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Back When We Were Bright and Beautiful Save as PDF
Chapters (72)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. Part One
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. Part Two
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. Part Three
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. Epilogue
  68. Author’s Note
  69. Acknowledgments
  70. About the Author
  71. Also by Jillian Medoff
  72. About the Publisher

With Marcus, I am cocky, someone I don’t recognize but don’t necessarily dislike. Look at me. Look at my face, my breasts, my hands. Look at my lips. In a crowd, his eyes track me from corner to corner. This is a whole new excitement, his watching. When I get too close, he sputters, fumbles, loses the thread. What were you saying, Cassie? I got distracted. That I can do this to a grown man is remarkable. At the same time, it’s not enough. But I don’t know if I can say I want more. Rather, am I allowed? I want more. I need more. The need is unbearable. I tell him this: More, Marcus. More.

Calling him the other night was a stupid, stupid mistake. Now that I’ve opened the door, Marcus Silver floods in like a tidal wave.

27

AN HOUR AFTER NATE’S CALL, I’M IN MY CAR, ON THE HIGHWAY, swept up in memories. How long will it take to shake Marcus this time? I press on the gas, only partially conscious of the cause and effect, that the weight of my foot is making the car move faster. I see the numbers on the speedometer tick up, hit eighty then ninety. I see myself weave through traffic. But I don’t feel my toes or my heel, my ankle or my leg. I don’t feel my body; I don’t feel anything.

Soon, I’m heading up Park, guided by the Valmont’s spire. Since April, the building has been on lockdown. The board voted to erect twelve-foot walls to keep out the press. Security was doubled. Now, the once-grand castle is bleak and forbidding. The stained-glass windows look like blacked-out eyes. The front door stands open and dark, the mouth of a monster.

“Hey, Cassie,” the valet says when I shut off the car.

Surprised by the breezy greeting, I look up. The man at my door isn’t Anton, but he leans into the backseat in a gesture I’ve seen Anton make hundreds of times. He’s Anton and not Anton, a second exposure grafted onto a photograph. This Anton is wearing a suit, but he’s younger and seems amused I can’t place him.

Then it hits me. “Oh my God, Joey. You’re working here?”

“Joseph.” He lowers his voice three octaves. “I started a few weeks ago.”

“Excuse me, Joseph. Or should I say Mr. Rivera? Jesus, you sound just like your dad. You look like him, too.”

I haven’t seen Joey in at least five years. He has his father’s poise and finesse, but he’s taller, skinnier. Holding my tote bag, he escorts me through the lobby, but stops when we reach the elevator. Only Anton rides with me all the way upstairs. In fact, I’m likely the only resident for whom he makes the extra effort.

“Congratulations on the job,” I tell him.