The Villa(35)

And then there’s another soft chord as Pierce picks up his guitar again, too. He finds the harmonies easily, Noel lifting his head to give the other man a surprisingly kind smile. Pierce practically glows in response, and the song continues, lifting, falling, raising goose bumps on Mari’s arms.

When it ends, there’s no sound except the patter of the rain on the windows, and Mari’s own breathing in her ears.

“That was gorgeous,” Lara enthuses, and not even her bright energy can quite puncture the moment, which feels heavy with meaning, with … something that Mari can’t quite put a finger on.

They play more songs, that night, Noel and Pierce. Songs of Noel’s, including Mari’s favorite, “Autumn Sun.” They play songs they each like, Pierce’s sweet voice lending unexpected depth to lighter tunes like “I Wanna Hold Your Hand,” Noel’s famous velvet baritone turning “California Dreamin’” wry and less wistful.

Eventually Lara gets up from the sofa, clearly intending for Noel to follow.

He doesn’t, of course, and there’s another muffled slamming of a door upstairs, but by then, Mari is drowsy and happy, content to watch Pierce and this man he admires so much create music in the candlelight.

She’s not sure when she falls asleep exactly. The music makes everything soft and hazy, lulling her into dreams. Mari’s never been a fan of drugs, barely drinks more than a glass or two of wine, but she thinks this is what those kinds of altered escapes must feel like, this slow slide, like slipping into a warm bath.

When she wakes up, the music has stopped, and she opens her eyes to see Pierce and Noel are now standing, their guitars abandoned.

It takes her a moment to make sense of what she’s seeing. Noel’s mouth on Pierce’s, Pierce’s hand almost tentative on Noel’s waist underneath that dressing gown. Pierce has always seemed so tall to her, but Noel is taller, his grip surprisingly strong in Pierce’s soft brown hair.

When they part, Pierce’s face is flushed, his throat moving as he swallows hard, and when he looks over at Mari, she waits for the guilt to flash across his face, for outrage to rise in her.

But Pierce only watches her, his gaze steady and warm, and there’s no anger in her at all, she realizes. Only a sort of vague disappointment that they’ve stopped.

Then Pierce turns toward her even as his hand never leaves Noel’s waist. “Come here, Mari,” he says, his voice soft, and she gets up from the sofa, wondering if she’s still dreaming.

Noel is watching her, too, smirking lazily, but she can sense the tension in him, and when she gets closer, she sees that he’s actually trembling.

It melts something within her, and she leans forward, the threadbare carpet under her bare feet, the candles burning all around them.

In the mirror just over the fireplace, Mari sees the three of them, watches as Pierce comes to stand behind her, kissing the place where neck meets shoulder, his hands skating down her bare arms.

She doesn’t look like herself, or maybe it’s that she finally looks like herself, her eyes half-lidded, her lips parted, cheeks flushed.

Noel moves to stand in front of her, his hand once again going to Pierce’s hair over her shoulder, but he’s looking at her, and she wonders what he’s seeing.

“In for a penny, in for a pound, Mistress Mary,” he murmurs, and Mari rises up on her tiptoes, pressing her lips to his.

His kiss is different from Pierce’s, the only one she has to compare it to. There hadn’t been anyone before him, no quick snogs behind the school, no fumbles at school dances. She had always thought it was because, somehow, she knew she was waiting for Pierce.

But she likes this, likes the firmness of Noel’s mouth, the forthrightness of it all, his hand on her neck, his tongue against hers, and as she leans closer, Lara’s face is there in her mind for a moment.

We’re even now, she thinks, but just as quickly, she’s shoving that thought away because she doesn’t want Lara here, a part of this moment.

This isn’t about evening the score. This is about what Mari wants, and right now, she wants this.

This, finally, is a version of Pierce’s ideal world that might get to include her as well.

Thunder rattles the house, the storm growing even stronger, and Mari gives in.



* * *



SHE WAKES TO another slamming door, but this one is close.

Too close.

It’s past noon, she knows immediately, and the rain has stopped. The light that pours through the windows is bright, illuminating everything that had been shadowy and dim the night before.

Mari is on the floor by the fireplace, a chenille blanket covering her from the waist down, her head pillowed on Pierce’s chest. He’s sleeping like he always does, like a little kid, his arms thrown over his head, his face peaceful.

Noel is a warm weight at her back. His arm lays heavily across her, palm resting on Pierce’s bare stomach, and Mari takes a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling.

She waits for regret to come, but there isn’t any. It’s done, after all, there’s no taking it back.

And, she thinks, with a smile that threatens to turn into a laugh, what’s the point of going to a villa in Italy with a notorious rock star if you don’t let yourself go a little wild?

But that doesn’t mean there aren’t consequences, and as she gingerly disentangles herself and finds her discarded dress, she knows she needs to deal with them as soon as possible.