Diamonds and Girls

We even look weirdly alike. When we're out together, people assume he's my brother, sometimes my twin. We're both slight and natural red heads, though Hay's hair is a little darker, almost auburn, and currently cut in that horrid Justin Bieber style.

But another thing we have in common is that he's always disliked Noa nearly as much as I have.

Hadrian groans loudly. "Oh, sweet potato, it's a bad idea."

"Don't you think I know that?"

"Noa's, I take it?"

"Yes, it was all Noa. I saw her on the Metro, and next thing I know, she's demanding a list of invitees. She picked the location, did the invites, everything. It was blackmail!"

I know Noa hasn't told home about my side job yet, because my mother hasn't called me up in hysterical tears. In the bottom of my heart, though, I also know that—party or no party—this only means she hasn't found the best moment yet. A bomb this good would be completely wasted on a hasty phone call. Noa has an impeccable sense of timing.

I can hear Hadrian muttering on the other end of the line, but can't make out what he's saying.

"What is it, Hay?" I ask, irritated. "Just say it, okay?"

"Fiona," he says, somewhere between a persuasive whine and a disappointed scold, "you can't keep letting her walk all over you like this."

"I can't stop her!" I exclaim. "Don't you think I've tried?"

"No," he says. "No, I don't. Not truly. You avoid her whenever she goes too far and it hurts too bad, but as soon as she shows any hint of interest or humanity, you go right back to pining after her."

"I do not pine!"

"Okay, okay, maybe pine is too strong a word. Just saying, I'm not so shocked you're going along with this."

Stung, I kick at my pillow and remind myself that Hadrian is only trying to protect me. Hay is one of the sweetest people I know, and was better at hiding it back when he spent seven nights a week at clubs cruising for men. Since marrying Jared, he's become more and more comfortable unleashing his inner mother hen.

"Are you and Jay going to come?" I ask in a small voice.

"Fiona! Of course we are." He clucks. "You are the moon of my life. I wouldn't miss your birthday party for the world, even if it is being thrown by the antichrist, plus I need to be there in case the devil incarnate tries to pull anything."

I roll my eyes, but am smiling. "Thank you, my sun and stars. I'll need you."

"Damn right you will. And then you'll owe me. Wanna come over and blow me as an advance?"

I laugh. "What, right now?"

"Yeah. Thunderstorms make me hard."

"Breathing makes you hard, punk. Where's your husband?"

"Jared's traveling." I can hear the pout. "Some lawyer trip. Probably snorting coke in Vegas, or whatever lawyers do." I know he actually knows exactly where Jared is—city, hotel, room number, and hour by hour itinerary. "He wouldn't mind if you sucked me off. We're so alike, it'd be like masturbating. I'm allowed to do that."

"Or incest," I say wryly.

"Twincest. That's way less gross."

"How do you figure that? Never mind—don't want to know. And quit bluffing. I know you don't fool around without marital supervision." He's just offering sex to ease the sting of his hard words about Noa. Pity sex, basically, but well meant.

Hadrian sighs unconcernedly. "Fine, then. We'll wait till Jared gets back, and have another threesome."

"Oh, goodie," I gush. "I can't wait to get all six feet, two inches and 190 pounds of rich, hot lawyer muscle into my bed. I'm going to kiss him until I get stubble burn, then I'm going to go to town on his nipples while my hands reacquaint themselves with his perfect ass and his eight pack and that sexy V cut and –"

"Moon of my life, shut the fuck up."

I laugh. "Jealous?"

"Hardly. But now I'm going to have to call Jared back for another round." Hay giggles. "Teleconference?"

"Hadrian Moore Miller, you are too much. I'm going to sleep. Give Jay my love."

"Night, sweet potato."

*

The M is glamorous.

High textured walls, leather couches in cream and crimson, everything bathed in a cool violet light. Mirrors in beveled bronze frames line the walls, interspersed with giant mahogany vases holding single orchids. A glistening chandelier hangs low over the dance floor, and cathedral windows overlook spectacular views of the city.

It is Noa's natural habitat. She glides from group to group, martini glass in one hand, iPhone in the other – alcohol and text messages, essential tools of the modern hostess. Watching just her, I can't tell if she's talking to friends or strangers. She rarely laughs, but is always smiling, strawberry lips creating a gracious frame for her perfect white teeth.

Her dress is short and fluttery and sewn with golden sequins. It cinches tight around her waist with a corded belt of stiff apricot silk. I am reminded of that fairy tale princess with gowns made of the sun, moon, and stars. Her dark curls are unrestrained, and she keeps transferring her phone to the martini hand so she can rake its heavy wealth from her face.

Her pasty-skinned, limp-haired boyfriend trails after her. I met him tonight and can't remember how long they've been together or even what his name is, but he's just like every other boyfriend Noa's ever had.

Noa only dates men with barely mediocre looks. It's one of the more annoying things about her. She doesn't have an ugly fetish, or anything, and she's certainly not worried about competition. It's just her way of alerting everyone that, while she might be stunning and ooze the same carefree decadence as the M, she's not at all shallow. It doesn't matter that each homely groupie is as dull as the last; people assume that Noa is simply insightful enough to see what they don't. After all, she could have anyone.

"Oh, Lord, Fiona. Look a full five seconds at any one of your other guests, or I'm going to leave."

I tear my eyes away and find Hadrian glaring at me in exasperation. I scowl back at my skinny double with his stupid Bieber do, count to five, and stick out my tongue.

Hazel eyes roll as Hadrian thrusts a drink into my hands. "You're chugging this," he informs me, "then we're dancing."

"Thanks, Hitler."

He smirks at me, adorably elfin. Jared's large frame slides in on my other side.

"I have the next round," he announces in his deep rumble.

"Sorry, lover," Hadrian says firmly. "Too much drinking, not enough dancing. You watch our drinks. Fiona and I are going to dance."

I raise both eyebrows at Jared. "You always let him top from the bottom like this?"

Jared chuckles. He could give Noa a run for her looks, with his muscular physique, chiseled features, golden eyes, and skin like chocolate whipped cream. The look he gives Hadrian is both scorching and fond as he murmurs, "I prefer not to punish him in public."

I grab Hadrian and head for the dance floor before the two fools start having sex in the middle of my party.

We find a group of my grad school friends under the chandelier and let loose. The floor is hot and crowded, but dancing relaxes me more than the drinks had, and I soon find I'm really enjoying myself.

It's fun to watch Hay dance. People are always telling him he dances like a stripper, which I suppose is technically accurate. Really, though, what strippers do on stage can only loosely be termed dancing. Girls sway and swivel and pose, guys thrust and bounce their junk. Don't believe what you see in the movies; usually, you're lucky if a stripper is mostly on beat.

Hay has rhythm—Jared says he moves 'like a sistah'—but it's more than that. He's creative. Quick, energetic, uninhibited, only flirting with obscenity. He's all over the place with never a hint of sloppiness, kind of like a choreographed Beyoncé video, except that you can tell he's making it up as he goes. And, yes, he does look sexy in his designer tank and painted on jeans. The pants hug his little bubble butt and are so low rise, it's clear he believes in neither underwear nor pubic hair.

I'm used to Hay drawing an audience when we dance, but I'm not oblivious to the admiring glances being thrown my way, as well. I'm in a cropped boho top, high waisted short shorts, and heavily studded stiletto sandals. Hay did my hair, straightening and teasing and gelling and styling until I looked like a scene girl, an exotic creature in this world of suits and champagne. And while I'm no imaginative genius like Hay, I know enough to have fun when I'm dancing. That's the secret, you know.

We're on the dance floor for a long time, and when we return to the table, it's only to grab a couple rounds of shots before heading right back. I drink more than I should—well, more than I should on any day besides my birthday—and the night passes in happy flashes of dancing, friends, and silliness. Hay and I share a body shot off Jared's criminal abs. Justen from the zoo kisses Leah from class and Katie 'Dicey' from Asgard leaves with my neighbor Will. Noa runs damage control when Hay leaps up onto the table to dance, but otherwise, I hardly see her the entire night.

By last call, I'm well past tipsy but high on adrenaline and the giddy relief that my party has gone perfectly. I'm still dancing when the lights brighten and the music fades. I stumble over to Jared to reclaim my clutch and shoes and beg for a ride home, but Noa appears suddenly.

"I live in her building," she tells Jared. "We can share a cab, and I'll make sure she gets into her apartment safely."

Jared hesitates, giving her a penetrating look. Hay would never have let me leave with Noa, but he's fast asleep, protectively cradled in Jared's arms. "You okay with that, Fiona?" Jared asks me.

"I don't want to go home," I announce. "I'm having fun." I try to spin, but the lounge spins faster, and I fall to the side. Noa catches me.

"You can't carry them both," she reasons to Jared.

"Okay," he says, finally. "Thank you." He looks a little worried. I try to smile reassuringly at him, but his frown only deepens. Then I catch a glimpse of myself in one of the mirrors, and realize I'm grinning like a maniac. My inability to control my own face strikes me as absolutely hysterical. This is what happens when I combine dancing and tequila.

"Have everything, pixie?"

"Yes." I giggle, thinking that she doesn't have everything; she's missing her number one accessory, the ugly boyfriend. I wonder where he went, but don't ask. "Do we have to go home?"

Noa makes sure I'm steady on my feet, then releases me. "We do. But I'm glad you had fun. Careful! Watch your step. Do you want to put back on your shoes?"

I shake my head emphatically.

"Fine. Then kiss your boys goodnight, and let's go."

I pout, but give Jared and lightly snoring Hadrian kisses, then follow her outside and into a taxi. I'm still nowhere near sober, but the gleeful rush of dancing gradually recedes. We ride in silence for a minute.

"It was a good party, Noa," I say finally. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, sprite." There is a well-earned pride in her voice, but she's as gracious as ever. "Your friends are a good group. Only real crisis was when I had to talk management out of kicking us out after your little boyfriend got up on that table."

I peer at her curiously. "I hardly saw you, the whole time."

She flushes slightly. I barely catch it in the flashing lights illuminating the night outside the cab. "I tried to stay out of your way."

I blink, not understanding. "Why?"

"I...well, I know I upset you, sometimes. Most times." Her charcoal eyes flicker up to mine and then flit back down quickly. "Maybe always. And I wanted you to have fun tonight."

She's telling me the truth. I can never say if Noa's being truthful or not—she has no tells—but right now, I can just feel it. Like I've got tequila-enhanced lie detection superpowers.

I'm touched. It's a bit twisted, to make sure someone's happy by avoiding them, but it strikes me as incredibly sweet, and more so because it's so unexpected, and—oh, shit, I'm tearing up. Fucking tequila.

Consternation pulls Noa's brows together. "Fiona? What's wrong?" Her left arm twitches, but she stops herself before reaching out.

I try to fight back the tears, but it's no use. I'm as weepy now as I was giddy a few moments ago. "I'm sorry!" I blubber.

Noa stares at me, bewildered and flustered. "What for?"

"For crying!" I hiccup dramatically. "I did have fun," I insist through my tears. "It was a great party, really. Very n-nice of you. And now—" hiccup, "—I'm crying." I sob harder.

"Dammit, Fi," she mutters. "Those boys let you drink too much." She looks from me to the road in distress. We're almost home, now.

I hiccup in agreement as the cab pulls in front of our building. Noa digs some money out and pays the driver. She opens her door and looks back at me uncertainly. She's uncomfortable in part because my moods are playing ping pong, but it's mostly because strong emotional displays embarrass her. Especially tears. She has no idea what to do with tears.

"Can you walk?"

I nod miserably and scooch out after her, grateful I'm wearing pants, even if they are indecently short. The concrete is cool and scratchy beneath my bare feet. Noa steadies me with one hand supporting my elbow and beeps us inside.

The concierge doesn't even look up. I'm not the drunkest person he'll see tonight.

"I'm sorry," I whisper again.

Noa's hand on my arm tightens. "Stop apologizing, imp." She sounds cross, and I cringe, but bite my tongue to keep another apology from slipping out. Noa halts, looks at me, and smoothes her expression. Her grip on my arms loosens, too. "It's your birthday, pixie," she says more gently. "You can cry if you want to."

I manage a teary smile. We get to my studio and Noa handles the lock. I stumble inside, throw my shoes and purse onto the floor, and fall into my bed.

"Want some water?"

"Only if I'm out of tequila." I bury my face in a pillow and hear the faucet run briefly.

"You drink too much, Fi. I know you're Irish, but you weigh like a hundred pounds." Noa's hand is light on my shoulder. Struggling into a sitting position, I accept the water from her. I still feel as if someone's cranked my emotional volume up too high, but at least I've stopped crying, and I don't feel dizzy.

"Keep sipping, pixie," Noa murmurs. She slips onto the bed beside me and strokes my hair. "That's a good girl. Everything okay, again?"

For an instant, I think how good her caresses make me feel, how safe and cared for.

Then a sudden wave of anxiety seizes my chest. With a wild look, I thrust the glass back into her hands and jerk away from her, scrambling backwards across the bed.

Water sloshes onto her hands and lap and she jumps up in surprise. "What the hell, Fi?" she demands. Her grey eyes flash with anger.

I cower against the wall on the far side of the bed, sick with a sudden dreadful certainly. "What are you going to do?"

She gapes at me like I've grown another head. "Do?"

"Did you want to get into my apartment so you can plant something?"

"What—"

"Is there a web cam set up somewhere?

"A—"

"Going to humiliate me and then post it to YouTube?"

"Fi, you're—"

"Or was there something in the water? Do you want to kill me?"

"Stop it, Fiona!" Noa's shriek cuts through my hysterical tirade. "Please! You're scaring me."

Now there's a fucking joke. "Don't lie to me, Noa!" I cry. "Since when have you ever had to be scared of me?"

Her eyes go flat. "As I recall it, you've always matched me prank for prank." She sucks in a breath, nostrils flaring. "Dammit, Fiona, I don't want you to be scared of me."

I look at her helplessly. "You know something? I just can't do it anymore." I feel tears threatening again, and force down the feeling of defeat by dragging up a well of rage. "I. Give. Up," I growl at her. "You win, okay? You fucking win."

Noa throws the glass down. It shatters with a loud crack, splinters scattering across the hard wood floor.

"Fuck you, Fi," she snaps. "I don't need this. You've got some crazy insecurity issues, you know that? I can't say anything, I can't do anything, I can't even look at you without you freaking out." She plants her hands on her hips. "If I tease, you get mad. If I'm nice, you go bat shit!"

"Of course I'm insecure!" I shout. "I've spent my entire life being tormented by you! You won, okay? God, Noa. Don't you see you've always won?" My fury deflates as defeat forces its way back to the fore. "Why can't you just leave me alone?" I sniffle and turn my head away. "What do you want from me?"

Noa's breath catches. When I glance back at her, her eyes are very wide as she opens her mouth several times, only to close it again. I can't decipher her expression at all as she spins around, starlight dress fanning, and stalks to the kitchen. I watch, trembling, as she retrieves the dustbin from beneath the sink and sweeps up the shattered glass.

"Fi," she says, finally. She's standing at the far side of my bed, gazing at me indecisively. Her voice is soft and apprehensive. "Only you get me this riled up."

That doesn't sound like an apology, but I don't really expect her to repent winning at life. I draw in a shaky breath and opt to go along. "I get riled up pretty easy," I admit. "By anyone."

I think one corner of her mouth twitches, but I'm not sure. She shoves back her curls and closes her eyes. Without the dark, intelligent intensity of those too sharp eyes, she looks almost lifeless in her perfection, like a handmade doll. Porcelain skin, angled cheeks, full bowed lips – she is exquisite beyond words. I smother that thought in its crib and wait fearfully for her next move.

I don't know what progression of thoughts march through that lovely head, but when she speaks, it's in a sudden rush of disconnected darts. "I don't know how to get your trust, Fi. Don't know what I want from you. You hurt me, too, you know. Sometimes I want to kill you, and sometimes I just want ... you."

I can't process all that—I hurt her?—so I don't even try. I latch onto the important part. "Want me how?"

Storm grey eyes open. "The way you want me."

My groin pulses, lighting a dizzy heat in my lower abdomen. "No more games, Noa." My voice is low and faint, even to my own ears. "You have to say it."

For a moment, I don't think she will, but then her jaw locks in determination. Noa was never a coward. "I want you to kiss me." Her voice wavers slightly, but she plunges on. "I want to kiss you. Everywhere. I want to love you." Her stare is relentless. "I want to fuck you."

Oh, God. I strangle a moan. A cold sweat prickles across my head and shoulders, and I shiver. The warm ache in the bottom of my belly might be desire, or it might be nausea.

"Fiona?" Her dark eyes are worried, but her expression is gravely calm. "Do you want me to leave or stay?"

"Both," I answer honestly.

She studies me in silence until I push myself off the wall and slink back across the bed, slow and unsteady. I gain my feet and look up at her. She's still in her heels.

I want to be precociously eager, to wrap my arms around her neck and pull her down for a kiss. Sex is my comfort zone. But I'm scared to give in. I'd claimed to have given up, but my defense mechanisms are warmongering generals rebelling against their cease-fire orders.

"Is this you encouraging me?" I rasp.

Noa winces. "I'm sorry about New Year's. I was cruel." She wets her lips, and my hormones surge up like an enraged populace seeking to overwhelm the generals. They want peace. "I just ... I lost control."

"You seemed pretty in control."

Noa looks at me calmly. "I wasn't. I was panicking. You were naked and draped in diamonds, Fi. I was as turned on as you were, and I lost it and freaked. Pushed you away before I did something crazy."