So Pretty It Hurts

the fireplace. I’d been in Beau’s apartment a few dozen times through the fall, but it had never occurred to me that the fireplace worked. Up until my last visit, there’d been a large straw basket in there.

“You didn’t think I’d let you sit here on a cold winter night without a fire, did you?”

The glass of wine was already poured, and I did as instructed—sat on the sleek black sofa, sipping the French red. My eyes roamed the walls, to the photographs Beau had taken in far-off places like Istanbul and Hanoi, but they kept straying back to the freaking fire. A small knot started to form in my stomach. I guess in the back of my mind I’d assumed that like so many fireplaces in the city, it could no longer burn wood, though in truth I hadn’t ever really thought about it. Was it a symbol of something at the core of our relationship? That despite the fact that we’d dated exclusively for two and a half months, I didn’t really know Beau? Stop it, Bailey, I wanted to scream. You’re starting in again.

Dinner was lamb chops, roasted potatoes, and asparagus, served on the round table he used as a desk in a room off the living room. He’d set it with cloth napkins and candles. I am being pampered, I thought—seriously pampered. As we ate, I relayed all the gory details about the weekend. I also shared the gossipy tidbits—such as Cap’s reported lip lock with Devon—though I left out the part about Scott wanting three-way action with Jessie and me. Beau listened intently, leaning back in his chair at points, and sometimes shaking his head in disbelief.

“Wow, that—that sounds like a damn movie,” he said.

I had this momentary feeling that he’d been about to say, “Wow—that will teach you to go off to a house party for the weekend without me” and changed his mind, vowing like me to just leave the snippiness behind us.

“I know—lots of tension,” I said. “I won’t know until the police report, though, whether all that tension somehow led to Devon’s death.”

“And this person who knocked you down the stairs. If you had to make a guess, who do you think it was?”

“I don’t have a clue. The only sense I have is that it was a man—because there was a really heavy odor of sweat. Of course, anyone would be sweating after racing around the halls, but still the smell was so pronounced—”

“I’ve read a few pieces by Richard Parkin. He sounds like a pompous ass. Could he have been your sweat hog?”

“Maybe. Based on the amount of alcohol he’d had during the course of the day, it’s hard to picture him playing Zorro, but who knows? He certainly managed to keep up during a hike we took in the woods one morning.”

“Have you got any residual aches? I mean, maybe you should even see a doctor.”

“I think I’m okay—just a few minor bruises. And this fantastic dinner has totally taken my mind off it.”

He cleared the plates and returned a few minutes later with two full coffee mugs. But rather than sit back down himself, he came up behind me and laid his hands on either side of my neck.

“Would a head rub make it better or worse?” he asked from behind me. Though I couldn’t see him, I sensed him raising just one eyebrow in that intriguing way of his.

“Umm, better, I think,” I said, smiling.

He started with my neck and then moved up to my scalp, his slender but strong hands rubbing gently at first and then more firmly when it was clear I could handle it. Just having those hands on me again, and thinking of all the things they would certainly do later, made my breathing grow more shallow. I also felt a flush begin to creep up my chest.

The massage lasted a good ten minutes. I alternated between languidly relishing how nice it was to have my low-grade headache begin to subside and enjoying the wave of lust that was beginning to wash over me.

“Better?” Beau asked finally.

“Sooo much better.”

His fingers dropped from my head to my shoulders and then he slowly slid them down my chest, slipping them under my top and my bra until he had cupped both my breasts. His palms felt cold against my skin but exhilarating. I let out a moan as he began to knead my breasts, sometimes gently pinching my nipples between his fingers.

“Now that’s definitely taking the pain away,” I whispered.

With one stroke he grasped the bottom edge of my top in his hands and tugged it over my head. He reached down behind me, unhooked my bra, and pulled that over my head as well. Leaning forward, he kissed the side of my neck.

“Why don’t we go out into the living room?” he asked. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of ever seeing you naked by firelight, have I?”

He laid two more logs on the fire, flicked off the lights in the living room, and brought a blanket from the bedroom to lay on the floor. I unbuttoned his shirt, slid it off, and let it drop to the floor. When I started to reach for his jeans zipper, he pulled me toward him and began to kiss me, slipping his tongue in my mouth.

“I was almost useless at work today,” he said, pulling back. His skin glowed in the firelight. “I just kept thinking about all the things I wanted to do to you.”

He kissed me again, fiercely this time. I felt nearly ravenous for him. I reached for his zipper again, but he pushed my hand away and laid me on the blanket. Crouching, he tugged off my jeans and my thong, and then stepped out of his own jeans and underwear. The only sounds in the room were the crackle of the logs and our ragged breaths. I felt in an altered state as he began to kiss his way down my body and then parted my legs with his hands.

Sex had been good with us from the start, and it hadn’t yet lost its newness. At one point Beau dragged three throw pillows from the sofa and stacked them under my butt. It felt intoxicating to be so oddly elevated and free as he plunged deeply into me.

I slept straight through the night, completely exhausted. We woke at about eight and headed over to a little cafe in his neighborhood for a quick breakfast of coffee and croissants. Beau had a full day of editing ahead, followed by a business dinner, and he wanted to get an early start. Figuring Collinson wasn’t going to call me with the news, I wanted to begin hounding him as early as possible. It was just below freezing out, and Beau and I felt a shock of electricity as we kissed good-bye in front of the cafe.

“Keep me posted, okay?” Beau said.

“Absolutely.”

Though the walk home from Beau’s place to mine would take a half hour, I decided to go for it, snaking east and south through Chelsea and the western part of Greenwich Village. As I crossed Fifth Avenue, I checked my watch. Ten of nine. I dug for my BlackBerry and tried Collinson. To my surprise he not only answered but also sounded vaguely receptive to my call.

“We’re releasing a statement in just a short while,” he said. “But there’s no reason I can’t tell you now. Devon Barr died of heart failure.”

So my initial instinct had been right after all.

“Was it connected to an eating disorder?”

“It appears to be. There’s evidence she was purging. And her body weight was lower than normal.”

“What did she weigh exactly?”

“I don’t think there’s any reason you need to know the exact figure. But it seems she was suffering from an electrolyte imbalance.”

“I assume the autopsy also showed evidence of a pregnancy,” I stated calmly.

“Why do you ask that?” he said, clearly surprised.

“I hear she lost a baby last winter. I have a couple of sources.”

He took a moment to respond.

“I’m not really at liberty to say.”

But I knew from his hesitation that I’d been right.

“If that’s all, I need to be going,” he said.

“Just a couple more questions, please. You’ve been so helpful, and I really appreciate it. Do you have any idea yet who scratched all the doors—and why?”

“No, our investigation into that is ongoing.”