Tempered (A Daughters of the People Novel) (Daughters of the People Series) (4 page)

He’d caught
glimpses of her throughout the day. After his first obligatory appearance, he’d
caught the tail end of her reading from her latest novel to an enthralled
group. She’d changed her accent for each character, breathing life into them
with an ease that had surprised him. Occasionally, she interpreted gestures,
too, making the audience laugh.

Who knew the
somber woman had a sense of humor?

Once, he’d
passed by her in the hallway as she knelt beside a group of young girls dressed
similarly to her, gently correcting their holds on sword-like weapons made of
balsa wood and tinfoil. Her eyes had shifted to his as he passed and drifted
down his body with a proprietary gleam, heating him through and through.
Hawthorne had murmured something to her fans too low for him to hear, making
them giggle, and then said plainly, “Someday, when you are great warriors,
perhaps you will win the hand of a handsome man.”

He hadn’t known
what to think about that.

She’d slipped
into the back of the room during one of his panels, her attention seemingly
riveted on their discussion of creating realistic characters. Not long after,
an officious little man had bustled up to her and all but dragged her out of
the room. Later, Aaron had caught sight of her listening to the same man, her
arms crossed under her breasts as she nodded solemnly. She’d looked up, her
eyes meeting his as if she’d known he was there the whole time. Another gaggle
of girls had surrounded her as the officious man stepped back, then Jason had
pulled Aaron away, effectively ending the seductive pull of her gaze.

It amazed him
that they’d seen each other at all. DragonCon’s events were spread over five
venues and there were so many people in attendance, it was entirely possible to
go a whole day without seeing the same face twice.

Some faces he’d
rather not see at all.

Jeanne had given
him hell after Hawthorne’s demonstration at breakfast, lighting into him for
sleeping with a
misogynistic heteronormative libertarian
to the point
that she’d put his teeth on edge. He’d set her straight about the misogyny. As
far as he could tell, the only woman Hawthorne despised was Jeanne, and he
honestly couldn’t blame her for that, especially after the cattiness his
ex-wife had resorted to. Honest to God, what had she been thinking? Hawthorne
carried a sword, a real-life, genuine sword, and knew how to use it. Hadn’t the
rumor mill circulated that around to Jeanne after the stick-fighting exhibition
the night before?

But no. Jeanne
had never been one to bow to reason, not if she could twist a situation to suit
her own ends.

She’d left him
for being insensitive to her needs as a woman. That’s what she called his wanting
to have sex, which he’d always believed was a natural part of any relationship.
It had been a devastating blow to his manhood. For a long time, he’d blamed
himself for marrying her right out of college, for working two jobs while they
each established careers as artists, for not spending enough time with her. His
belief that they belonged together had carried him through those years. He’d
wanted a family, wanted to grow old with her, and looked forward to the day
when they’d both be successful in their respective fields and could laugh at
the trials they’d endured to get there.

After she’d
cleared out, her views on children as parasites and men as a necessary evil had
come to light. It had put a whole new perspective on their marriage. Instead of
the guilt he’d felt for not working hard enough, he’d gradually understood that
his part in their marriage’s failure had been small in comparison to hers.
She’d never wanted marriage, not really, and if she’d been honest about that,
they could’ve parted more amicably without the mess of a legal union. Instead,
she’d all but dragged him down the aisle and he, believing his love was enough
to carry them through, had given everything he had to her. It had never been enough.

Over time, she’d
created a revisionist history of their marriage, bragging about the good times,
glossing over the bad ones, and completely ignoring her own role in its
failure. Her hints that she wanted to reconcile with him had grown heavier over
the past couple of years, but he was content with the casual friendship they’d
built on top of the ruins of their marriage.

Now that he’d
met Hawthorne, he damn sure wouldn’t take Jeanne back, even if he never saw
Hawthorne again. Her blunt honesty was a pleasant change from the cutthroat
social scene in San Francisco. Ok, so she was a tad volatile. Then again,
Jeanne had goaded her. The other women in his ex-wife’s circle of friends
would’ve resorted to infantile name-calling and bitchy conversations on Twitter.
After overhearing Levi’s comment about beheadings, he had a feeling they were
all lucky Hawthorne had made do with a quiet threat. And though he didn’t
believe Hawthorne would really kill anyone, he damn sure knew she had the skill
for it.

He shifted his
attention back to the audience and answered a question from a neophyte
illustrator, expanding on an answer another panelist gave. The event wound down
gradually, slower than Aaron would’ve liked, until only a few stragglers
remained. He slipped away as soon as he could, grabbed a snack on his way to
his room. Showered quickly then checked his phone messages while he dressed in
a clean t-shirt and running shorts. At the last minute, he packed a bag with
toiletries and a change of clothes and, as an afterthought, dropped in his
sketchpad and some pencils. It never hurt to be prepared.

He took the
private elevator to her floor and tapped his fingers on his thigh as the floor
numbers lit up above his head. Inhaled slowly, calming the rapid patter of his
heart. The doors slid open. He stepped through them and dug her keycard out,
rapped on the door before he opened it.

Hawthorne was
lounging on the sofa, fully dressed, talking to Lali on her cell phone.

The door swung
shut behind him and their eyes met across the room. She ended the call and
dropped the phone on the coffee table, and then she was on him, wrapping
herself around him and claiming his mouth in a passionate kiss that stole his
breath and sent heat skittering through him, all cockeyed and nimble. Their
hands fumbled, sending their clothes flying as they were yanked off and
discarded. When they were nude, he lifted her up and pressed her back against
the door, and slid into her with a relief quickly overwhelmed by need. He took
her hard, urged on by her nails digging into his skin and the breathless gasps
she made with each thrust of his hips. He never wanted it to end, never wanted
to leave her tight, wet heat.

She tangled a
hand in his hair and arched her back. “Harder,” she whispered against his
throat. He flexed into her, lifting her up, up, up. She groaned and her body
jerked and she came, spasming around him, pushing him over the edge into a
release that went on and on and on.

He touched his
forehead to hers and tried to catch his breath and the happiness zinging
through him on the tail end of passion’s ebbing beauty. Happiness, so much. Too
much for how long he’d known her. He reined it in, tried to, but it lingered
and waxed and filled him from stem to stern.

Later, he
persuaded her to pose for him and drew her nude body illuminated in the soft
glow of the bedside lamp with the sheet pulled over her breasts. They talked
while he drew, about her writing and his drawings, and about Lali, who turned
out to be Hawthorne’s granddaughter.

No matter what
Levi said about Hawthorne’s age, Aaron had a hard time believing her to be old
enough to have children let alone grandchildren or, as she’d claimed Levi was,
a great-grandson. The only reasonable explanation he could muster was that she
was an honorary relative. That accounted for the Nana nickname and the odd,
almost ritualistic farewells, but it didn’t jibe with what he knew of her. When
a woman as literal as Hawthorne told him something, he had a hard time not
taking her at her word.

He finished her
portrait and turned his sketchpad around to her.

She blinked up
at him, her huge gray eyes guileless. “This is how you see me?”

“Yeah.” He
started to put it away. Her hand shot out, startling him into handing it over.
“What?”

“You must think
me beautiful.”

“You are
beautiful,” he said softly.

“Perhaps your
vision is colored by pleasure.” She sat up slowly and took his sketchbook,
laying it on the nightstand. “I shall thank you properly for your time now.”

“Drawing is its
own reward.” He grinned as she pushed him back onto the bed and straddled him.
“On the other hand, it’s been at least an hour since you had your wicked way
with me.”

“Sex is not
wicked, Aaron Kesselman,” she chided gently. “Unless you wish it to be.”

“Oh, yeah. I do,”
he breathed, and lost himself in the wicked feel of her mouth on his.

Aaron met Jason
for brunch the next day. Hawthorne had kept him up late the night before,
talking and
building trust
, late enough that he’d fallen asleep wrapped
around her, waking only when the sun shone brightly through the cracks between
the drapes. In Atlanta, that was pretty damn late. She’d already been gone,
though she’d left a note inviting him to “use the suite as if it were yours”
and reminding him that she’d be an hour later getting in that night if he
wanted to spend time with her.

He was of two
minds there. On the one hand, he enjoyed being with her. For the sex, yes,
God
yes
, but also for her company. She was easy to be with and, for the most
part, open and tolerant. For the first time in his life, he felt like he could
be himself with a woman. While she never hesitated to express her opinion or
call him out on his, she also never judged. It wasn’t just refreshing; it was
downright seductive, and therein lay the problem. He didn’t know anything about
her, not where she lived or where she was from or even what her full name was.
Every time he tried to ease the conversation around to her past, she deftly
sidestepped him by changing the subject or, if he was especially persistent, drew
him into another bout of sex.

She was brutally
up front about everything else. Why not her past?

There were other
problems, though. She was a hardcore libertarian, and while he saw her point on
a lot of things (people
should
take more responsibility for themselves),
he disagreed with enough of the finer points that he knew it would drive a
wedge between them sooner or later. By then, it would be too late. He’d already
taken the first teetering step into love with her, what anyone else would call
infatuation, but he knew better. His heart was tender and ready for it, and she
was so close to the kind of woman he’d hoped to meet. Beautiful and fiercely
independent, intelligent and, underneath it all, kind. Any closer to love and
the damage would be irrevocable. She’d break his heart and after all the crap
he’d gone through with Jeanne, he wasn’t sure it could take another hit. Love
he was willing to sacrifice for. Certain heartbreak? Not so much.

A waiter came by
and took their order. Not Levi this time, thank God. Aaron didn’t need one of
Hawthorne’s relatives spying on him.

“I know that
look,” Jason said. “You’ve got woman on the brain.”

“Doesn’t take a
genius to figure that out.”

“Not with the
scorchin’ hot looks passing between you and the ever-sexy Hawthorne.” Jason
propped his forearms against the edge of the table. “So what gives?”

“What gives
about what?”

“The chemistry’s
there, you seem to like her. What are you worried about?”

Aaron sat back
in his chair. “I don’t even know where she lives.”

“Somewhere near
here, I think.” Jason shrugged. “What does that matter?”

“Don’t be dense,
Jase. She lives in Atlanta, I live in San Francisco, and ne’er the twain shall
meet.”

Jason waggled a
finger. “I might have a solution to that, old son. Seems Dana talked Hawthorne
into submitting a proposal for a graphic novel based on one of the characters
in her Black Queen quadrilogy. Her publisher wants to move on it, but the
editor’s dicking around on the illustrator, especially since Hawthorne insists
on collaborating in person.”

Interest
stirred. “Yeah?”

“I could put in
a word, maybe rub a few elbows. You’d have to go to her for a couple of months
to finalize the proposal, do your drawing magic, maybe build a little trust.”

Aaron scrubbed
his hands down his thighs. Two or three months would give him enough time with
Hawthorne to figure out if sex was all they had in common. On the other hand, it
would be hell if the physical side of their relationship fizzled while they
were still under contract. Mixing business and pleasure wasn’t such a hot idea.

“Take some time
to think about it,” Jason said. “But not too long. Word is, the publisher’s
pushing to get the project underway. You snooze on this one, man, I may not be
able to get you in.”

The waiter
brought their brunch by, steaming plates of eggs and grits with piping hot
biscuits on the side. A good Southern breakfast, minus the ham. Aaron cracked
his biscuit in half and spread butter on one side. Had Hawthorne eaten anything
or had she started work on an empty stomach? They’d worked off so many calories
over the past two nights, it was a wonder she had the energy to move. She was
already on the skinny side, muscled, sure, but lean with it. A couple of missed
meals couldn’t be good for her.

He blew out an
exasperated breath. Man, was he a goner.

“So, are you going
to the catfight?” Jason asked.

Aaron paused
with the biscuit halfway to his mouth. “What catfight?”

“Hawthorne and
Jeanne.” Jason knifed out a packet of butter into his grits and dumped in an
unhealthy dose of salt. “First Ladies of Fantasy Fiction panel at eleven
thirty.”

Aaron dropped
the biscuit and checked his watch. Alarm shot through him. “That’s in forty
five minutes.”

“Relax, man.
It’s being held here in the Hyatt. We’ve got plenty of time.”

“Tell me other
people will be there.”

“Sure.” Jason
rattled off the names of four other high profile female authors. “But the big
show will be your two ladies. Word’s already spread about their little showdown
yesterday over you.”

“That wasn’t
about me.” Much. “You better not be spreading that rumor.”

“Hell, man, it
came back to me, not the other way around. Besides, it’s a pretty accurate
recap. If Jeanne had opened her mouth one more time, I bet Hawthorne would’ve
wiped the floor with her.” Jason sighed dreamily. “God, I’d love to see that.”

“Stick around,”
Aaron muttered. “It might happen.”

They finished
their meal and paid the bill, then headed to the room where the panel would be
held. Jason protested the speed of their march through the hotel the whole way.
Aaron slowed marginally, trying to give the other man’s stubby legs time to
catch up. Hawthorne and Jeanne on a panel that would likely touch on the role
of women in SciFi and Fantasy. No good could come of that.

They slipped
into an already packed room. Other con attendees poured in behind them, taking
places around the walls. Aaron’s gut sank like a stone. He’d hoped Jason had
exaggerated the rumor mill. Apparently not. The fist-sized anxiety in his
stomach punched and jabbed. Hawthorne was seated at the end of the panel’s
table with Jeanne on her left. Great. Why hadn’t someone sat between those two
or at least had the foresight to seat them at opposite ends of the table?

Levi’s lithe
brawn sure would come in handy right about now.

Dana waved to
them from near the front of the room. Aaron pushed his way to her, Jason in
tow, and plopped into one of the two seats she’d saved.

She leaned
around Jason and caught Aaron’s eye. “I hear you and Hawthorne are an item.”

Aaron shot a
glare at Jason and ignored the other man’s attempt at an innocent shrug. “We
just met.”

“That doesn’t
mean you’re not an item.” Dana’s smile was just shy of knowing. “She asked me
to recommend you as a collaborator on a graphic novel she’s writing.”

“I told him.”
Jason shifted in his seat and crossed his arms together on top of his round
belly. “He’s thinking about it.”

“Think quickly,”
Dana urged. “The editor needs to find someone by the end of October at the
latest or we’ll miss a chance to release the graphic novel in conjunction with
one of her other projects.”

The panel
moderator tested her microphone and the room went silent. Aaron tried not to
focus too much on Hawthorne, though it was hard. Dana had seated them on the
first row but to the side, not far from Hawthorne’s seat at the front. His gaze
was drawn to her again and again, to the quiet stillness of her posture and the
even tones of her voice. Unlike the other women, she sat back, away from the
microphone, and spoke only when addressed directly. She never looked straight
at him, but she didn’t have to. Every time he moved, her hand tightened
imperceptibly on her leather-clad thigh. No one else would notice such a slight
gesture. He only did because he’d made such a careful study of her, trying to
figure out what made her tick, trying to understand what unpleasant event had
happened to make her so leery of having a man above her.

He’d deliberately
pushed his suspicions out of his mind. Hawthorne wasn’t a victim. He couldn’t
imagine anybody getting a jump on her and forcing her into anything she didn’t
want to do. That wasn’t her. She was controlled, aware of her surroundings, and
a fighter. There’s no way some man could’ve slipped under her guard and hurt
her. No way.

Half an hour
into the discussion, Aaron relaxed. So far, the questions had been innocuous.
How did you become a writer? Why did you choose fantasy? How did you find an
agent? Where do you get your ideas? Typical fare for a con, nothing
controversial or overly personal, especially when spread out over six women.

The conversation
turned to sexism in the field. Hawthorne remained silent, though the other
panelists had plenty to say. One went into a diatribe on systemic sexual
harassment and another remarked snidely on how hard it was for a woman to break
into the genre thanks to the oppressive patriarchy demonstrated by publishers.

Aaron agreed, to
a degree. There were injustices in the field and those needed to be addressed.
On the other hand, he was always stunned by the vitriol with which many women
approached the topic, attacking anybody who even called for a calmer dialogue,
often leaving no middle ground for a rational discussion, let alone a just
resolution.

Jeanne jumped
into the fray. “All of this is nothing but violence perpetuated on women, a
kind of rape of our minds and bodies by capitalist fascists bent on domination
and repression of our art, of our very
beings
.”

A throb set up
residence in Aaron’s temple.

Hawthorne turned
a glacial stare on Jeanne.

“Uh oh,” Jason
muttered.

“Have you ever
been raped?” Hawthorne’s voice was quiet over the hush of the crowd. “Have you
ever had a man touch you in a way that you did not wish?”

Jeanne blinked,
her expression blank. “Well, no, but…”

“Then you have
no leave to use that word in conjunction with the actions of men in your presence.”

“I’ve had plenty
of men sexually harass me,” Jeanne shot back hotly.

“That is not
rape,” Hawthorne said flatly. “Conflating one with the other is a disingenuous
effort on your part to turn all women into victims and all men into criminals,
simply because of their sex.”

“All women
are
victims,” Jeanne snapped. “Haven’t you been paying attention?”

“Being female
makes no one a victim.” Hawthorne leaned forward, her gray eyes intent. “I am a
woman. Do you truly think I would allow another to perpetuate harm upon my
person?”

Jeanne drew back.
“Yeah, but you’re a walking poster child for a woman who hates her femininity.”

“I do not parade
my vagina around for all to see, it is true, nor would I. That is only one part
of who I am, not the whole of me. It is sad that you do not recognize this in
yourself.”

“You dare pity
me?” Jeanne laid her hand on her chest “You, with your boyish haircut and your
manly attitude. You’re nothing but a misogynistic whore for this country’s rape
culture.”

Hawthorne faked
a yawn and patted her mouth. “Sticks and stones.”

It was the most
expressive Aaron had ever seen her outside of sex. His gut knotted and he
glanced around the room, searching for Levi.

The moderator
leaned over the table toward Hawthorne and Jeanne. “Ladies, could we get back
on subject here?”

“Gladly,”
Hawthorne said, while Jeanne hissed, “Home wrecker.”

Aaron dropped
his head into his hands.

Hawthorne
covered her microphone with her hand and spoke quietly to Jeanne, whose
responses echoed clearly around the room, to the delight of the audience and
the despair of the other women on the panel. “He was mine first,” she said,
followed closely by, “Building trust my ass. You’re fucking him,” and then,
“You nearly killed me, you moron.”

By this time,
Levi and three burly men had ranged themselves into a semicircle around the two
women, not ten feet from where Aaron sat.

“Is there a
problem, Nana?” Levi said quietly.

Hawthorne turned
to him and said evenly, “This woman is being disruptive. Please remove her
until such time as she is calm.”

“I’m not the one
being disruptive,” Jeanne squawked.

“Nevertheless,
you will leave quietly and with a dignity that will not embarrass yourself or
your peers.”

Jeanne stood
with a huff. “This isn’t over.”

Hawthorne rested
an unblinking stare on the other woman. After a tense moment, Jeanne wilted
under it and allowed one of the men to escort her out of the room. The
moderator jumped in gratefully with a call for more questions, and though the
other women on the panel continued to look askance at Hawthorne, she relaxed
into her seat as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.