for the fic, I’d be so thrilled. The one @nat-de-lioncourt made (here) made me ecstatically happy. I posted some screenshots of the playlist I made for writing the fic on my Twitter, if you’re interested in my music influences/the mood I’m trying to create so far. And as ever, if you’re reading and enjoying, your comments mean everything to me.
Duncan felt as though his spirit was trying to break free from his body. He was leaning against the obsidian counter in his spotless kitchen, his sleek black phone clutched in his hands, tapping it every now and again to check the time, quiet strains of classical music coming from the turntable in the corner of his office; Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. He fiddled with the cufflinks of his shirt again; they were rose gold with black onyx stones. He ran his fingers down his Balmain one-button velvet jacket, breathing deep, letting it out at a measured pace, re-adjusting the collar of his black shirt, though it had already been perfectly straight. Annette had taught him to breathe carefully from the time she had begun to bring him to public events with her when he was still in elementary school. “Never let them see your nervousness,” she had insisted, holding his small hand in hers, pushing at his back so he’d stand straight. “These people feed on weakness, and you must appear to be untouchable them. Breathe until your fear fades away. You can’t use it where you’re going.”
Oddly, he often thought it was the best advice his mother had ever given him. You can’t use it where you’re going; as if his destiny was to do something great, no matter his own doubts about himself. She had always said it with absolute conviction. He knew his mother loved him. That was an absolute, unshakeable truth. Maybe she could accept Kenzie, because I think I love her. He brought his hand to his chin in that familiar tick, running his right index and middle fingers over his bottom lip. That thought had come unbidden, like a tide to the shore. God. I think I do. I don’t know her yet, but I think I love her. It’s so strange.
He made himself breathe out again, focusing his attention on the strains of the Sonata’s first movement; it had always made him think of the dead of night, some abandoned moor far from civilization, bathed in the glow of the moon and a universe full of a million stars hovering above, looking down on the tiny rock of humanity with a studied, sympathetic indifference. Wretched humankind, he thought, moving slowly to the study, all alone in an empty cosmos. It was a thought he’d had many times before, but this time, oddly, his resolute conviction in it faltered. Maybe alone. Maybe not. His eyes fell over the painting that stretched, colossal, against the wall facing his desk.
It was Bouguereau's The Youth of Bacchus. His mother had bought it for him for his 18th birthday: yes, the original. The Shepherds had a net worth of over 3 billion, and she had insisted he needed a legitimate piece when he’d moved into his penthouse alone. He’d always loved it; “it reminds me of when you were a boy and I bought you those mythology books you’d read for hours and hours,” Annette had said, her finger stroking his cheek. He’d gone through a period in his adolescence where he was obsessed with Greek and Roman mythology; had practically every book ever published on the subject, most of them still on his study shelves, though Edith Hamilton’s was always his favorite. He had gazed at the bacchanalia depicted in the painting countless times, its naked, dancing figures, feverish in their revelry; sometimes he would come here and sit in the leather chair behind the mahogany desk, just to stare at it until whatever vinyl he’d placed on the turntable wound down to silence. It had always been odd to him that though the painting referred to Bacchus’ youth (he, the god of hedonism), he was depicted as a pot-bellied old man in it, teetering on a donkey. Duncan had long-ago decided that Bouguereau meant it in reference to Bacchus’ spirit, his essence, one of endless mischief and debauchery. He thought back on the many nights he’d indulged in debauchery himself; the women and men he’d taken into his bed, careless to know their names, content with the pleasures of the flesh, rarely feeling the impulse to see them again. When your mother was Annette Shepherd, you could afford to pay off any troublesome, tiresome attentions. Duncan found that though he’d often felt lust, any experience he’d had until last night had not deigned to come close to the wild, somehow almost painful, intoxicating energy he’d felt when Mackenzie Stone was in his arms. It was as if he’d never known what passion truly was until the moment he’d kissed her, her mouth opening to him; hadn’t understood the winding way of the universe at all until she’d been under him, her sweet whisper in his ear, her small hands on his skin, around his length, in his hair. Her smell, her touch, her presence was like waking up for the first time on a cool spring morning after winter, seeing the sunlight course over some distant hill, watching auburn clouds float into the ether as dawn kissed the world. She had reminded him, or perhaps made him realize truly for the first time, that being alive was miraculous indeed; and he wanted the feeling again, the grip of the desire to live. And that was passion, he thought. Passion was her eyes, where he’d seen her soul floating behind them, seeing his, as though they’d been long lost from each other, and now, finally, had found each other again, through time.
Bewitched, body and soul, he thought, and he could not remember what the line was from. God, but that’s how I feel. He’d considered himself a staunch atheist since he was little more than a child, but something about this woman, this wondrous angel so she seemed, made his resolve falter for the first time in memory. Maybe there is something out there, he thought, surprising himself, a shiver falling down his spine under the weight of his velvet jacket, the C-sharp minor of the Sonata boring into his mind. She exists, and she is some kind of miracle, so maybe something is. Fuck. It was as if someone else had entered his body since last night; the better version of himself, desperate to be good enough for her, desperate to hope for a world where she truly existed, and was not some free-falling fantasy of his own invention.
He fiddled with his onyx cufflinks, clearing his throat, moving to where he kept a small bar cart beside the table the record player rested on, an ornate, priceless Tiffany lamp beside it. He poured a finger of bourbon and drank it down, wiping his lips on the back of his hand as the final strokes of the first movement ended. He glanced at his watch (the Cartier again); it was 8:20 PM. It was time to go; time to go to her.
Surprising himself again, he thought out a silent prayer for the first time since he was a boy: if anyone is out there, give me courage.
------
Samuel shut the door behind Duncan as he slid into the backseat of the black BMW. Duncan felt as though he could jump out of his skin at any moment; his resolve was trembling, and the feeling was truly putting him off-guard. Am I actually good enough for this woman? The thought flitted across his mind and he felt utterly shaken by it, as though someone else had invaded his mind. But he knew the thought was his own. He knew he was truly wondering what he’d done to deserve her in his bed, enraptured, the euphoria of her seeping into his senses. He couldn’t believe he was about to see her again. His body felt like it was vibrating, the bourbon he had drunk to calm his nerves giving them an edge instead, an overwhelming intensity.
“Are you alright, Mr. Shepherd?” Samuel was sitting in the driver’s seat again, peering at Duncan over his glasses, a combination of concern and amusement flickering in his eyes.
“Samuel, I need your good thoughts tonight,” Duncan replied, his guard down. “I need all the help I can get. I’m enamoured with this woman. I’m crazy about her.”
“Let your heart be your guide, Mr. Shepherd.” Samuel held his gaze for a moment, and then looked down, toward the stretch of asphalt in front of Duncan’s high rise. The car moved forward, streamlined, humming quietly, toward Duncan’s destiny.
----
Duncan had texted Mackenzie again a few hours before; after the conversation during which she’d gazed at her phone in awe, falling into the constellation of Cancer on her bed, unbeknownst to him. He’d asked for her address; it was now programmed into Samuel’s GPS, so he could see the minutes counting down to their arrival. He took another deep breath; let it out in a steady stream, opposing thumb pressing into his palm; his eyes, sapphire-like, gazed out the window, reflecting the glowing lights of a Washington evening. He thought of Kenzie in her little black dress, her ankles wrapped in laces, the crystal floating at her throat, her eyes, gazing at him, full of hidden emotion. Her voice rising in his shower; baby, I want you to come. He closed his eyes and his head, crowned in curls, fell back on the leather seat. God, her fingers in mine, her hard little nipples and sweet clit in my mouth and the feeling of her body clenching around mine, how was that real, how is it still all so real and yet like a dream, the smell of vetiver and her skin, her moans, her hair glowing in the light over the bed--
“Mr. Shepherd, we’re here.”
His eyes snapped open, an involuntary fear rising in them. They’d pulled up to an apartment complex, relatively modern, with glass doors leading to an entryway and the doors of the inner apartments visible within.
Kenzie.
“Here I go.”
Samuel nodded, the wry smile playing around his mouth again.
“Mr. Shepherd.”
For the breadth of a heartbeat, Duncan paused, then he pushed the door of the BMW open and stepped onto the sidewalk. Apartment 1R was Mackenzie’s; she’d texted even her apartment number to him. She was trusting him with it, and he understood this innately. He straightened his Balmain jacket (already straight), rubbed the finger into his palm again, ran that nervous, constant hand against his bottom lip, and walked to the glass door, pulling it open. The second door was locked; he saw a neat row of buzzers beside it, each with a tile clearly printed with apartment numbers underneath. 1R. Stone. He breathed in again, long and low, and pressed the buzzer.
He held the breath as the moment hung there, unmoving.
Then a buzzing sound emanated from the foyer where he stood; he pulled the second door open.
Inside, there were four apartments in a long row, and a corner where the hallway turned towards more apartments along the next wall. He walked (wearing black Saint Laurent Wyatt boots tonight, the buckles hidden beneath the hem of his tailored slacks) to the end, where the corner began; 1R. A gold crescent moon ornament, hung from a small nail and a gold-painted, braided length of rope, shimmered in the hallway light against the door. There was a one-sided peephole facing him; he stared at it for a moment; he breathed again, and then he knocked.
An aching pause again; and then she opened the door.
Mackenzie stood there, her chestnut waves falling down over her shoulders and her back (moons along her head, he thought, stunned, moonlight in her hair), and she met his gaze, her hazel eyes aglow with silent fire, though her expression was full of apprehension she clearly had not been able to conceal. He went to speak, but his breath seemed caught in his lungs; he looked at her and his heart was struck with a quiver of aching need. Her mouth was darkly colored; her eyelids were dark, black kohl around her eyes; tonight she was like the hidden face of the moon, and he was immediately beguiled, under her spell.
She was wearing a dress that seemed to be cut out of the air itself; its neckline plunged down through the space between her breasts, coming together beneath them in a deep V, the skin there luminous in the light (I want to kiss that skin now); it was black like the dress she’d been wearing the night before, but it had long sleeves that came down to past her wrists, pointing towards her knuckles. It had been tailored to her small waist, tailored so it hugged against the rise of her chest and the elegant inclines of her arms, and then it fell from her hips, in waves of more silken velvet an inch above her knee, waves he wanted to kneel into, bury himself inside. Knee-high heeled boots stretched along her slender legs (the legs whose ankles I kissed, their redness building an ache in me, he thought), their toes coming to points, but the stretch of skin between where the boots began and her skirt ended was entrancing to him; he wanted to press his mouth there and move it up between her legs again; he ached at the thought. Around her neck was a velvet choker (my hands there my lips on her mouth), and hanging from it was a black inverted moon, its crescent points hanging down towards her shoulder blades. The sight of it sent a cool chill along the back of his neck; it seemed an omen, occult and knowing, a feminine eye that knew him and could see all of his secrets. He resigned himself to this; I would tell her anything. And he knew it was true.
“Kenzie,” he said breathlessly, overwhelmed. She was real. He hadn’t dreamt her; not last night, not this morning, when her light scattered along the hall as she ran away from him. And she was beautiful beyond all words to him; her realness, her weight, her beauty, within and without, shining like a darkened star in the twilight.
“God, you look beautiful.”
“So do you,” a nervous smile spread over her little mouth, and he thought of honey, roses, wine, the sweetness of your soul, Kenzie--and he moved forward, his lips capturing hers, his hands burying themselves in her cascade of hair, and he felt lost for a moment, lost in the tangibility of touching her again, full of relief at her reality. “You’re real,” he whispered into her mouth; he couldn’t stop. “You’re real, and I didn’t dream you.” He breathed in her smell; her perfume was the same. Vetiver, geranium, roses. He wanted to drink it like nectar.
“I know. I was afraid of the same thing. That I’d imagined you.” Her little face was turned up to him, and her darkly-shadowed eyes glistened with moisture. He was filled with a terrible fear that she would begin to cry; he felt a twinge around his heart, a wrenching horror at the idea of her sadness.
“I’m here.” He pressed his forehead into hers for a moment, his fingers trailing through her hair, his eyes closing, overwhelmed. “We’re both here. Everything was real. Everything is real. This is real.”
Her little hands went around his wrists for a moment as he held her, twining her fingers through his on either side of her face, clutching him to her, and he felt a burst of energy, as if her sweetness, her care, her nature of goodness, seeped through her into him, bathing him in warmth, and then she stepped away, out of his grasp. “Take me to dinner, Duncan Shepherd. I’m fucking starving.” She smiled again, like honey, he thought, and he smiled back at her (he watched her face blush towards him at his smile and his heart clenched again), and then he grabbed hold of her hand and pulled her through the door, his fingers pressing into her, the warmth of hand spreading into him like the glow of home after a long, cold walk in the dark.
-----
Duncan grasped Mackenzie’s little hand as she slid into the backseat of the BMW, her eyes meeting Samuel’s through his rearview mirror as they always did Duncan’s. Duncan could see the smile in Samuel’s eyes; he was delighted. Duncan slid in beside her and pulled the door shut, anxious to be near her; Kenzie looked so unbelievably beautiful, he felt dazed, blinded, disoriented once again, wistful for them to be alone together.
“Samuel--this is Mackenzie Stone.”
Duncan watched the clouded patina that immediately came into Samuel’s usually clear brown eyes. “Stone. You wouldn’t be Madeline Stone’s daughter now, would you?”
Kenzie put her chin up, meeting Samuel’s gaze through the mirror, bringing her hands together in her lap over her little purse (it was different than the clutch she’d had at the party; this one had a strap to go over her shoulder, and a gold buckle shaped like a crescent moon, this one facing in a waxing direction). Duncan felt a sort of fierce pride wash over him as he gazed at her lovely, shadowed face, the blush of her cheek and the incline of her neck. She’s brave; she’s honest. She’s so easy to fall in love with.
“I am.”
Samuel didn’t miss a beat, letting his concern slide away. Duncan silently thanked him. “Delighted to finally meet you, Miss Stone. Duncan has said only the best of you.”
“He doesn’t know me that well yet,” she laughed a little, glancing at Duncan, and he was full suddenly to the brim with the desire to hold her, kiss her again, melt into her. Samuel chuckled with her, his very white teeth flashing, his eyes dancing behind his square glasses. He liked her very much; Duncan could tell. How could you not, Duncan thought. Look at her.
“I can’t wait to know you more,” he said to her, Samuel’s watchful eye be damned. He reached to her lap and grasped her hand, looking at her carefully. He wanted her to see how sincerely he meant what he was saying. “I want to know you more than anything.” Kenzie looked at him, her hazel eyes taking on that strange dark hue again, and then she looked down at his hands, as if she felt overwhelmed by his gaze. Samuel’s attention seemed to strategically slide away from them; Duncan didn’t even need to ask him, the partition between the front and back seats rolled up languidly, almost absent-mindedly, and the car moved forward. By the time it arrived in front of Le Diplomate, Duncan and Kenzie were breathless, eyes glittering, breath hitching from the wild locking of their mouths, and Duncan’s lips were smeared with her dark lipstick. She put her delicate thumb up to his mouth as the car stopped, to wipe it away; Duncan captured the finger in his mouth, and sucked at it for a moment, lost in the ecstasy of her touch, the taste of her.
“Duncan,” she whispered, the longing in her voice inconcealable. “My lipstick is all over you.”
“Good. I want it there.”
She smiled at him, and he couldn’t hold back the moan; “Kenzie, baby,” he tried to kiss her again, his mouth hovering over hers, but she pulled away, the smile turning mischievous, and he knew she was watching the yearning in his gaze and his body with satisfaction; she quickly wiped the stain from his mouth before he could bite her finger again, and pulled her hand away.
“Later,” she said, their eyes meeting, and the core of his body tingled, as if touched by a live wire. “Later, I belong to you.” A chill coursed down his spine. He wanted to press his mouth between her legs and make her scream again. He wanted to press his face into the hollow of her neck, buried inside her. But patience was a virtue. He owed her his patience.
The partition went down, languidly; “Samuel, I’ll text you when we need the car. Thank you,” Duncan said. Samuel replied with the smile still dancing on his features, his bright eyes on Mackenzie. “Certainly, Mr. Shepherd.”
“Thank you, Samuel,” Kenzie said shyly, smiling back at him sweetly.
“It is truly a pleasure, Miss Stone,” Samuel replied, and she grinned.
Duncan helped her from the backseat, his large hand grasping her small fingers with fervent attention. “I like him very much,” she said to him quietly, smoothing her dress nervously; his other hand came around and felt at her waist, moving up and down for a moment, lost in the soft feeling of her, steadying her. “He likes you too,” he replied, bringing his face close to her again, breathing in her intoxicating scent. “Samuel’s worked for my family since before I was born, and I trust him with my life. I know when he likes or dislikes someone right away. He thought you were lovely. And you are. You’re the loveliest person I’ve ever met.”
He couldn’t stop himself; the words tumbled out of him, fervently.
“God, Duncan,” she said, her hair shimmering in the lamps outside the entrance, her breath sweet against his face, her eyes glowing, hypnotizing him in their ethereal embrace. “How are you so wonderful?”
“Kenzie, it’s for you. It’s all for you. Anything you want, I want to give it to you.”
She laughed. “Right now, I want dinner. And a glass of wine. That would be nice.”
“So much dinner and so many glasses of wine are in store for you, Madame.” He pulled away, grasping her little hand tightly, the eyes of DC society be damned for now. He’d reserved a private room, but he didn’t care who saw them on their way to it (and he noticed several unfamiliar but attentive eyes follow them through the dining hall--clearly they recognized him); he felt an encroaching abandon, as though nothing and no one could tear him away from her now; let everyone see her, let everyone see them together, and he would do whatever it took to protect her, to sway his immovable mother to good graces when the time came. But first, this evening. First, Kenzie. Angel.
He saw Kenzie’s hesitant face as the waiter helped her into her seat; she saw the exhaustive wine menu and an overwhelmed look came into her eyes at its massive length.
“May I order the wine?” He asked her, his eyes on her, gentle.
“Yes, please.” He wanted to soothe the worry from her; he wanted her to feel comfortable to let her guard down, to be herself with him. Wine menus could get fucked if they made her doubt herself. Anything and anyone could get fucked, as far as he was concerned, if they looked at her the wrong way.
“Château Trotte Vieille Bordeaux, please,” he murmured to the waiter after he perused its exhaustive length for a short minute; he’d looked over this particular menu many times before. He watched Mackenzie’s wide, beautiful eyes glance down at the menu, searching for the wine he’d chosen; they widened further and he knew she’d noticed the price tag. The waiter (a tall young man with a thin face, a long nose and close-cropped hair) nodded, eyeing Mackenzie very briefly with badly-veiled interest; Duncan could see that the waiter recognized him as well, and was clearly curious about the beauty sitting with him in a private room. A less observant person would have perhaps missed the look, but Duncan was almost preternatural in his ability to read others; a useful talent he’d learned from watching his mother and listening to her through years of gains on political stages. He wondered how much a future reporter would pay the man to give them information about Duncan Shepherd’s date at Le Diplomate on a recent Sunday in May, the details of Mackenzie’s appearance, the coy Instagram shots that could potentially materialize of them later. He could see the headlines on the gossip websites now. Duncan Shepherd Spotted Arriving and Leaving with Political Enemy’s Daughter From Intimate Dinner At Posh French Restaurant.
I don’t care, he thought, staring into Kenzie’s eyes, which met his with a mixture of hesitance and open avidity, and that crushing feeling around his heart recurred. He reached out and took her hand. I just don’t care. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this woman mine.
“$245. I saw that. Oh my god,” Kenzie breathed, holding his fingers tightly. “That’s the money I spend on groceries in a month.” Nervousness had seeped into her eyes as she stared at him, her mouth open in a kind of stunned realization.
“Kenzie. It’s nothing. My mother spends that much every week on cold-pressed juice.”
“Duncan.”
“You’ll love it. It’s wonderful. It’s perfect with the duck a l’orange, which is, by the way, better here than the duck I’ve had in Paris.”
“Duncan.”
“Kenzie.”
“I feel strange.”
She was biting her lip, and her eyes looked frightened. They pierced his heart; he ached to soothe her again, ached to calm her.
“Mackenzie, listen to me. Please don’t. This is my life. I understand that it may be strange to you, but I will do whatever I can to make you feel more comfortable, more at ease. Anything. Don’t be afraid, Kenzie. I want you here. I want you to be here with me right now, and no one else. Mackenzie Stone, I don’t care about anything else right now except being here with you.”
He watched her face, her eyes growing shiny with the tears hiding behind them, and her little mouth trembled ever-so-slightly, a strange smile falling over her features. She sniffed a little, and a single tear fell from her eye, dropping down onto the immaculate white tablecloth, spreading into a damp orb. He grasped her hand desperately, his thumb rubbing against her wrist. “Baby,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”
She breathed, silently, her overwhelmed expression clinging to the certainty in his blue eyes; he watched her throat and the rise of her collarbones, wanting to press his lips against her there; he watched the whiteness of the skin between the plunging neckline of her extraordinarily beautiful dress. And then her expression seemed to clear from what she saw in his face; she nodded a little, the smile trembling still but steadying for him. “Okay, baby,” she whispered. And he squeezed her hand, his smile widening to her, nodding back.
----
The duck tasted even more wonderful tonight; it was simultaneously the best meal he’d ever had and the one he felt he’d remember the least, somehow; he could only think of and focus on her eyes and her hair and her throat and her gold headband adorned with moons and the tiny movements of her hands and fingers as she ate her bread or stabbed a forkful of spinach or a morsel of perfectly roasted duck or drank the (absolutely exquisite) vintage Bordeaux from her wine glass, catching the dim, romantic evening candlelight from their table in its reflection. He somehow felt he’d never seen another person so clearly and entirely before this night; she was a revelation, so real and so beautiful and her eyes were full of emotion and so open to him, it absolutely took his breath away. He watched her ease into the meal and into his words as they talked; she told him about her father, far away in LaLa land, writing about film, forgetting to send her birthday cards, about her best friend Claire (“shares her name with the president, oddly enough”), and the love she shared with her mother. And there we can agree, he’d said, and told her about his mother, too. “I know how she can seem,” he said, looking away, referring to Annette’s sharp television interviews and her well-chronicled contentions with the press, “but I love her deeply, and she loves me. That’s an unshakeable truth, and it gives me comfort in life.” Kenzie had nodded, understanding. “I feel the same way about my mother,” she had agreed. “She’s there for me when no one else is. She’s given me so much advice that has helped me survive; she’s been a guiding light to me. I admire her strength and fearlessness so much.” Throughout the meal and as they talked, they continued to reach for each other’s hands every now and then; Duncan pressing his thumb gently into circles in her palm, his hands trailing down the expanse of her slender fingers. She’d grasp his fingers one by one, caressing the shape of his knuckles, making him shiver. At one point as he gazed at her left hand in his between staring into her eyes (god, her eyes, I love them so much, like stars), he wondered what it would look like with a ring from him adorning it. He blushed at the imagining; and then he wondered, quietly, what kind of ring she would love. A moonstone, he thought immediately, somehow sure right away, as though she’d told him herself. A moonstone, because she’s like the face of the moon to me, penetrating my spirit, exquisite and divine. He kept the thought to himself, tucking it away to look at later, as she told him about her work as a journalist, how much it made her hope for and want to fight for a kinder, better world. His eyes clouded with her sincerity; he was shaken with a moment of doubt regarding the work he did for his mother, and he knew it was dark work, cloudy work, and not for the first time, he felt deeply conflicted, perhaps now more than he ever had, especially hearing her sincerity. “I feel as though I can’t say no to her, my mother is the only person who has always been there for me,” he murmured. The sympathy shone out from Mackenzie’s eyes, and he knew she did not judge him harshly; knew she understood his confusion.
“I’ve seen and felt how wonderful you are,” she said. “I feel it now. We can always work to be better, be kinder, be gentler. I think it’s something you do every day, little by little, work at like a sculptor chipping away at a stone. Eventually it becomes something extraordinary. But that’s from hundreds of days of tiny work. For me, working on a story is like that. A tiny chipping away to find the essence of truth in something. I think that’s what life is, really. Hundreds and hundreds of days of little work.”
“I want to try to do that with you, Kenzie. Work together like that, a little bit at a time, for hundreds of days.”
Her eyes settled into his. He watched her breathe out, slowly, setting her fork down, the velvet choker at her throat, its moon charm catching the light.
He said it before he lost his nerve. “Mackenzie. Would you...be with me? Would you be mine?”
“Duncan. Oh, my god. I…” Mackenzie trailed off, staring at him. Her shock seemed to extend, and she was quiet. Her eyes had taken on that greenish hue that startled him deeply again. Her soul, deep in thought, full of tangled emotion.
He bit his lip, his eyes darkening, and he looked down for a moment, grasped his wine glass, drank deeply. He set it down, slowly, carefully.
“I know...this all seems so sudden, so fast. But I feel something for you that I’ve never felt for anyone. I meant everything I said to you today. You’ve brought an ache into my heart. I want you. Not just in my bed. I want you in my life. I want you, Kenzie. All of you.”
The moment hovered, quieted. They regarded each other. He felt her eyes rove over him as soft, pulsing music played in the background of the room; down from his dark hair, thrown back, to his eyes, meeting hers with hope and desire, his lips (which would kiss you every day, kiss you always, Kenzie), the fine sheen of ever-present stubble on his cheeks, the bob of his throat, the high collar of his dark shirt, the fall of his velvet blazer over his tall frame, down his arm and to his wrists, his silver Cartier watch shining against the candlelight, down his long hands, one resting against his thigh, the other hovering an inch away from hers on the table, index finger stretched. Light seemed to cascade behind her head, and he was reminded of the way she’d looked last night, like there was a halo around her head, golden and iridescent. It was as if he could see the outline of her soul, and it shook him to the core, again, trembling. He was bare under her gaze; he felt like she was looking into the essence of him, weighing him, deciding his fate. He waited. He had decided what he wanted, and had spoken it to her, and so at least he had had the courage to be honest. At least, he said to himself, I was brave in the sight of her wonder.
She lifted her head a little, and the light danced off her headband adorned with moons. She looked like a queen to him in that moment; like a Waterhouse priestess, throwing gold dust and magick into the night, and he was struck by her lovely, coiled energy, her power over him. She smiled at him, and it was like the sun breaking through clouds. It was blinding, overwhelming, filling him with her brightness, the beauty that shined out of her spirit.
“Yes,” she said, her voice steady, smooth, like honey. “Yes, I will, Duncan. Yes.”
He grinned, grabbed onto her hand, leaned toward her, his joy immediate.
“On one condition.”
He stopped. “Anything, Mackenzie. Anything.”
“Be mine, too, Duncan Shepherd. Will you be mine?” A little laugh flitted through her words. He could see the joy in her eyes, and it moved him deeply.
He breathed a sigh of relief; it felt like a weight was lifting off his heart, like wings were beating inside his ribcage.
“Kenzie, yes. Yes, a hundred times, yes. I’m yours.”
-----
They were anxious to be alone together, then; Duncan ached for her, and she whispered “let’s go”, draining her wine glass, the flash of her white throat setting his nerves on edge; Duncan had hurriedly passed his Black AmEx to the waiter, who brought it back to him with a swiftness that seemed almost supernatural. The evening seemed to be pushing them toward their private rendezvous; Duncan no longer wanted anyone else to be near them. He wanted her to himself, this divine goddess who had said she would be his; he still couldn’t grasp that she had accepted him, still felt terrified she’d disappear. He wondered if that feeling would ever fade, or if he’d always feel that fear, that ache for her, already dreading the moment she would leave.
Duncan had texted Samuel and as they practically ran from the entrance of the brightly-lit facade of the buzzing brasserie, their hands clasped together tightly, not noticing the eyes of some of the diners following them this time, not caring, he was struck with relief to see the BMW quietly humming on the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the lamps along the sidewalk. He opened the door for Mackenzie, catching her in his arms for a moment, pressing his lips into the soft space between her ear and her jaw, achingly. She leaned into him, her little body folding into his arms, sucking the air from his lungs, intoxicating. Angel baby. His own. She flitted away from him, disappearing into the backseat, and he followed her eagerly; Then I must be thy lady; but I know / When thou hast stolen away from a fairy land...the line hovered in his subconscious. She was like Titania, queen of the fae, scattering gold, her laugh making flowers burst into bloom, and as he pressed into her in the backseat, the flowers bloomed in his mind and his senses as he kissed her and her little mouth opened against him, her hair tangled in his fingers.
-----
When they’d finally arrived back at his penthouse, she hushed him when he tried to press into her again, impatient for her, his arms around her back, under her shoulder blades, trying to be delicate, afraid he might break her apart with his urgency. “I want a little bit more wine, baby, get me some?” The way she said baby, into his mouth, caused heat to pool in the bottom of his stomach. “Kenzie, baby...” he groaned into her softly, he couldn’t stop. Last night felt like it had happened a hundred days ago--he was starving for her again. He shook his head a little, dizzy, loathe to let go of her.
She grabbed the sides of his velvet jacket with her little fingers; “get it for me baby, I want it,” and he loved the pout on her lips, loved it like he loved her eyelashes, her glowing cheeks, her sweet smell, her insistence. “Kiss me first,” he begged, and he knew he was begging, and he didn’t care, he was lost in her. She pressed her open mouth into his bottom lip, sucking it carefully, slowly, and he pressed his hands into her breasts, trying to hold back the rough desire he felt, the skin between held in her plunging neckline, feeling her hot skin there. “There,” she breathed, releasing him. “Now, baby, give me what I want.”
“Mhmm,” he murmured, his head swimming, letting go of her, aching. He looked back as he moved through his vast living room with its lush carpet and low leather couch, trailing his finger absently along its back, watching her watch him (with eyes ringed in gold) move into his study, where he kept an opulently stacked wine rack beside the standing bar. He pulled a Chablis Grand Cru from the middle rack of the temperature-controlled glass case (a bottle worth an absurd amount of money--at least a grand--but his head swam and he couldn’t care at all, money meant nothing to him right now next to her) and as he turned, he saw that she had followed him, boots cast aside somewhere, on soft, bare feet, into his study behind him, hair shimmering, the gold of her glimmering. She pouted. “I wanted to scare you,” she whispered, eyes glowing.
“You look like an angel,” he replied, the bottle dangling carelessly from his fingers. She smiled, turning, looking at him over her shoulder, the dress falling in the light, beautiful beyond words to him. She turned her face towards the wall that faced his desk (her hair in waves of gold); and she gasped, her eyes falling over the huge expanse of The Youth of Bacchus. She paused for a moment, staring, and then took two hesitant, soft steps toward it, clearly in awe. He came up behind her, setting the bottle to the side of his polished mahogany desk, folding his arms around her waist, nuzzling his mouth into her neck.
“Is this real?” she whispered, leaning into him.
“Yes,” he murmured, kissing under her ear, kissing the incline of her neck falling into her shoulders. “It’s real. It’s called The Youth of Bacchus. My mother gave it to me when I was 18.”
“God. Duncan. It’s so beautiful. It’s beautiful beyond words.”
“No,” he whispered into her ear, kissing it, capturing the lobe in his lips, “you are, Kenzie, you are, only you…”
He turned her face to him, kissing her deeply, his tongue in her mouth, her scent crashing into him, and his arms turned her so he could grasp her hips, and he lifted her, light as air, onto the edge of his desk, her little elegant feet suspended several feet in the air, dangling over its edge. She pressed her hands back onto its smooth surface, and he leaned into her, tasting her, hands running over her in ardent waves, whispering into her, “angel, beloved, baby” and he moved his head down, pushing up the velvet folds of her flowing dress, cut to her body like it was part of her, finding her panties (wet against her for him again, god, he loved it so much), these ones made of soft lace, and his hands pulled them off her, hurried, impatient, and he buried his mouth on her clit, sucking with urgency, and she threw her head back, “oh my god, Duncan, fuck, babyyy,” and he saw her eyes floating back and forth between him and the gigantic painting against the wall of his study, caught up in its beauty, caught up in him, and her eyes clouded with green and gold, as he worked his mouth against her, her hand finding the back of his head, holding him flush to her sweetness, and as she came, crying out with a sound that threatened to overwhelm him in the crashing wave of his desire, he saw a tear fall from her eyes, catching the low, soft light, and he thought about god again, thought that maybe there was something in the universe that had brought her to him, into his arms, and he was full of joy.
----
He led her into the bathroom, the joy still dancing in his heart, inside his blue eyes. “Keep your eyes closed,” he said, and she giggled, clutching his hand, feeling carefully along the doorway with the other one, bare feet padding onto the cold, seamless stone tiles. She stopped; he pressed the fingers of his right hand, hot with his want, along the white skin between her breasts where the dress fell down into the void of her, against her neck, thumb trailing over her bottom lip.
“Okay, baby, open them.”
She opened her eyes wide and gasped again; all along the edges of his claw-foot tub there were roses, so many roses, dozens and dozens of roses, their stems stripped of their thorns and woven together in a tapestry, all the deep carmine red of her lips last night when she’d kissed him under the night sky for the first time; handfuls of petals floated over the surface of the water, steaming into the air, and the bath itself was surrounded by white pillar candles, illuminating the otherwise-dark bathroom with a soft, melting glow. He watched her delighted face with relief; “do you like it?” he asked, unable to keep the hopeful, wistful edge from his voice.
“Oh, Duncan, I love it. I love it so much. It’s wondrous. It’s divine.”
You are, you are, you are, he thought, his mind repeating it over and over, the only prayer he ever wanted to recite. Kenzie, Kenzie, Kenzie.
He watched her, aching, in the candlelight. She gazed at him, her face aglow. “Kiss me,” she whispered. “Undress me.”
He leaned into her, desperately; his hands found the zipper at her back, pulling it down with soft urgency as she ran her fingers along his neck and his chest and against the rise of his crotch, pressing carefully and insistently. He moaned, shivering, pushing the heaven-soft sleeves down her arms, feeling her skin with his fingers, relishing the way her breasts, nipples hard, emerged from the cupped embrace of her plunging bodice, his mouth on her neck again. Her dress fell to the ground in a soft heap; she stood before him and he thought of another Bouguereau painting, its beauty flashing in his mind yet paling to her before him in the flesh, one called Evening Mood, the white-skinned nymph of twilight hovering over soft waves, her head softly turned in ecstasy, a crescent moon hanging behind her bowing head.
“You look like the moon,” he said, wonderingly, as her hands pulled at his jacket and pushed it away and her demanding fingers undid his shirt and unbuckled his belt, pulling the zipper of his pants down, pulling out his hard, aching length, her mouth open, her face looking up to him, her eyes impatient, her moon headband and black choker, hugging her neck like a lover (him, her lover) the only things she now wore. He loved that she was wearing her adorning jewelry again, like last night, as they were about to fuck; he loved the artistry of her, unpretentious, unstudied, gold and soft and starry and his, his own, for she’d accepted him, and she was his now, and he was hers, and that was all he knew and all he wanted to know. Her hands drifted over the length of his cock, languid but concentrated, and he pulled away from her touch, leading her to the steaming bathtub, the roses making way for them as he pulled her down into it with him, pulling her on top of him again, loving the feeling of her body hovering above him that way. She reached down into the hot, almost scalding water, its heat causing goosebumps to rise on both of them; gripped the length of his cock again, fingers grazing his sensitive head, her face hovering over his, her mouth almost kissing his, but not quite, her breath cascading into him and she moaned as she stroked him and he moaned into her in return, lost in her, his impossibly blue eyes falling into the night of her, “Mackenzie, baby, that feels so fucking good, you’re as beautiful as an angel, oh god, Kenzie, I love you--”, and the roses clung to the sides of her white skin, the steam that rose off the water enshrining her, and her mouth finally clashed into his, stifling his ardent admission, and he thought again that he could die and be content in the death, content because his last moments had belonged to her.
“Come for me this time, baby love, come for me, okay?” She murmured these sweet words into him, and he nodded, his brow furrowed, completely lost in her touch and her voice; she stopped the firm stroke of her hand around his hardness, and moving her hips, eased down onto him until he was buried in her, gasping, and she moved again, grinding down on him, causing him to stutter “fu-fu-uu-ckk” into her neck, against the softness of her chin, into her skin, and she said “I love you too, I’m yours baby, all yours, come for me,” and he couldn’t stop it, his release was so deep and so consuming that his moan bled into a wild cry that he tried to stifle between the space of her breasts where her dress had plunged, showing her heart to him under the shadow of her delicate bones, and he couldn’t believe that he could have ever felt so good, clutching her little body against him, her soul held in his hands this way. She was his, she had said yes, she was his, this angel, an angel, she loved him and heaven had fallen to earth, and he was holding it, her, she was heaven, heaven in his hands, heaven on his lips, heaven, heaven, heaven...
BODY AND SOUL Part 7 (Duncan Shepherd/Mackenzie Stone Millory AU)
BODY AND SOUL MASTERPOST
Author’s Note: I’m sorry we have to go through all this stress, babes, but it’s imperative that Duncan and Kenzie face the formidable forces of their badass mothers before they can deal with the incoming stress of the paps and the press; because that shit is coming. I both enjoyed and struggled writing Annette in this chapter; I really wanted to get Diane Lane’s performance down in this, and I do think I ultimately succeeded, but it wasn’t easy. Ultimately, Annette Shepherd loves her son, and that’s an unshakable truth. I keep thinking of Samuel as Duncan’s Jiminy Cricket, always saying something profound, Duncan’s conscience sitting on his shoulder. The smut is returning in the next chapter. They can’t stay away from each other for long and I don’t want them to and you, dear reader, probably don’t want them to, either. Here’s IN A SENTIMENTAL MOOD, which is the mood around this part too, for what it’s worth. Please reblog and like and spread around the masterpost, which won’t show up under the godforsaken #millory tag for some reason, thank you!
Duncan pressed a hand to his chin in his familiar tick, finger stressing against his bottom lip, his eyes gazing downward, not really seeing anything around him the backseat of the BMW; what he saw was Kenzie, the golden fall of her hair in the morning sun (god, I love her, an angel, he’d thought, his mind still soft in sleep), the way she’d turned over her shoulder to look at him, her round, bare ass making his morning wood even harder, the way he’d eased into wakefulness, drunk with the kind of restful, all-consuming sleep he hadn’t had in years, drunk on being pressed against her, the way she’d bitten into his finger, thrilling him, the soft feeling of the skin between her shoulders under his mouth. Her smell had filled his nose as soon as he breathed in, eyes opening to her; he felt sure he’d be content to wake every day to the scent of her, filling him, enveloping him. He was already dreading the coldness, the emptiness of his bed tonight. It made him absolutely ache. A blessing to be near her, a curse to be away from her. I guess this is what it’s like, and he shivered. To be in love.
Samuel eyed him through the rearview. “Mr. Shepherd, she is an angel. And absolute angel. You best not let go of her. I can see how special she is. I saw it right away. Like a pearl in the flotsam of the sea.”
Duncan looked up at him, grinning. “Samuel, that was lovely. And I know. And I won’t. I asked her to be my girlfriend last night, and she said yes.”
Samuel flashed his white smile, his dark brown eyes taking on the glow that Duncan knew so well from when he was a child and Samuel was one of his closest friends and dearest comforts, especially when his mother was in a bad mood. “That makes you a very fortunate man, indeed.”
“It does. I am not going to mess this up. I can’t.”
“But she is Madeline Stone’s daughter,” Samuel said, like the voice of Duncan’s conscience, probing into his private thoughts. “Whatever shall we do about that?”
“Fuck if I know, Samuel. But I’m going to tell Mom tonight. I have to try to make her understand.”
Samuel blew air in a harsh stream from his nose. “Whew, Mr. Shepherd. That is not going to be easy.”
“You’re telling me.”
“I wish you the best of luck. She is a jewel. I hope to see her often with you in the future.”
“Thank you, Samuel. Thank you for everything you’ve ever done for me.”
Samuel looked at him, eyes glancing up from the road, going back to it, looking back at him again. He seemed to be thinking about something for awhile, something he didn’t say; then, he spoke.
“I do believe she is making you a better man already, Mr. Shepherd. Fortune is indeed smiling on you.” And Duncan was struck by the familiar words, so similar to the ones he’d thought to himself, spoke aloud to Kenzie in the privacy of his room with her little hand in his, their eyes gazing into each other. Deja vu washed over him in a wave again (how often will that happen now, he thought, eyes staring out the window at the city lights again, and they reflected the blue in them, making them gold, as if he were Midas, turning the world to riches, how often will I feel like time is crashing into me now, insisting I’ve known her for a thousand years), and he felt overwhelmed with the embrace of all that had happened over the past few days, overwhelmed with the hand that felt like destiny that had pushed him onto the balcony and into her orbit, as if she were a planet and he was the moon, attracted to her inexorably, brought to her by the invisible, feminine hands of the Fates: Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos, he thought, spinning, weaving, cutting, if you are watching us, you Wise Women, All-Knowing, please bless us, have pity on us, mortals in love, abject to the will of the Gods. For I love her and my Fate is now sealed.
He couldn’t and wouldn’t let anything come between him and Kenzie; not even his mother.
------
Duncan stumbled through his Gardner Analytics press that day, his mind elsewhere entirely. Melody had given him an exasperated, confused, incredulous look, a what the fuck is your problem today look, after the third time he messed up his taped interview with C-SPAN at Shepherd Hall.
“Are you okay?” She asked, siding up to him as the reporter and cameraman walked away, a mixture of annoyance and concern on her face, pointing at them with her thumb. “What the fuck was that?”
Duncan pressed his hand against his chin, shaking his head; “I’m fine, just feeling disoriented today, I had a lot going on this weekend.”
Melody’s raised her eyebrows, her expression falling further. “And what exactly did you do this weekend…?”
“A lot.” He walked away from her. No doubt everyone will know soon enough, he thought as he heard her scoff behind him. But fuck, telling my mother is enough for today.
An hour later, he texted Kenzie while he was in his meeting (I’m aching for you, angel) until she stopped replying, obviously done with her lunch, and he scrolled back, lost in her messages, discontent with the physical distance between them. Mackenzie Louise Stone. He felt like he was in high school, looking down at the corner of his napkin where he drew the loops of her name during the meeting for the Foundation’s upcoming charity event; though it was less a charity event than a Gala, at $3,000 a plate and only accessible with an exclusive invitation; only for the wealthiest of DC society. His mother invited practically every A-list celebrity in New York and the surrounding proximate cities to the event for the past two years alongside the expected politicians, and it was becoming the new Met Gala in its own right; the dress code was wildly strict and staunch, themed, and well-documented by DC press (and, increasingly, by press on the East Coast in general). Duncan only half-listened to the list of preparatory arrangements, pondering her face, the shape of her mouth, her wide, bright eyes, her hair falling like ocean waves made of gold and sand, the plunge between her breasts, the sweetness between her legs, her loveliness, her sincerity, tears glimmering in the corners of her eyes, the way she had said I want you to come, baby, and how he had wanted her to grasp his neck and force him to come, remembered how she’d told him to surrounded by roses and he had, wildly, into her, hoping it would never end because it was in her embrace, ecstatic to obey her, but then he thought of how he’d wildly grasped her in his shower, his hands on her neck and his body full of pent desire and she’d welcomed him, her eyes dark, full of lust, begging for his touch, and he wondered at what secrets they’d unlock in each other in the days to come and was thrilled at the prospect, at the fantasy of her reality; she seemed to have unlocked a Pandora’s box of desire in the pit of his body and he wanted her to do with him whatever she wanted, wanted to give her anything she asked for, imagined her little clothes hanging in his closet, her pointed boots and strappy heeled sandals and her little intricate gold jewelry and her crystals and her scent lingering there among his black shirts, her gold settling into his clothing, into his life; he was far, far away in thoughts of her and her wet sex pressed against his lips, her cries of rapture, when Seth cleared his throat and said again:
“Duncan. What do you think?”
“Hmmm?” Duncan looked up, his fingers pressed to the side of his jaw, turning his eyes up from where he’d been drawing spirals languidly around Kenzie’s name on the napkin under his tonic water, where before they’d been turned down to the texts they’d exchanged half an hour ago, making him hard and restless and drifting in his longing for her and her alone.
“Something about a silver lining. The theme. For the Gala.”
“Oh.” He sat up a little, blinking.
“Angels and Demons?” Seth said, turning back to the shareholders and advisors around the table. “Diamond in the rough? Yin and yang?”
“An ember of fire in a void.”
The people around the table turned towards Duncan’s statement. He put the pen that was in his hand down, and trailed a finger along the surface of his phone in his hand under the table; all along his thoughts, Mackenzie danced and flitted away from him, gazed up at him through a field of flowers wherein she lay, laughed at him, against him, in dripping candlelight, pulled him into dappled sunlight, kissed him beneath blooming trees and in his dark bed and in the dark light of evening, glowing. Held him in the darkness. Held him in moonlight, her hands in his hair, his lips on her neck, their bodies close beyond measure.
“Gold in the darkness.” The audacity of hope, he thought. Her.
“Gold in the darkness, that’s great, Duncan, perfect.” Seth glanced at him, nodding, writing furiously on the memo pad in front of him. “That’s it.”
It’s her, Duncan thought again, blue-gray eyes flickering from Seth to the others and back down to his phone, where he knew her messages were enshrined like words scratched into a digital temple, thinking of Kenzie’s little black velvet dress, her quartz necklace in the moonlight, in the light of his bedside lamp as he pulled her into his lap in the throes of the first time they fucked and the softness of her on top of him in the bathtub with roses kissing her skin, her face shrouded in candlelight and his sight going hazy with her beauty and she was exquisite and soft as a dream and gold and the memories were like amber in him already, going solid, hard, seared onto the surface of his heart, fossils of time, a fossil of her pressed into him, no matter what happened now, he’d never forget it, gold on his black clothes, gold dust ground into his skin, the sheen of her aura, her soul, as if he’d eaten a piece of her and now the glow emanated from his body, invisible but to those who had a blacklight from the eternities, able to see the essence of a person, able to see how he was glowing from within because she loved him and he loved her and that, he thought, was the only thing, The only thing. Everything. Kenzie.
-----
Back in the warm, familiar backseat of the BMW, Duncan gazed out the darkening window at the glittering expanse of the District of Columbia, unable to divorce that image of Kenzie from his mind, the slight outline of her that he’d first glimpsed against the roses along the balcony, the lights glittering behind her, her sad face staring out into the open air, the hand of fate pressing into his chest. He wondered; what can I do to make her happy? The thought shook itself into the outline of his ribs, into the space of his eardrums, into the ventricles and veins of his blood. What can I do for her? I’d do anything for her. I’d die for her. His heart pounded in his ears; he felt as if he could feel every drop of blood coursing through his body. How can I make Mom understand how I feel about this woman? We’ve only known each other for three days but I feel as though I’ve been searching for her every day of my life until now. That this is, at last, the realization of hole in my heart that has finally been filled, like the missing mechanism of an intricate clockwork. I didn’t even know it was missing, but now I don’t know how I lived without it. I don’t know how I lived without her. The thought of living without her now fills me with so much horror, I can’t stand it. Is this what the great poets wrote about? Love, undying, all-consuming, and like the soft hand of a little death?
“Samuel, have you ever been in love?” he asked, looking up into the rearview, running a thumb absently over the surface of his phone, clutched in his hand, as if he could feel her through it. He imagined her name there, tracing its imaginary outline. He thought of her hair again, her eyes, her laughing against him after they came together, thought of her tears.
“Oh yes, Mr. Shepherd.” Samuel said nothing after that, and the silence leaned into Duncan, like the weight of a heavy hand.
“What happened?”
“She married someone else, Mr. Shepherd.”
“Oh. Samuel, I’m sorry.”
“It’s quite alright, Mr. Shepherd. It was...a very long time ago. Not everything in life happens how you want it to. To be loved, even for a little while, is a great gift. To love, in its way, an even greater gift. However long you are given these gifts, you cherish them. That’s the secret to life. I’ve thought so for quite awhile.”
“I love her, Samuel. I love her and I want to make her happy. I want to do whatever it takes to be with her.”
“Make sure she knows, Mr. Shepherd.”
They both lapsed into silence, soft strains of Ella Fitzgerald (Samuel’s favorite) floating toward Duncan from the front of the car: there’s a somebody I’m longing to see / I hope that he turns out to be...someone who’ll watch over me…
Mom, I’m on my way to you, he typed into his phone. I have something important to talk to you about that means the world to me. I love you and hope you’ll understand. See you soon.
-------
Samuel pulled around the wraparound drive of the Shepherd mansion, its Colonial shutter-style windows lit with the electric candles that went on automatically around sunset (the sun had just peeked below the horizon a moment before, the last indigo fragments hovering at the skyline, small scudding clouds still visible over the hazy city starlight), between their crimson velvet curtains. The lights were on downstairs, throwing glowing light out onto the blacktop; Fine, Duncan, I’ll see you soon, Annette had replied in her text to him, and she hadn’t said anything else. Duncan felt on edge now, conscious that the moment he so dreaded was closing in on him, clenching its hands to trap him. He looked down at his phone again as Samuel idled in front of his mother’s house, and noticed a text from Kenzie.
There was a link to a gossip website (buzzpopfeed.com) with an accompanying headline attached: SHEPHERD UNLIMITED HEIR DUNCAN SHEPHERD SPOTTED AT--and then the link cut off. Under it, Kenzie had typed: Just told my mom and she isn’t taking it very well so far. I’m going to try to talk to her somemore over dinner. In the meantime, my friend sent me this. I thought you should know.
Duncan clicked the link, raising his hand to his jaw. He scrolled through the pictures (she’s so lovely, he thought, gazing at her shy expression, their hands clasped together, the fall of her hair over her shoulder, my Kenzie) until he reached the one at the bottom. Oh, no, he thought, staring at the aching kiss he was pressing into Kenzie’s face, the expression painted into her sweet features, the way their bodies pressed together. There’s no room for ambiguity with this one. He was sitting in his mother’s driveway, about to steel his nerves to tell her he wanted to date Mackenzie Stone because he was in love with her, and now this. Now he had no choice, now, it was out, no matter what he decided to do next. He wondered with a cold chill if his mother had seen the photos yet. He winced.
“Bad news, Samuel,” he said, lowering his phone. “Some pictures were taken when Mackenzie and I were at the bistro last night. Now they’re online.”
“Mr. Shepherd...it may be for the best.”
“I know you’re right. But fuck.”
“Be brave, Mr. Shepherd. That’s what she deserves. Your courage. And you know as well as I do: this is for her. She will need all your strength in the days to come. She is not from your world and she will need your help to navigate it.”
Duncan gazed at him for a moment, quietly; then, some strange sixth sense touched him, and he looked up through the window of the car and noticed, with a jolt of shock, that his mother had been standing at the balcony on the second floor that overarched the pillared front doorway, staring at him, or at least at the BMW (the windows were tinted) with a curious expression for at least a minute or more; her body had an observant sort of stiff pose, her arms crossed, her face gazing down, her brow furrowed, her lips closed. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a stillness about her that unnerved him deeply. It communicated one thing in particular to him: it was time to get out of the fucking car, Duncan.
He pulled the door open, stepping out, staring up at her.
“Hi, mom,” he called up, raising his voice enough to carry it over the steps and pillars to where she stood, staring at him, her eyes dark.
Annette said nothing. She stared at him a moment longer (his blood coursed suddenly to an icy cold stream), then she stepped away, through the second-floor deck’s glass French doors.
“Oh, fuck,” Duncan murmured. He pressed a hand through the side of his hair, looking down at his phone for a moment. He contemplated sending Kenzie a quick reply (goodbye my darling I am about to be fucking murdered by Annette Shepherd), but decided against it, slipping his phone into the pocket of his tailored leather jacket, idly yanking at the sleeves of the long-sleeved shirt he wore underneath it, taking a deep breath of the early-evening air into his lungs, blowing it out, and going up the three long white steps, into his mother’s house.
Inside it was glowing and gold, the opulent fixtures and furniture spotlessly clean as they always were, the gold-white banisters of the staircase shining in the dim glow of the electric chandeliers that extended on either side of it. He looked up the stairs and watched his mother descend; tonight, Annette Shepherd wore a black wrap-top with tailored black suit pants and black flats, the shoes she only wore at home when she was alone. Her hair was down around her shoulders in soft styled waves; her hair always seemed perfect to him, not a strand out of place, not a tangle, smooth and serene, the way her slender face often appeared even when there was a boiling river of hellfire rolling under her expression. She had no jewelry on but for the small round diamond earrings she often wore at her ears; he almost never saw her wear necklaces, as though her neck were perfect enough on its own without adornments. Her dark eyes continued to look at him, silent.
She reached the bottom of the steps, stopping before she descended entirely, so she hovered above him, just enough to look down into his face. It was a familiar power move from his mother; he was taller than she was, so she used those steps strategically, as she did in all things (how could she use it, them, anything to her advantage), to give herself leverage. She held her large iPhone in one hand; she brought it up, scrolling down for a moment, and held the screen up to him. It was the photo of him and Kenzie embracing, his lips pressed ardently against her; the picture he’d just seen for the first time in the car a moment before, the photo he knew he wouldn’t be able to bullshit his way out of to Annette Shepherd.
“Who is she.”
“Mom. Please don’t--”
“Do not fucking stall with me, Duncan. Who. Is. She.”
He regarded her for a moment, forcing himself to stare into his mother’s dark eyes; he could see the glimmer of anger there now, one she was good at hiding from years of political practice, but not forever, not from him. There was a moment of struggle that passed between them; a sort of clash of silent wills, Annette determined to have her son tell her the entire truth with not even a hint of falsehood, Duncan determined to tell her only what was absolutely necessary for fear of her wrath and shielding Kenzie from it, as well. Annette won the battle for the moment, as Duncan felt the wave of resignation wash over him. There was nothing for it. Time to rip off the bindings and air out the truth.
“Her name is Mackenzie.”
Annette rolled her eyes at that, scoffing, her composure finally fracturing. “What’s her fucking name, Duncan, her full fucking name. Who the fuck is she? Is this what you wanted to tell me about?”
She spat the word this out, her anger palpable in the texture of it, her annoyance bubbling over and clashing against him. This. She meant Mackenzie. It sent a twinge of anger through his skull, a scattering of red-hot reaction at the back of his eyes. Fuck it, he thought. I don’t care.
“Mackenzie Stone.”
He watched his mother’s eyes go wide and dumbfounded for a moment, the anger in her expression muddling to one of shock.
“Stone.”
“Yes.”
“No. No way. No goddamn fucking way, Duncan. No FUCKING way.”
“Mom. Please.”
“What could you be thinking? What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” She pointed a finger at him, the way she used to when he had broken something priceless or made a mess in an inconvenient place.
“She’s Madeline Stone’s daughter, and I’m in love with her.”
The flabbergasted expression fell over Annette’s sharply beautiful features again, and she reached out, it seemed, involuntarily, to clutch the banister, like she would fall otherwise. Her face drained of color (oh god, just how I imagined, he thought), cheeks seeping into whiteness.
“I won’t allow it.”
“You won’t allow it? What am I, a teenager?”
She stormed down the remaining steps, pushing past him roughly, waving a hand dismissively at him as she turned her back towards the dining room.
“This is ridiculous, I refuse to listen to this. Forget her. I’ll make it disappear. Just stop, right now.”
“Mom. No.” He forced his voice to remain even.
She stopped abruptly, turned, eyes blazing.
“No?”
“Mom, listen to me,” he said, and he was devastated to find that he could hear tears at the edge of his voice this time, could feel emotion bubbling under his throat, at the back of his eyes. He stepped to her, reaching for her hand, grasping it (it was cold and she tried to pull it away), gaining traction, tightening there, insistently. “Please, listen to me. It’s me, Duncan. I’m telling you something important. I love her, okay? I love her.”
Her eyes, dark and clouded with her blind anger, blinked at him, her lips pressing together, her body rigid.
“I love her. I want to be with her. I want your blessing, but I’m going to be with her with or without it. I love you and I wanted to tell you because I want to be honest with you. Please don’t make me regret that. Mom. Please. Can we sit down? Can we--please (and his voice cracked, he couldn’t stop it)--can we talk about this?”
He felt her trying to pull out of his grasp again, her expression still threaded with deep anger, but she said nothing, only stared at him. He saw her eyes flicker, change, as a tear, to his dismay, fell from his eye, coursing down his cheek.
“Duncan.”
“Mom. Please.”
Annette seemed utterly confused then, her perplexity falling over her cheeks and mouth, making them fall downwards; her eyes looked away from him, across the hall, at nothing.
“Madeline Stone’s fucking daughter, Duncan.”
“I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to hear this. I know you hate her and she humiliated you. But this isn’t about you. It’s about me. I’m asking you to please--please--give us your blessing. If you’ve ever loved me at all, you’ll do this for me.”
She looked at him again, annoyance in her face once more until she glanced at the wetness on his cheek; remembered the tear that had fallen there a moment ago, and her mouth opened a little, her expression falling again, disbelieving. Duncan knew that his mother wasn’t used to seeing him cry; he almost never did, even when he was a child, holding in his fears and his sadness until he felt ready to explode, never feeling as though he was safe enough to let his emotions go, let his despair out. But Kenzie had kindled in him an openness, an abandon; a desire to show his emotions, to hell with what the world pinned on him. She loved him. That was more than enough.
“I’m sorry you had to find out this way. I was coming to tell you and those photos beat me to it. But I’m telling you now because I want you to know. You can’t pretend like I didn’t tell you, because I did. I just did. I love her. Please accept her.”
“You love her.” Annette repeated his words, her tone incredulous. “You fucking love her. Jesus. Youth. Of all the women on the planet, Duncan. Madeline Stone’s daughter?”
He let go of his mother’s hand, taking a step back, brushing his fingers under his nose, the back of his knuckles against the wetness on his cheek, and turned away from her in frustration.
“It doesn’t matter whose daughter she is, Mom.”
“Oh, you think it doesn’t?” she snapped at him, walking past him, back towards the dining room. He followed her, ears ringing with the anger and sadness that had started to hum in his mind, bringing his hands together, pressing his thumb into the palm of his left hand, trying to quell it.
“When you love someone, it shouldn’t.”
“This could fucking destroy your political career. This could cause serious problems with the bill, with Shepherd Unlimited, with all the work we’ve done.”
Duncan let out an exasperated groan. “Jesus fucking Christ, Mom, how is will this destroy anything but one of your endless grudges? Your stubborn insistence on hating people who, in this case, you’ve never met...and who mean everything to me?” The dining table was set with an impressive leg of lamb with several side-dishes surrounding it; Annette had employed a personal chef, Arturo (3 Michelin stars) for as long as Duncan could remember, his meals throughout Duncan’s childhood and adolescence prepared meticulously; he remembered his school lunches looked markedly different from even his other wealthy classmates in private school growing up, featuring pan-seared greens and cuts of Kobe beef and creme brulee (Annette had insisted on Arturo making his lunches, he was never allowed to have the school lunches). Annette stopped in her tracks, mouth agape at him again. “Means everything to you? And what do I mean to you, Duncan?”
“Mom. Why do you think I’m here?”
She turned away again, storming to her seat, slapping her phone down onto the Waterford tablecloth, grabbing at the bottle of Chateau Lafite (the corkscrew still hovering around the lip, but mostly pulled up by the house butler--Ingrid, who was Scandinavian and tight-lipped and who Duncan felt sure would defend Annette with her life if the need ever arose, and who had also been with the Shepherds for three decades--though at the moment, she had wisely vacated the room, no doubt hearing the raised nature of their conversation) that rested between the two place-settings at the south end of the room, yanking the rest of the cork out, and pouring the expensive wine unceremoniously into the crystal wine glass in front of her, glaring at it as though it was the source of her anger. She set the bottle down, pushing it away from her; grasped the crystal and raised it to her mouth, draining it all in one long draught.
“Sit the fuck down, Duncan.”
He stalked over to the seat beside her (hers at the head of the table, as usual), yanked out the heavy oakwood dining chair, and sat, his hands coming together in front of him, elbows on his thighs, sitting back, glaring at her, his eyes full of gathering stormclouds. It was time use the leverage at his disposal.
“I’m your son, Annette.”
“I’m fucking aware of that. It’s the source of my ire.”
“This is what I want. This is my happiness at stake.”
Annette paused, lifting her head, setting her chin at an angle, breathing in and out great bursts, and then she let out a sigh (resignation?) that made Duncan’s nerves fizzle.
“If you do anything--I mean fucking anything--to compromise the bill or the company, I will personally push her off a fucking balcony.”
He bit his lip, anger seething through the space between his brow. Annette talking about hurting Kenzie, even in jest, made him feel absolutely mad, unhinged with resentment towards her. She didn’t know. She didn’t know how beautiful Kenzie was, how luminous and lovely, how kind and the way gold shone out of her, the light, the goodness. She didn’t know Kenzie, and she didn’t know what she was fucking saying. He was silent and still, the stormclouds still seething behind his eyes, gazing at her, hands still clasped on his lap. I won’t let you do that, he thought. I will never let you lay a finger on her golden head.
“Did you fucking hear me, Duncan.” She poured more of the Lafite into her crystal glass, glancing down at her phone (a text flashed up, the iPhone vibrating against the table), glancing at him.
“Yes, Mom. I heard you.”
“Not a thing. Not a fucking thing to compromise the institutions I have built the last twenty years. Or I will fucking get rid of her myself.”
You could try, he thought. They stared at each other for a moment again; that impassable tension floating between them once more, both struggling for the upper hand. As long as I’m alive, you won’t touch her.
“Tell me you understand what I just said.”
“I understand.”
“Fine.” Annette reached across the table curtly, grabbing the silver tongs that rested in a dish of pan-seared asparagus with lemon and ground pepper, throwing several stalks unceremoniously onto the Hermes porcelain plate in front of her. “I want to meet her. This week. No excuses. Friday, after the Foundation press conference for the Dance Center. Plume, the usual table. 6 PM sharp. She’ll be coming to the Gala with you, I’d imagine.”
He hadn’t even thought of the Gala beyond the meeting today; his thoughts had been far too wrapped up Kenzie to even bother to consider it. “Yes,“ he said, fighting to keep his tone simplistic.
“She’s telling Madeline, I presume.”
“Yes.”
“Good. None of this can go forward otherwise. Now that those photos are live, we have to work hard to control the story surrounding them.”
“I’m not going to lie to anyone about her, Mom.” Duncan clenched his teeth.
“Control, I said. Containment. We can turn this into an advantage, but we have to harness the narrative from the outset.”
“There is no narrative. I love her and I want us to be together.”
“God, stop fucking saying that, Duncan. I fucking heard you the first fifty times.”
He leaned back in the chair, letting a colossal breath of frustration out of his mouth and nose. His mother could be a cruel, heartless person sometimes. A cold, ruthless, and implacable psyche, unfeeling and immovable. He loved his mother, but he hated her propensity for spite. He hated the way she was ignoring his sincerity; as if it meant nothing to her.
“I’ll call Madeline. I’ll do this for you, Duncan.” Annette took another ungraceful gulp from her wine glass, no doubt aware there were no prying eyes to critique her at the moment beyond her willful son. “But you keep this under control. You keep her under control.”
As if I could ever do that, he thought. Kenzie’s spirit is brighter than anyone I’ve ever seen. I could never control her. I can only hope to deserve to be near her. But Annette did not understand, that was clear. Whether she ever would remained unclear. But at least she had agreed, in her way, for now.
He pulled the Lafite over to his own crystal, pouring himself a generous glass.
“You’ll like her.”
Annette smiled, but it was a mirthless smile. “That was her smell on you the other day, wasn’t it.”
His eyes flickered. He hesitated.
“Don’t ever fucking lie to me again. Or I will make you regret it, my only son.”
Duncan gulped the wine, not moving his eyes from his mother’s face. Annette stared back, and her eyes were like dark orbs of obsidian, spheres of void, blackest night. He did not doubt that she meant what she said this time, and he nodded, swallowing the wine. “I’m sorry,” he said.
She used the tongs to place several spears of the asparagus on the plate in front of him, the way she often had doled his food when he was a child. He picked up his fork, his heart slowing finally, and stabbed it into one of the spears, bringing it to his mouth, her dark eyes watching him for another moment, her expression indecipherable. Then, she picked up her phone to stare at the text she’d received, and he glanced down into his pocket, noticing his phone lighting up with a text message of his own. Kenzie.
Mom isn’t happy, but I think I made her understand, at least a little. At least for now. She wants to meet you soon; I thought maybe on Friday? Duncan pressed his lips together in frustration. He couldn’t imagine it would be a good idea for Annette and Madeline to have dinner together so soon after his and Kenzie’s admissions. He couldn’t imagine how he’d orchestrate a scene that included his mother, Madeline Stone and Mackenzie, at least, not yet. The thought made him shudder with its likelihood of disaster. He looked up from his phone, noticing his mother’s eyes on him again.
“Is that her?” She asked curtly.
“Yes.”
“Eat dinner with your mother. She can wait.”
Duncan looked at Annette, stormclouds rolling in behind his eyes again. This was going to be a hell of a ride, wasn’t it? A real hell of a fucking time.
-------
Duncan had finally escaped from his mother’s clutches; she had insisted he stay later than he’d wanted to, going on and on about the Foundation, Claire Underwood’s opposition to the bill, his Uncle Bill’s chemo (I’d feel worse about his cancer if he wasn’t such an asshole all the time, Duncan thought), the Gala (“I’ll be the one to take her for a dress,” she’s said matter-of-factly, and Duncan had been unable to hide his smirk; good luck telling Kenzie what to wear, he thought, she has a unique style of her own and I would never presume to do that, and Mom, I’m giving her an expense account, and I’m not going to tell you about it, and she’s going to keep her things at my penthouse and you can’t stop her because I won’t let you), the Dance Center’s grand opening, and the inner workings of his recent projects for the front that was Gardner Analytics; a hard-working piece of propaganda orchestrated by Annette primarily, though he didn’t presume to erase his own contributions and involvement. Duncan felt as though in a few short days the trajectory of his life had abruptly switched course somehow; had been pulled into a tunnel lit by fairy lights and roses and wisps of summer air full of drifting flowers; the things he’d cared about only a few days before no longer seemed to mean anything, and his thoughts were full of Mackenzie Stone like an oasis of water in a desert, a haven of wondrous meaning in a vast expanse of nothing. His mind drifted with the Lafite ground into his blood now, and he laid his head back on the leather backseat of the BMW (Samuel was playing Duke Ellington and John Coltrane now; In a Sentimental Mood, he thought, oh yes, I am). He looked down at his phone, finally alone to text Kenzie without any interruptions or prying eyes.
Baby, I’m so sorry it took so long to text you back. It took a long time to get my Mom to a place where she wasn’t being irrational. Thank you for sending me that link; everything’s okay, my Mom has seen it already, we’ll make it through this, I promise. She wants to meet you on Friday as well; can we see your Mom on a different day? I can make time on Wednesday or Thursday, I just don’t know if it’s a good idea to have dinner with both of them at the same time yet. I feel like we’re going to have to ease them both into this, and I want everything to work out okay. I want them to accept this (accept us, accept you, accept me) because it means more to me than anything else. You do.
I miss you terribly right now.
He lowered his phone, staring out at the night, and truly he wanted nothing in the world but to be with her. He felt starkly afraid at forgetting the smell of her hair and her perfume; he wished he had a piece of her clothing or a token of some kind to grasp in his hands, assuring him of her reality in a world that seemed to lack her in every instance in this moment. A world without her was truly abject. He sent a silent prayer into the sky; Fates, you seem to be the Gods for me: make her sure that I love her, because I do, I do, I do.
He felt his phone vibrate in his hand, and looked down, dazed in the rhythms of drum and piano; Kenzie.
Baby, can you come to my apartment? Please come.
Duncan sat up with a jolt, his hazy drunkenness eeking away. “Samuel, go to Kenzie’s apartment building, please.”
“Of course, Mr. Shepherd.” Samuel turned abruptly, without needing to change the course of his GPS; I guess he knows the way to her house already, Duncan thought, and he smiled, full of affection and anticipation. Coming to you, baby, he typed, and sat back, Ellington and Coltrane assuring him: fortune is smiling on you, the Fates have heard your prayer.
BODY AND SOUL Part 4 (Duncan Shepherd/Mackenzie Stone Millory AU)
BODY AND SOUL MASTERPOST
Author’s Note: CAN’T STOP WON’T STOP okay y’all, buckle up. I’m sorry, first of all, that you don’t get to know what Kenzie’s dress looks like until Part 5. I just really want everyone to see it through Duncan’s eyes with him because he’s a soft Cancer prince and he’s falling hopelessly in love with an angel. A reminder that Claire is my AU version of Coco; Morgan is obviously Myrtle if that’s not immediately obvious. I’m sorry it’s taking so long to get back to pretty smut; Part 5 will be full of it, and patience brings forth riches. It’ll probably take me a few days to write Part 5 because I want it to be perfect, so please be patient and stick with me. I’m really happy with how Part 4 turned out in the meantime, and I had so much fun writing it. Mallory/Coco’s hidden friendship was one of my favorite surprises in APOCALYPSE. I promise to deliver in the CLOTHES department in Part 5 regarding both Mackenzie and Duncan. CLOTHESSS.
Mackenzie stopped outside Duncan’s building, her heart pounding a hundred miles a minute, pressing her clutch between her breasts, the intense and yet not unpleasant sensation of Duncan’s wool cardigan pressing against her back and shoulders, giving her goosebumps. I’m wearing Duncan Shepherd’s hundred-dollar cardigan. Oh my fucking god. She tried to take a deep breath, suck the cool May air into her lungs, calm her nerves which were racing along like she was high. She stood outside his high rise, breathing in deeply, breathing out slowly, measuredly, the way her mom had taught her when she was a little girl; breathe, Kenzie, just breathe. Her thoughts flashed to the way he’d knelt there, tying her shoes, looking up at her with liquid blue eyes. Holy fuck it had thrilled her. It had made her feel like her body was on fire, immersed in liquid heat. Duncan Shepherd had looked at her like she was made of magick, like a prince from a far away land kneeling at the feet of a queen he wished to woo. She couldn’t help but think of all the fairy tales she’d loved as a little girl when it came to Duncan; he looked like a prince, truly a dream boy from a fairy tale, Prince fucking Charming, come to save her from a dragon on a white horse, his curls falling over his forehead, his blue eyes stabbing into her heart, his body wrapping around her, but what she wanted to do with him, what she had done with him, was far beyond the fairy tales of her girlhood; when he put his hand around my neck in the shower, she thought, her cunt spasming with the memory of her orgasm. Fuck, I want him to do that again. Fuck, his tongue on my clit. Fuck, the way he made me come.
Okay, okay, Kenzie, just breathe, she reminded herself.
And you’re fucking going to dinner with him tonight. He asked you to go out with him again tonight. He asked for your phone number, practically begged, after you fucked twice and he ate you out fuck he did and you sucked his cock and he made you fucking breakfast and you told him your mother is Madeline Stone. Duncan FUCKING Shepherd.
She unbuttoned her clutch again, grabbing her phone out (its case was gold, an downwards-facing black crescent moon sticker pressed into the back), staring down at it in a daze for a moment, as if unsure of what it was for, remembering the call he’d pressed through his phone to it a few moments before. A text dinged through, the trumpet-sound ringing twice in a row. Kenzie, what happened at that Republican party you were trying to get into last night? Give me an update. Love, Mom
“Fuck, I forgot,” Mackenzie whispered to herself. Hey Mom, she typed, went okay, you know how that shit is, they’re pigs. But I did manage to pick up some interesting tidbits with my recorder. She glanced at the little recorder in her clutch, confirming that she hadn’t lost it in the abandon of last night. Oh, and I fucked Duncan Shepherd.
She didn’t type the last part, but it slashed through her brain, and she couldn’t help but giggle nervously into her hand. Her mom would think she was joking; her mom had an excellent sense of humor. But no. How the fuck could she tell her mother? No way. Not yet. She didn’t even want to think about what Madeline would say, the look that would fall over her face. She couldn’t even begin to go there. Her body still ached from where Duncan had fucked her with his big, hard cock (oh my fucking god) in wild rapture, staring into her eyes like she was cake he was going to devour. Her neck was marked with several darkening welts from his ardent, demanding lips and ached from where the heavy necklace had pressed into the nape all night after she’d passed out. She smelled like his soap, like his musky body, like his clothes (fuck, she was wearing his clothes). The afterglow of his kisses tingled all over her body, her lips swollen with the memory of his. Those lips. Fucking god. His large, beautiful, long-fingered hands. Everywhere. His eyes, impossibly clear and blue and intense, staring into her soul, laying it bare. It was as if he’d left an invisible tattoo all over her skin and she could feel its tender, shimmering glow, like it was alive.
“Fuuuuck, FUCK, holy shit fucking fuck!” She screamed, bouncing back on her heels, unbalanced. She couldn’t help it. A burst of nervous, wild laughter shot out of her; some pigeons nearby on the sidewalk nervously fluttered into the air, cooing their shock out towards her. A man in a suit with a briefcase walking across the street looked towards her with an annoyed expression, his gaze sliding away as she grinned at him. Yes, I am fucking insane, she thought towards him. I fucked Duncan Shepherd last night and this morning and it’s probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done and fuck me, I can’t wait to do it again.
She was still clutching her phone in one hand and she jumped as another trumpety text rang out from it. Did everything go okay with that shitty party? It was Claire.
She yelped, fumbling with her phone and practically dropping it on the sidewalk, frightening the pigeons again. CLAIRE. She had to tell someone, and it had to be Claire. She imagined her best friend’s pink-lipsticked mouth hanging open when she heard what Kenzie had done and could feel the wild grin plastered on her face at the thought.
OH MY FUCKING GOD, she typed, adding the haunted face emoji and the skull emoji, hitting send. She saw the telltale dot bubbles come up a second later, indicating that Claire was replying.
Clairebear: ??????? Are you okay???
Kenzie typed quickly. Can you meet me for coffee at Emissary? I have to tell you in person. I’m okay but holy FUCK, something happened. Something insane.
Clairebear: Uhhhhh??!?! YES. I can walk over there now.
I’m in Georgetown, I’ll be there in 15 minutes.
Clairebear: KENZIE, WHY ARE YOU IN GEORGETOWN, IT’S 10 AM ASFKHGSDKGHG
I’LL TELL YOU IN FIFTEEN MINUTES BITCH
Mackenzie opened the Lyft app on her phone and was relieved to see a car was two minutes away. She bounced on her heels, feeling dizzy (his lips on her neck), heart racing again. Claire was going to lose her fucking shit. And holy fuck, I’m seeing him again tonight. He’s picking me up in his fucking private car. She glanced up at Duncan’s high rise, up to the top floor where she knew his penthouse was, biting her lip in that familiar way she tended to. God, I need to remember to look at the view next time between kisses, she thought, her cheeks glowing in the early morning sun.
-----
Kenzie thanked her driver, stepping carefully out of the Prius that had picked her up in front of Duncan’s building; she felt dizzy and ungainly still, as though she might just fall over and not be able to get back up, her limbs shaking. Kenzie, be cool. Tell Clairebear what happened.
She pulled the glass door of Emissary (her favorite coffee shop, it helped that it was a few blocks from her apartment in Dupont Circle) wide, eyes searching for Claire’s telltale platinum blonde modern shag and carefully applied lip stain. She zeroed in on her friend at one of the more discreet tables in the side-room (Claire was in knee-high boots, a beanie, and a copious checkered scarf that twisted around her shoulders), and her eyes widened in anticipation. Patrons on their laptops and with books or talking in low tones were scattered around the cafe; thankfully, it seemed busy enough that no one would pay them any particular attention.
She walked up, still feeling shaky, to the counter, ordering a small soy latte, stuffing a five-dollar bill into the tip jar. Karma, please be with me, she thought, every little bit helps. “Geez, thank you,” the barista (a nonbinary person with a short bob, glasses and a black sweater with a white collar) had said, eyeing the bill, smiling at her. She smiled at them, that nervous energy still humming along under her skin. “I’ll bring it over to you,” the barista said, turning away from her to the espresso machine. “Thank you,” Kenzie murmured, whipping around and sprinting as quickly as she could on those godforsaken heels to Claire’s table.
Claire looked up, eyes wide, as her friend crashed into the seat in front of her.
“Kenzie,” she stated, staring into the smaller girl’s wild eyes (god what the fuck is going on there), the way she always did when her best friend had done something dangerous or impulsive and had this deer-in-headlights look. Usually it had to do with a story, of course. Kenzie was an excellent journalist, and she was always putting herself in strange positions to get the best angle on a story. But this seemed to be something else.
“Claireohmygodfuckinghellohmyfuckinggod,” Mackenzie breathed, words blending to the point where they became nonsense.
Claire reached out to her, snorting, smiling nervously, grabbing her friend’s small hand. She noted that Kenzie wasn’t wearing any makeup, that her hair still looked a little bit damp, that she was clearly wearing last night’s dress and heels, and that she was wearing a black cardigan that was much too big for her and was clearly cut for a man. Claire’s eyes flickered to Kenzie’s neck, where she saw several telltale red marks. Oh, my god.
“Kenzie. What did you do. Tell me right now.”
“Claire, don’t get mad. Promise you won’t get mad at me.”
“Kenzie.”
Kenzie steeled herself, (deja vu, she thought, I just did that with Duncan when I told him my mother’s name), grasping her friend’s hand with cold fingers.
“Duncan Shepherd was at that party last night. I--I went home with him.”
Just as she’d imagined, Claire’s mouth fell open in a gigantic oval, her bright eyes blinking rapidly in disbelief. “WHAT.”
“Clairebear, oh my god. I don’t even know how to tell you. He’s nothing like what you’d imagine. God, he was so wonderful. God, he’s so hot. He was so gentle and beautiful, you wouldn’t believe. I’ve never felt like that before. God, you should see his penthouse, it’s insane, he made me fucking breakfast, Claire--”
“MACKENZIE.”
“CLAIRE, DON’T BE MAD AT ME.”
“Duncan Shepherd?” Her friend hissed at her quietly. “The Duncan Shepherd? Annette Shepherd’s son? Annette Shepherd who owns ten of the most prominent centrist publications in the country? Shepherd Freedom Foundation Duncan Shepherd? Mackenzie Louise Stone, are you out of your fucking mind!”
“Claire. He wants to see me again tonight.”
“Kenzie, oh my fucking god.”
“He wants to pick me up in his private car.”
“KENZIE.”
“Claire, I’ve never had an orgasm like that in my whole fucking life. Two orgasms like that.” She whispered the last part, leaning in close to her friend’s raptly staring face. “His eyes. He’s so tall and so fucking gorgeous and his smile, fuck, I almost died.”
Claire tried to hide her smile behind her hand, bringing her matcha up to her mouth to stifle the laugh that Kenzie could see behind her eyes.
“Who are you and where did you take my Kenzie Stone?”
“I know. I don’t know. I can’t explain. He’s so fucking gorgeous in person, Claire. I’ve never see anyone as beautiful him, ever. He looks at me like I’m made of cake or something. His eyes, they’re like blue crystals, god, the way he kissed me--”
She took a breath, watching her friend’s face, which was rapidly running a gamut, strange mixture of happiness and concern.
“Are you wearing his fucking sweater.”
“Yes. He insisted. Clairebear. I don’t know what’s happening to me. He made me feel like...I don’t know how to describe how it felt. He’s so lovely. It was like a dream.”
“Lovely? Jesus, Kenzie.”
“His dick, oh my god.”
Claire tried to stifle her snort of laughter again as the barista came over with Kenzie’s latte. Kenzie pressed her lips together, trying to keep a straight face, thanking them. They nodded, walking back towards the coffee counter. Claire was still staring at her, her eyes goggling, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth, shaking her head.
“I bet he fucks a new girl every night, Kenzie. Guys like that are notorious.”
“I--Claire.”
“Kenzie, I do not want you to get fucked over by some idiot rich boy. Like, jesus. I’m shocked...and appalled.” She grinned at the last part, though. Clearly, Claire was excited over what Mackenzie had just confessed to her. She was trying--and obviously failing--to be the sensible one. A snort of amusement bubbled under her words and as she and Kenzie stared at each other, they both burst in laughter.
“Claire, what the fuck do I wear tonight.”
“Honestly, it sounds like it doesn’t matter. He’s already seen you in your birthday suit.”
“Clairebear. It was like a fairy tale. I can’t believe it happened. I smell like his soap. Like his cologne. It was like...wood and...I don’t know.”
Claire reached out, grabbing Mackenzie’s wrist, bringing it up to her nose. “Fuck,” she breathed. “That smells fucking good. Like sandalwood and jasmine.”
“I know.”
“If he does a single thing to hurt you, I will break his fucking jaw.” Claire held fast to her wrist, shaking it in a display of motherly scolding. “You know I trust you with my life, Kenzie. You know I trust your judgement. I’m gonna trust you here. But please be careful, jesus. Men like that are living in a different universe. A bizarre one where the laws of life and decency don’t apply to them. And that shit makes me nervous. And Annette Shepherd is terrifying. Even watching her on TV gives me the creeps.”
“Claire, I promise, I’ll be careful. Clairebear. Oh my god. Fuckfuckfuck.”
Kenzie saw a warm smile fall over her friend’s open face. “I cannot believe you, bitch,” Claire said, reaching over and grabbing Mackenzie by the shoulders, shaking her gently. “God, that’s a nice cardigan. What about your mom? Holy shit.”
“I know. Do not tell her, swear. Cross your heart.”
Claire crossed her right pointer finger over her ribcage, marking the spot with an X.
“You should see his walk-in closet. I thought I was gonna faint.”
“I better meet this idiot soon.”
“Claire, I love you so much.”
“I love you too, Kenzie Lou. Please be fucking careful. Oh my god.”
-----
Kenzie pushed through the door of her studio apartment, throwing her clutch in a moment of abandon across the room where it landed on her futon’s duvet, covered in constellations. Now that she was back in her little room, she wondered in awe if she’d dreamt all of it. But no. Here she was in his cardigan, bathing in the musky smell of him, totally intoxicated. She brought the arms of the sweater up to her nose, breathing in deeply. It made her dizzy. It made her think of his lips on her neck. His tongue in her mouth. His hands around her breasts, his cock pounding into her--
“Breathe, motherfucker, breathe,” she told herself. Claire was right. She would need to try to be sensible about all of this. The Shepherds were one of the most powerful families in the country, let alone in Washington. They could fuck you up in a heartbeat and throw away the key. The thought of Annette Shepherd staring her down with judging, sharp eyes made an icy chill course through her veins.
Maybe tonight is the last time I’ll see him, anyway, she thought, trying to be practical. Maybe he just wants more of what he got last night, and nothing else. You have to admit that might be true.
But then she remembered the way he’d looked up at her while he tied her sandals this morning; the way he’d slammed his coffee cup onto the counter with so much force it broke, and reached for her hand, holding it so tenderly. The way he’d pulled her into him, with such tender longing, tried to catch hold of her to kiss her again as she’d slipped out the door. Some men are really good at faking it, her mother’s voice leaked into her ears. Some will do whatever it takes to get what they want, and that includes fucking you over to fuck you.
But maybe not, she argued with the imaginary version of her mother in her head. Maybe he’s different. I have to at least let it play out. After last night, I have to, mom. If you were me, you’d do the same thing. That was the most amazing thing that has ever happened to me with another person. That felt like the look that comes into people’s eyes when they talk about soulmates. That was something else. He got into my heart. I can’t deny it. I’m already falling for him.
Oh, fuck.
Kenzie’s apartment, small as it was, was full of green falling plants and succulents, sun, moon and star motifs everywhere, from the moon cycle tapestry hanging over the door to the bathroom, to the triple moon goddess symbol she’d painted on one wall in shimmering gold, to the sun wind chime over her bed and the matching moon and star chimes that hung over her little kitchenette, little pots of succulents lining the window sills. Dozens of jars of herbs and spices lined her countertop; she saved jam jars and labeled them in her looping handwriting, some of which she’d grown herself in the shared lot behind her apartment complex. She loved the earth, being near it, nurturing it, seeing what gifts it would give her in return. She wondered if Duncan would accept a plant from her if she gave him one. She’d noticed he hadn’t had anything growing in his penthouse; wondered absently if he was too busy to look after plants. I could take care of them, the thought bubbled up in her subconscious, shyly. I would love to have so much room. I’d fill it with so many living things. I’d love to take care of them for him; a little love letter from me to him. A secret one.
She fell into her ratty armchair, a chair her mother Madeline had had since she moved into her first apartment before she’d met Madeline’s father (Richard Mapother, a successful film critic, but he and Madeline’s marriage had been short-lived after Mackenzie was born; she seldom saw her father as he lived in LA now, presiding critic for Empire magazine; Madeline had gone back to her maiden name after their divorce, had Mackenzie’s surname changed on her birth certificate, and kept it through her second marriage, which had also ended badly, this one after only a few months; he had been a fellow journalist at the Post, and it had caused a scandal). This chair Mackenzie had demanded to keep when her mother had thought about throwing it away; it had once been dark brown, but was now fraying to the point that it its color had begun to wash away. She’d covered it with a thick woven blanket covered in constellations, similar to her bedspread. Mackenzie thought of Duncan’s long leather couch, ominously immaculate and stern, and she let out a sigh. I’m sure he’d be impressed with my armchair.
Here, in the daylight, she wondered what she’d been thinking last night. She’d been so angry and annoyed after a Senator she recognized (for his infamous misogyny, no less) had attempted to chat her up at that terrible party, and she’d managed to escape onto the balcony, her nerves rattled. But the way Duncan had looked at her; she shivered recalling it. It wasn’t just desire. There was something else there. Wonder? He had looked at her in awe. The look in his eyes had been one of fascination. Dare she even think it; of reverence. It made goosebumps rise on her arms, made her heart thump in her throat, at her temples. She launched herself out of the sagging armchair, grabbing a glass out of her little cabinet, filling it with water from the tap, and draining the whole thing. She looked down at her shoes; those painful heeled sandals that Duncan had untied and re-tied with such gentle adoration. God, the way he looked at me, she swallowed, sighed, set the glass down, leaning against the counter, pushing a hand through her now almost-dry hair, moving her hands to unhook the crystal earrings from her earlobes, setting them down quietly, pensively. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. Like I was the stars in the sky.
“To the mystery of first meetings,” he’d said. His sweet, low voice rang in the memory of her ears. Baby. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Kenzie. I love that.
“I could love him,” she said out loud, to no one. Her cat, Holt, had died over a year ago, and she hadn’t had the heart to get another; she’d buried him in her herb garden in the backyard. “If he could love me, I could love him. I don’t even know him, but I think I could. I can’t have imagined it. I didn’t imagine him. I can’t have invented the way he looked at me; the way he touched me. The way he spoke to me.”
She blushed; also to no one. She would keep that secret in her heart, for now. No matter what happened, she’d keep last night and this morning in her secret heart, always.
She stepped over to her futon bed, sitting on the edge, pulling her clutch over to her from where it had landed on her pillows, pulling her phone out and setting it on her lap, leaning down to unlace her sandals. She paused, her fingers against the laces, remembering his large hands there, his long elegant fingers, pressing ardently into her skin. She almost didn’t want to take the shoes off; it was almost as if she would break some kind of spell he’d weaved there if she did, break the spell of the evening, bring her crashing back into reality. But she unlaced them anyway, biting her lip, pulling her feet out of their trappings, remembering that last night he’d kissed the red marks the laces had left on her ankles, and she shivered again, brought the cardigan’s long sleeves to her face again, feeling as though, for some reason, she could cry.
Her phone was still on silent, but through misty eyes she noticed the screen light up on her lap. She looked down, pushing the sudden tears away, banishing them behind her eyes, which, though she could not see them herself, glowed with a similar dark green shade as the one they’d turned last night, looking down at Duncan between her legs. She flipped the sound switch on the side of the phone.
You left your necklace in the bathroom and your headband on the nightstand. I can give them back to you tonight. I can’t wait to see you, Kenzie.
“Oh, fuck,” she muttered. Now he probably thought she’d left them behind on purpose. She’d been so dazed, so dizzy in his embraces, she’d felt like she was on some other plane, in some other world, and she’d forgotten her jewelry utterly.
Ugh, sorry. She typed, biting into her lip. I didn’t mean to do that. You were distracting me. She couldn’t help it. She was honest to a fault, and that was the truth.
Her heart jumped around in her chest as she watched the telltale text bubbles appear for a moment. They disappeared. Then reappeared. She didn’t notice, but she was holding her breath.
I’d keep them forever if it meant I’d see you again. I want to distract you again. And again. And again.
“Oh my fucking god,” she whispered to herself, hands gripping the phone with white fingers.
She typed something, erased it, and then retyped it. She closed her eyes, and hit send. No takebacks. It was gone. She did it.
I want you to.
She stared at her phone, breathless, for a few moments. No text bubbles appeared. The moment stretched; became a minute. She had to breathe; she felt the tightness around her heart.
Then, the text bubbles appeared.
She stared, her eyes still cast with that greenish hue she couldn’t see, her phone grasped between her fingers in her lap, her feet bare, her hair smelling of Duncan’s jasmine soap.
I am waiting for tonight with an ache in my heart for you that I’ve never felt before for anyone.
She read the text. Again. Again. Five times, six times, her breath catching in her lungs, refusing to come out, filling her mind with a sound like angels singing at the gates of heaven. Duncan Shepherd had just sent that to her. Reality no longer made any sense. She resolved deep inside her soul that she was going to let this happen to her. Come what may, the hand of destiny was pressing down on her. A sixth sense spoke to her: now is not the time to play it safe. Open yourself to this. Let this happen to you. To live is to love. That’s all there is.
“Okay,” she whispered. She typed one more time.
Duncan, I feel the same way. You’ve touched my heart.
The text came back right away.
See you at 9. Tonight, everything is for you.
She laid back onto her blanket of constellations, her head falling between the lower arms of Cancer, Iota Cancri extending into the heavens above her, Acubens and Altarf on either side of her chestnut waves, adorning her temples like a crown. Everything is for you.
-------
She woke a little later, her phone dinging its trumpet sound out again into her little apartment, her eyes falling on the sun-shaped celestial wind chime that hung beside her bed. She liked to listen to its soft rustling at night; it helped her sleep now, a unique white noise that she had become attached to. She grasped the phone, heart pounding again; an hour had passed, she hadn’t even realized she had fallen asleep, there had been so much adrenaline coursing through her since this morning, she must have crashed particularly hard.
The text was from Claire. She swallowed, pushing down the disappointed feeling that rose unbidden under her skin. You’re seeing him in a few hours, calm down.
Clairebear: Kenzie Lou, I found the perfect dress for you tonight.
Claire worked for a designer; her name was Morgan Winthrop, and her work was dark, beautiful, and romantic. The velvet dress Mackenzie had worn last night to that terrible (wonderful, fateful) party had been a sample piece from Winthrop’s collection from the previous fall. “I thought of you right away when I saw it,” Claire had said, holding it up to the warm evening light of her stylish living room over their Chinese takeout. Mackenzie trusted Claire more than anyone, and knew her best friend understood her taste and her body; if Claire said she had found her a perfect dress, Mackenzie believed her.
A photo followed the text. Kenzie gasped. Claire hadn’t been kidding.
It was perfect.
------
Kenzie glanced down at her phone with fingers that refused to stop shaking. It was 8 PM. One hour. She turned back to her bathroom mirror (surrounded by small prints of celestial scenes and constellations in gold-painted frames), trying to steady the hand that was applying kohl under her hazel eyes, which looked far too big and worried and round in her little bathroom mirror. Kenzie. What are you doing. What’s happening. She blew a shaking breath out; just get your shit together, you can do this. You can be calm and collected. You can be a goddess.
No, I can’t.
You can.
Her little bluetooth speaker sat on top of her toilet tank, the only steady, non-damp place for it. An angelic soprano’s voice rang from it, soothing her shaking fingers. And I, I feel it after midnight, a feelin’ that you can’t fight / my one, it lingers when we’re done, you’ll believe God is a Woman
She’d gone to Morgan’s studio after Claire’s text; Morgan had been pleased to see her and fit the dress for her. “Darling, you’re a muse, your coquettish charm is indescribably lovely,” Morgan had cooed to her, gloved hands beckoning to her, Morgan’s wild, frizzy orange hair catching the afternoon light from the windows of her open-spaced studio with its black-and-white striped walls. “I’m delighted to fit you for a romantic evening, you of all people deserve joy.” Mackenzie had looked down shyly at her words; if only Morgan knew what would probably be happening to the dress later, tossed to the floor. She stood in front of the long mirror quietly as Morgan pinned and prodded with agile practice; as she watched, the dress melded to her body like a second skin.
“Ravishing,” Morgan had stated, matter-of-factly, as she stood back to gaze at Mackenzie through the mirror. Claire looked on from a little further away, seated on a bench, watching as she had for the past hour or so. “Oh, Kenzie,” she breathed. “He’ll die.”
And he see the universe when I’m the company / it’s all in me
Kenzie set down the kohl pencil, reaching for the choker she’d placed carefully on the side of the sink. It was black velvet, with a downwards-facing crescent moon charm hanging from the throat, similar to the one on the back of her phone case. She fastened it around her neck, her thoughts flashing back to Duncan’s hands there, pressing with their impossible soft heat, thrilling every nerve ending in her body, like they belonged there. She stared at herself in the small mirror.
Fortune favors the bold, she thought, staring into her own eyes. Yet another one of her mother’s sayings.
Make me bold, she whispered silently, out into the universe, to whoever was listening, if anyone was at all. Give me a heart made of light, the better to see with, the better to feel with, give me the heart to see him. And give him the heart to see me. Give us both courage to say the things we feel.
She felt that indescribable heaviness again; like the giant wheel of time was turning on some far-flung stage of the universe, a colossal event that she couldn’t see; she could only feel it. She could only hang on and hope. Kenzie took another breath, shook out her long chestnut hair (adorned with another gold headband, this one with three moons, waxing, full, and waning), turned off the bathroom light, and went to her mother’s ratty armchair to wait for the clock to strike 9, the music still ringing in her ears.
