Wake Me Up

Persephone looks down at the gardenia corsage on her wrist, then back at the house. It’s only a few quick steps in the darkness to find his trailer, but she is suddenly nervous, and without the certainty of her old life, she feels unmoored, as though she is lying in a canoe that’s gone drifting from the shore, staring up at a starless sky. If she listens hard, she can hear the frogs, singing in the rushes, and feel the caress of the breeze, propelling her forward, into the waiting darkness. 

“Persephone?!” Carson’s deep, smooth voice takes her by surprise, and she missteps, nearly falling off the steps to his trailer. He reaches out a hand, and grabs her waist, so instead of going backwards she stumbles forward, hands braced against his bare chest. “Steady there, sailor!” Carson booms in his announcer’s voice. And then, softer, “I’ve got you.”

Carson’s breath smells of scotch, and his brown hair is mussed, as though he’s been running his hands through it. He’s wearing blue pajama pants, pinstriped: she wonders if he was as sleepless as she, if he lies in the dark and worries about the things he could have stopped, the things he couldn’t change, and she has to press her nails into her palms to stop herself from smoothing the telltale line on his forehead; because surely he wouldn’t want anyone to know, especially not Some know-nothing girl from nowhere.

But when she looks up at him, he is studying her, as though trying to place her, and she pulls away. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Carson’s teeth, too straight, flash white under the fluorescent glow from the bug zapper. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Do you need a drink?” 

He turns, without waiting for an answer, and Persephone follows him into the trailer, perching on the edge of his couch as he goes up to the bar. The interior is all gleaming marble and open modern spaces, there are no fountains here, or the heavy furniture she’d expect from a man of taste and refinement, a man who comes from her world, the world they both left long ago. 

No, this is the temporary abode of a man who refuses to hold on to the past, who is never standing still, who is always moving, as though there’s someplace else, somewhere better, that he’s meant to be. It is elegant, modern, and smacks of what Persephone’s grandmother and her friends call New Money in tones of utter snobbery: USKEA and marble countertops, not a single pre-war furnishing in sight. 

That trademark, gleaming smile, the one that makes the panties drop from coast to coast, flashes when he catches her eye, and Carson’s shoulders relax, he whistles aimlessly as he expertly shakes a drink. The muscles of his back ripple, and she reprimands herself for staring — yet she cannot turn away. 

If he knew… If he knew that I was Fenny, that I was Tad’s little sister… But she cannot complete the thought, because Carson sits down across from her, passing her a martini, so close his limbs are almost brushing against hers, his elbows on his knees.

Carson raises his glass, clinking it against hers. He’s poured himself a tumblr of scotch, and she’s willing to bet it’s a decade or three older than she is, none of the rabble’s top shelf swill. There is a shadow of a dark beard on his jaw. She takes a sip of her drink, trying to ignore the overpowering attraction she feels for him, this isn’t what she came here for — but what did she come here for? To see him, to talk about Tad — but the words sink in her throat like a skipping stone, ripples spreading throughout her body in silence. 

“Tell me what’s wrong, Persephone.” Carson puts two fingers under her chin, tilting her face up. “There must be a reason you came to see me instead of your producer.” And you shouldn’t be here anyway, his tone implies. 

When she looks into his eyes, a beat passes between them, and suddenly she feels as though she’s been thrown into the deep end, barely treading water to stay afloat. 

“I just, I… I just…” Persephone twists her hands around the stem of the glass, and takes another sip (pinky raised) to avoid answering. It’s the new version of Russo-Baltique, with a bulletproof bottle, a cool $1.3 million, the kind her father used to keep in his private bar on the yacht. The same yacht they were on the night that… Persephone feels Carson’s fingertips ghost over her knuckles, she’s clenching the stem of the martini glass so hard that she’s shocked it hasn’t snapped in two, the memory of glass splintering suddenly here in the room with them, clear as a bell. 

Carson’s lips are moving, but all she can hear is the sound of her father sobbing as she hid under the bar and listened to bottle after bottle of expensive liquor shatter: like the way the ice sounds when it’s cracking in the center of the lake on a warm spring day. 

“Wonderful stuff, isn’t it?” Carson’s thumb presses against the artery at her wrist, and she forces herself to relax, staring up into his warm brown eyes. This close, she can see flecks of gold inside of them, and a light shiver runs down her arms, her body betraying her. He levels a wink at her that she’s sure has charmed many a would-be reality starlet. “They call that–“

“Russo-Baltique,” Persephone finishes for him, not missing how the surprised shock on his face is replaced by a wariness, and she curses herself internally. A know-nothing girl from the sticks would never have drunk anything better than Gray Goose, she wouldn’t know of anything higher than the top shelf. “But I like The Eye of the Dragon better.” In for a penny, in for a pound. Persephone stands up, one hand on her hip as she stares down at him. She doesn’t know why she came here. He doesn’t know me. And it hurts, fuck, she never thought she’d changed that much, that Carson Stuyvesant wouldn’t know her. 

Nine years is a long time, Fenny Vandervliet. 

•••

The last time Fenny Vandervliet saw Carson Stuyvesant, they were on on Fifth Avenue, and he didn’t see her. He was wearing a white ascot, his brown hair shaggy, falling artfully over one brow. He was piled with Gucci and Chanel bags, and just before him strolled a long, leggy blonde and brunette, Loubotins click-clacking on the pavement. She’d been waiting for the Rolls Royce to pull around, to take her up to a summer at her grandmother Mitzi’s lake house in the Catskills. It was late. 

She was fourteen then, baby fat and awkward braces, her nose too large for her face, four years before the nose job that would change her life. 

Carson! she’d called, causing him to pause in his stride, and he’d looked back at her, brow crinkled as though trying to place her. Carson Stuyvesant! She should have read the disinterested expression on his face, but she’d run up to him, causing one of the girls to turn around to see what the hold-up was. It’s me, Fenny, she’d said. Tad’s little sister? 

Fenny… A look of sadness passed through his eyes, and then was gone, replaced by a polite smile, his TV smile, as though there was anywhere else he’d rather be. Do pass on my regards to your mother, won’t you? 

And then he’d nodded, and walked on, the hot smell of asphalt and exhaust rising in the air. 

•••

“Eye of the Dragon, huh?” Carson Stewart (Carson Stuyvesant doesn’t like Miami, he’d never be caught dead with his name on any other paper except Page Six) looks Persephone up and down, his eyes lingering on her bare legs in frank appreciation as he leans against the sofa, one arm flung across the back, holding his glass. The dark hair trailing down from his belly button to his waistband makes Persephone’s stomach flip, and she drops her gaze, feeling Carson’s amused smile. If he knew who I really was… But she doesn’t complete the thought. 

When their eyes meet again, Carson gives her a slow, lazy smile, moving his forefinger around the rim of his glass. “I shouldn’t be surprised that such a beautiful woman knows so much about expensive liquors. You look like someone who has an…” his eyes flicker across her body again, then back to her face. “…intimate…

knowledge of luxury.” 

“That’s not what I meant.” And you know it, her tone chides him. 

All at once, Carson stands, and Persephone trembles a little, looking up at him, reminding herself that this is Carson Stewart, not Stuyvesant, that he hasn’t gone by that name for a long, long time. 

Bitsy’s grandson! she can almost hear her grandmother cackle, pointing her long cigarette at Carson. What a good looking man he is! Just like his grandfather. That’s old money and good breeding for you, my dear. 

“You look cold, Persephone.” Carson’s deep baritone causes goosebumps to break out across her bare skin, making her shiver. “Do you know the story of your namesake? She was a spring maiden, married to the god of the underworld.” He drapes a sweater over her bare shoulders, gray cashmere, the lightest touch, like a cloud. It smells of his cologne and something else, something undeniably male, undeniably Carson. “Better now?” 

Do you ever wonder what Tad would think about all of this? The words drown in her throat, and she feels as though she is underwater, searching the depths for something lost, something never to be found. “Thank you — thanks.” 

“There’s no need to thank me.” Carson places two fingers under her chin, tilting up her face, and she is suddenly very aware of how close they are, and how very alone. But she’s safe with him, isn’t she? After all, he’s a Stuyvesant, and she’s a Vandervliet, not a know-nothing girl from some backwater. “Persephone Dègas.” 

Reality ripples around her, and she remembers: here, she is using a stage name, and so is he. Dègas. Stewart. Don’t forget. “I won’t get in trouble for coming here so late at night, will I, Mr Stu — Stewart?” 

Carson chuckles. “Persephone, Persephone, Persephone. It’s Carson.” His lips brush her ear, and her skin buzzes. “How did you like your gardenia? I picked them out myself, you know.” 

Carson’s thumb pushes into the center of the flower, brushing the smooth petals apart in a circular motion. There something sinfully erotic about it, and she feels dripping wet, as if the instant he touched her she wasn’t soaked. She can feel his warm breath on her skin. She looks up at him from under her lashes to find his pupils enlarged, dark, the heady scent of the blossom drifting between them. 

A funerary flower, a sacred rite. 

She bites her bottom lip and looks up; his thumb moves to her wrist, turning it over to trace the delicate skin where the blood is bluest. 

“The lord of the underworld gazed upon the spring maiden, and he wanted her to warm his cold bed.” Carson walks her backwards across the small space, until she is pressed up against the countertop, his arms braced on either side of her, the sinew of his upper arms making her feel dizzy with arousal, warmth trickling into her lower belly. “He wanted her to breathe life into his dead garden and make it bloom.” 

She must be imagining things, she thinks — imagining the soft brush of his fingers against her wrist, her cheek, the way his eyes are dark as a hole at the bottom of the lake, where the water turns from silty brown-green to darkest black, where the brightest sunlight refuses to shine.

Carson tucks the gardenia behind her ear, and his smile is soft and hypnotic, so hypnotic she could almost trust him if they were anywhere else, in any other world. “I’m here, Persephone. The door is always open if you need to… talk.” 

If he knew… If Carson Stewart knew that right at this very moment he entertained the great-great-granddaughter of one of the First Four Hundred, he’d probably kick her off of the show himself. After all, breeding and reputation are what’s important in their world, And reputation trumps all. 

Persephone inhales a deep, shuddering breath as Carson brushes his thumb over her bottom lip, and then his mouth is covering hers, and she forgets why she ever thought leaving was a good idea, his hand on her lower back, tethering her to this realm. 

Carson’s tongue slides between her lips, he tastes of edible gold flecks and peat, and he groans as she twines her arms around his neck, her hands in his hair, her breasts pressed up to his bare chest. “We shouldn’t be doing this.” Carson pushes the cashmere sweater from her shoulders, it pools on the floor. His mouth is on her neck, his teeth nipping at the skin, as though daring her to tell him to stop. “I never do this with contestants… Persephone.”

She can hear the lie in his tone, recognizes it for what it is, and feels all her resolve collapse as Carson lifts her up as though she weighs nothing, setting her on the countertop. He pushes the straps of her tank top down, the shadow of his beard rasping between her breasts. “Yes,” Persephone moans, Carson’s hands cupping her ass and pulling her forward, so that she’s spread-eagled against his hard length, only the thousand-thread count of their respective pajamas separating them. “Yes!” We should stop.This is wrong, this is all wrong. But when will the time ever be right? 

Bzzt. Bzzt. As if in agreement, Carson’s phone buzzes angrily from the coffee table. 

“Fuck.” Carson growls, as if remembering where he is, in a trailer behind the set of a reality TV show in Miami, not in the penthouse of the Waldorf-Astoria, with ten grand champagne on ice and Cuban cigars, the smoke mingling with the scent of the woman he’s been fucking all night. 

Bzzt. Bzzt. 

PIPER: Pick up your fucking phone, dumbass! We have a Code Orphan Annie on our hands! 

The Bitch is Back by Elton John blares through the phone speakers. 

“Fuck!” Carson grabs the phone from Persephone, whipping it to his ear. “Piper. No, she — she’s with — Yes, of course. I sure will. No, I don’t want — Yes, I understand. Sure.” He runs a hand through his hair, completely discomfited, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He slams his finger on his phone screen a little too hard, then turns back to Persephone. 

“What’s Code Orphan Annie?” His hands are gripping her thighs again, but with none of his earlier urgency, and he pulls her off the countertop. “Carson?” 

“You are. You weren’t in your room, or anywhere in the house. Somehow, you moved off camera.” His teeth nibble at her bottom lip as he steers her towards the door. “Clever of you.” 

I’ve spent my whole life escaping from every camera shot I didn’t want to be in, she feels like saying. “Some girls have ‘It’, I guess.” 

Carson’s brows raise to his hairline at that, and he gives her an appraising look, as though he set out to buy a Pollock and came home to find a Picasso under it. “You’re the ruin of many a man, aren’t you, Persephone Dègas?” 

Without waiting for answer, his hand slides around her waist, and then he’s kissing her again, deep and slow, the distant sound of the waves in her ear. The phone shrills again, and Carson ignores it, his tongue twining with hers, every evidence of how badly he wants her to stay making her insides go liquid with desire. 

“Persephone!” She hears Jen calling, as if from a great distance. 

Carson steps back, breathing heavily, and Persephone slips through the door, not daring to look over her shoulder until she reaches the gate, ducking under the lush creep of the passion vines. Carson Stewart is standing there still, hands thrust deep into his pockets, backlit by the florescent light, and when she raises a hand, he mimics the gesture, and then lets his hand drop, face half turned to shadow.