Sugar Rush
Page 22
“Your parents are absolute shits, Beck. I’m sorry to say that, but they really are.”
“Agreed,” he says with a wry smile. “And I hope you understand a little why that makes me the way I am. Why I flipped out when I thought you were lying to me. When I found you in my office. I just fucking hate deception and smoke and mirrors. If it’s not my father hiding his paternity of JT, it’s both my parents shaming Caroline for getting raped and wanting to keep it a secret. It’s just…I can’t fucking stand it.”
My eyes slide back out to the street briefly back to him. “I get it. I understand why you did what you did.”
“I’m still really sorry for it,” he offers.
“Water under the bridge,” I smile at him. “So I assume Caroline’s rapist was never caught?”
Shaking his head, Beck leans back in his chair. “No. The police checked out surveillance videos in the area, but there wasn’t anything that gave a direct line of sight to her apartment. You could see Michael Schaefer dropping her off in the parking lot and then driving off, but no angle provided a clear shot of her apartment door. No witnesses either. DNA didn’t match up to any known criminals.”
My fingers play with my croissant, but I don’t take any more of it. Instead, I put my hands in my lap and lean a little farther over the table. “Beck…will you tell Caroline what happened to me? I want her to know she’s not alone in what it feels like not to know, and that maybe it’s even worse knowing. I want her to be able to talk to me if she wants.”
Beck’s smile lights his face and he leans forward as well, even farther than I do, raises from his seat, and places his lips gently against mine before saying, “Caroline adores you, and I’m sure she’d be greatly comforted to share in this with you. You are amazing, Sela.”
My sigh fans out across his lips before I press in and accept the kiss he had hovering there. When we pull back, I tell him, “Thank you for sharing that with me.”
“I’ll share everything with you from now on,” he assures me. “And you’ll do the same with me.”
“That I will. Everything.”
We’re in a private box at the Wiener Staatsoper, otherwise known as the Vienna State Opera. Completed in 1869 under the Hapsburg monarchy, it’s built in the neo-Renaissance style—whatever the fuck that means—by Josef Hlavka. He was a world-renowned Czech architect and contractor, and I’m sure I’ll forget his name come tomorrow.
But I know it today because since we had tickets to attend the opera Tosca at the Vienna State Opera tonight, Sela insisted we do a behind-the-scenes tour of the opera house about five hours ago. I was not overly fond of this idea, because I hate opera, and I was already going to be subjected to it for about three hours tonight. But Sela was so excited, and because I most certainly do not hate Sela, and actually like her more than I’ve ever liked another woman in my life, I easily gave in to her ludicrous idea.
So in addition to touring Schönbrunn Palace this morning, we spent another two hours walking through this massive structure, being appropriately impressed when our tour guide pointed out the plinths and buttresses made of Wöllersdorfer and Kaisersteinbruch stone, or the hand-carved statues, or even the painted ceilings set amid gilded panels. I grudgingly admit it’s an amazingly beautiful building, but I didn’t expect to be spending five full hours of my life inside of it.
I suppose the only thing that makes it bearable is that Sela looks amazing tonight. We had not packed anything that would be worthy of an evening in a luxury box at the Staatsoper, but Linda worked magic and found us a boutique that could outfit Sela in a stunning, deep-red gown that sits off her shoulders and dips low into her cleavage. The top of the bodice is fitted, but the skirt portion is long and flowing and swishes beautifully when she walks. I was also able to get a tuxedo at the same boutique, and we were considered presentable as we walked out of the Grand Hotel Wein tonight to get into our hired Mercedes that would take us to the opera.
“Excuse me, Mr. North,” I hear from behind me, and I turn in my heavy chair with gold carved accents and plush red velvet cushions to see the private waiter assigned to our box. “Would you care for something to drink?”
So far, we haven’t run into much of a language barrier. Schools here require English as a second language, and once you’re identified as American, the Austrians are happy to practice their skills. The only issue we had was today at lunch; we chose a restaurant that apparently saw little in the way of tourists, as our waiter couldn’t speak a lick of English. She ended up miming the menu to us, and I think I chose the rabbit, but I’m not quite sure.
“Do you want anything Sela?” I ask as I turn to look at her sitting next to me. She’s leaning forward in her chair to gaze over the banister at the seats below us.
She tilts her face my way and just shakes her head with a sweet smile. “I’m good.”
“Nothing for us right now,” I tell the waiter, who nods and starts to back out of our box. “But maybe later.”
“Of course,” he says. “I’ll check back.”
Once the door is closed, I lean forward alongside Sela and peer over. We didn’t get a chance to see the interior from this perspective today on our tour. With people filing in and the chatter of eager patrons, it doesn’t seem as vast and cavernous as it did when we were walking down below.
We’re seated in the very middle balcony box on the third tier. As the venue curves in a broad horseshoe around the perimeter, we can’t see anything to our immediate left or right, but can vaguely make out the people in the boxes on the ends. I suppose if we had those weird opera glasses, that would help.
“Isn’t this place fantastic?” Sela murmurs as she rests her chin on her forearms, which are propped on the banister as she looks out over the crowd. “I’d never have been able to do something like this if I hadn’t met you.”
She turns her face, chin still resting on her arms, and gives me a smile filled with gratitude and tenderness. It causes my breath to hitch, because it’s the most expressive I’ve ever seen her, and she’s more beautiful than I can ever imagine anything being.
Reaching out, I carefully cup my hand behind her neck, very aware not to mess up her long locks curled and pinned on top of her head. I squeeze and lean closer to her. “I’d gladly take the tour of this opera house every day for the rest of my life if it made you happy.”
“Agreed,” he says with a wry smile. “And I hope you understand a little why that makes me the way I am. Why I flipped out when I thought you were lying to me. When I found you in my office. I just fucking hate deception and smoke and mirrors. If it’s not my father hiding his paternity of JT, it’s both my parents shaming Caroline for getting raped and wanting to keep it a secret. It’s just…I can’t fucking stand it.”
My eyes slide back out to the street briefly back to him. “I get it. I understand why you did what you did.”
“I’m still really sorry for it,” he offers.
“Water under the bridge,” I smile at him. “So I assume Caroline’s rapist was never caught?”
Shaking his head, Beck leans back in his chair. “No. The police checked out surveillance videos in the area, but there wasn’t anything that gave a direct line of sight to her apartment. You could see Michael Schaefer dropping her off in the parking lot and then driving off, but no angle provided a clear shot of her apartment door. No witnesses either. DNA didn’t match up to any known criminals.”
My fingers play with my croissant, but I don’t take any more of it. Instead, I put my hands in my lap and lean a little farther over the table. “Beck…will you tell Caroline what happened to me? I want her to know she’s not alone in what it feels like not to know, and that maybe it’s even worse knowing. I want her to be able to talk to me if she wants.”
Beck’s smile lights his face and he leans forward as well, even farther than I do, raises from his seat, and places his lips gently against mine before saying, “Caroline adores you, and I’m sure she’d be greatly comforted to share in this with you. You are amazing, Sela.”
My sigh fans out across his lips before I press in and accept the kiss he had hovering there. When we pull back, I tell him, “Thank you for sharing that with me.”
“I’ll share everything with you from now on,” he assures me. “And you’ll do the same with me.”
“That I will. Everything.”
We’re in a private box at the Wiener Staatsoper, otherwise known as the Vienna State Opera. Completed in 1869 under the Hapsburg monarchy, it’s built in the neo-Renaissance style—whatever the fuck that means—by Josef Hlavka. He was a world-renowned Czech architect and contractor, and I’m sure I’ll forget his name come tomorrow.
But I know it today because since we had tickets to attend the opera Tosca at the Vienna State Opera tonight, Sela insisted we do a behind-the-scenes tour of the opera house about five hours ago. I was not overly fond of this idea, because I hate opera, and I was already going to be subjected to it for about three hours tonight. But Sela was so excited, and because I most certainly do not hate Sela, and actually like her more than I’ve ever liked another woman in my life, I easily gave in to her ludicrous idea.
So in addition to touring Schönbrunn Palace this morning, we spent another two hours walking through this massive structure, being appropriately impressed when our tour guide pointed out the plinths and buttresses made of Wöllersdorfer and Kaisersteinbruch stone, or the hand-carved statues, or even the painted ceilings set amid gilded panels. I grudgingly admit it’s an amazingly beautiful building, but I didn’t expect to be spending five full hours of my life inside of it.
I suppose the only thing that makes it bearable is that Sela looks amazing tonight. We had not packed anything that would be worthy of an evening in a luxury box at the Staatsoper, but Linda worked magic and found us a boutique that could outfit Sela in a stunning, deep-red gown that sits off her shoulders and dips low into her cleavage. The top of the bodice is fitted, but the skirt portion is long and flowing and swishes beautifully when she walks. I was also able to get a tuxedo at the same boutique, and we were considered presentable as we walked out of the Grand Hotel Wein tonight to get into our hired Mercedes that would take us to the opera.
“Excuse me, Mr. North,” I hear from behind me, and I turn in my heavy chair with gold carved accents and plush red velvet cushions to see the private waiter assigned to our box. “Would you care for something to drink?”
So far, we haven’t run into much of a language barrier. Schools here require English as a second language, and once you’re identified as American, the Austrians are happy to practice their skills. The only issue we had was today at lunch; we chose a restaurant that apparently saw little in the way of tourists, as our waiter couldn’t speak a lick of English. She ended up miming the menu to us, and I think I chose the rabbit, but I’m not quite sure.
“Do you want anything Sela?” I ask as I turn to look at her sitting next to me. She’s leaning forward in her chair to gaze over the banister at the seats below us.
She tilts her face my way and just shakes her head with a sweet smile. “I’m good.”
“Nothing for us right now,” I tell the waiter, who nods and starts to back out of our box. “But maybe later.”
“Of course,” he says. “I’ll check back.”
Once the door is closed, I lean forward alongside Sela and peer over. We didn’t get a chance to see the interior from this perspective today on our tour. With people filing in and the chatter of eager patrons, it doesn’t seem as vast and cavernous as it did when we were walking down below.
We’re seated in the very middle balcony box on the third tier. As the venue curves in a broad horseshoe around the perimeter, we can’t see anything to our immediate left or right, but can vaguely make out the people in the boxes on the ends. I suppose if we had those weird opera glasses, that would help.
“Isn’t this place fantastic?” Sela murmurs as she rests her chin on her forearms, which are propped on the banister as she looks out over the crowd. “I’d never have been able to do something like this if I hadn’t met you.”
She turns her face, chin still resting on her arms, and gives me a smile filled with gratitude and tenderness. It causes my breath to hitch, because it’s the most expressive I’ve ever seen her, and she’s more beautiful than I can ever imagine anything being.
Reaching out, I carefully cup my hand behind her neck, very aware not to mess up her long locks curled and pinned on top of her head. I squeeze and lean closer to her. “I’d gladly take the tour of this opera house every day for the rest of my life if it made you happy.”
