And that’s how I feel when it comes to my sister.
“How is Mom doing?” I ask Tabitha, curious as to how everything has shaken out there in the last year.
Since, well … since my perfectly conservative housewife of a mother found out that my practically pastoral father had an affair with their close church friend. As if I didn’t have enough issues when it came to men, now I had to deal with the fallout of my father, whom I had always thought was at least decent if not harshly devout in his beliefs, destroying any little hope I had left in the male species.
It happened six months ago, and it was the one and only time my mother had even remotely let me see into her emotional side. She called me, sobbing quietly, to tell me the news. In that moment, my heart had shattered. My parents have a traditional, Christian marriage. She has been subservient to my father, aiming to please him every day since the day they traded rings on the altar. It wasn’t fair that she should have to go through this, no matter how fractured my relationship is with her.
There’s only so much of my soul left after what had happened to me all those years ago. Hearing of my father’s infidelities … that gutted me. Say what you want about him, but I’d at least thought he was one of the good ones. Having to face the reality of a positive male role model in my life being just as rubbish as the rest … it stole a piece of my remaining soul.
“She’s already feeling better about it. Has forgiven Daddy and they’ve prayed on it. The devil, he got to him. But sin can be absolved, with the right amount of church time and family strength. You should really try to come home, Poppy. They’d both love to see you in this time of great need.”
Blimey, she sounds like a nun. I can’t believe this is the same sister who once taught me how to sneak Cosmopolitan magazine into the lining of my backpack so that Mum wouldn’t find it when we got home from school.
“I’ll be home for the shower, Tabitha. But you should know, I’m not going to pray about it.” I’ve always stayed firm in my stance that I didn’t share their beliefs.
Growing up, church was our second home. It was expected we’d attend Sunday services, catechism school during the week, be involved in youth group. I had no choice but to listen to the priest’s words or opinions; the Bible was my nightly reading. I didn’t question its lessons or what I was being fed until much later.
But when I did, I blew the hypnotism hat my parents placed upon my head clear off. I didn’t believe any of that codswallop anymore. How could I? What kind of God would allow unspeakable things to happen to a fourteen-year-old girl? And, not that it happened at the hands of a priest or clergyman, what kind of church covered up the assault of its parishioners?
I couldn’t justify that enough against the things they preached, so I halted my religious activities altogether.
“I can’t have this fight, again. Goodbye, Poppy,” Tabitha clips into the phone, and then the line goes dead.
Just as well, it wouldn’t have ended with either of us changing our stance. As I enter the lobby of my building, having walked all the way home while on the phone, I’m reminded of just how necessary it is to stay away from my neighbor. Because if men like my father can’t even be trusted, then the arrogant football player next door certainly can’t be.
Kingston Phillips reminds me of every smarmy bloke whose only goal in life is to get into a woman’s pants. And I don’t mean just one woman’s knickers. No, this playboy’s mission is to sleep his way round the entire country of England, and then move on to the other countries of Europe. Perhaps branch out to the States. He is my father, multiplied by good looks and fat pockets. Kingston is an elite, grew up in the cushiest of worlds and has the smug attitude to prove it. He believes he’s untouchable, that the word no doesn’t exist where he’s concerned. And he works it all with an air of humor, that’s what makes women think he’s approachable. But, I know, it’s what makes him that much more dangerous.
So, I’ll deploy my usual tactics, tenfold. I use my quips, my sass, and my backtalk to throw anyone off the scent. Because if I can put on a front like I don’t care about them, or that I’m indifferent to almost any situation I’m in … it’s far better than anyone discovering what’s really in my head. That on the inside, I’m dying a slow death. That internally, I’m empty and cold, the feelings that once began blossoming there were stolen from me five years ago by someone who knew better.
9
Kingston
I don’t run into Poppy on our penthouse floor until a week and a half after our shared lift ride.
The lift doors open and immediately, I spot a pair of legs shuffling back and forth, the top half of the person obscured.
Obviously, I know exactly whose gorgeous poles those are, especially since I found out an actual goddess was occupying the flat next door.
Grocer’s bags are piled high in Poppy’s arms, teetering precariously in the air, about to tumble to the ground. She’s fumbling with her keys, trying to get them in the lock to open the door, and everything is about to come crashing down when she takes an unexpected side step.
“Woah!” I dart forward, looping one arm around her waist and the other around the loaded paper bags.
“Blimey! You scared me!” she yelps but stays still in my embrace.
It’s probably not so she can be close to me, but so she can save the half a watermelon dangerously close to splattering into pieces on the plush carpet of our shared hallway. Still, I savor the half a second that I’m allowed to get close to her. Her skin is warmer than I anticipated, like she’s been sunning on a beach in the Grecian islands. Smells like it too, some mixture of coconut and shea butter tickles my nostrils and I want to inhale that scent for the rest of my life. From afar, Poppy appears to be all hard angles and edgy beauty. But holding her, I feel the dips and crevices of her figure, the padding of her bum against my front and the teasing curve of her neck where my mouth sits just inches from.
“But I saved you. So, I think in the end, it was worth it.” Easily, I pluck three of the bags out of her arms, leaving her with a lighter and much more manageable trip.
“I can handle it on my own.” She swipes at me to take back her parcels, but I swerve, avoiding her reach.
Poppy huffs, instead, turning her attention back to the lock. The stubborn bird, she really doesn’t enjoy my company.
“Don’t you have people who stock these things for you? I come home and food appears in my refrigerator or pantry. We’re rich, Poppy, these are things we don’t have to do,” I point out as she finally manages to get her front door open.
She sends those eyes, the color of a sun-drenched blue sky, rolling toward the ceiling. “You really have never done one bit of work in your life, have you? Have you ever even stepped foot inside a Waitrose? How about, gasp, a Tesco?”
I wrinkle my nose. “No, why would I? Someone’s always done it for me.”
“You’re really so out of touch with the world, it’s mad. For your information, I enjoy going to the market. I enjoy picking out my food and then bringing it home to cook it. There is something satisfying about organizing the pantry or lining up my cans of ginger ale in the fridge. Completing household chores gives one a sense of purpose, you should try it sometime.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll pass.” I push farther into her flat.
She hasn’t extended an invitation, but I figure I saved her carton of eggs from imminent doom, so I’ve earned the right.
Doing a sweep of her flat, I notice it has a similar layout as my own. Open concept, with three steps down to the sunken living room across from the front door. Traditionally framed, white floor-to-ceiling windows with a view out onto the London cityscape along the back wall. The kitchen on the right, with a full bath immediately next to me, and I know from just glancing down it that the short hallway on the left contains doors to the master bedroom, spare, and den-type room which I’ve converted into a film room for myself. I claim it’s for match-day rewatches and studying, but the only thing I’
ve actually screened are all the Die Hard movies.
Aside from the layout, though, the similarities are few and far between. While I knocked out all the old English finishes and transformed my flat into a modern piece of bachelor art, Poppy has opted to keep them. Her space is all cozy neutral paints with touches of soft pink and big overstuffed furniture that looks brilliant to take an afternoon snooze on. The theme, as I’ve been taught by my interior-designer mum, is antique chic … an updated, millennial version of traditional British decorating. It’s what Kate Middleton’s house probably looks like, if I had to venture a guess.
Her kitchen, as she promised, looks like it’s actually been used. There is a large white ceramic pitcher on the counter that looks to be filled with homemade iced tea, a bowl of fresh apples on the island, and a kettle on the stove hand-painted with tiny pink flowers. It’s the kind of piece that someone else probably pays a pretty pound for, but I have a feeling this one is passed down for generations.
That odd thought makes me come to the conclusion that I know very little about Poppy and being in her home makes me want to peel back the layers.
“Who said you could come in here?” She gives a little start when she spins around, having just put her cold items into the fridge.
“I was helping you bring in groceries, remember?” I smile, trying to keep the charm and tease out of it.
My usual tactics don’t work to attract Poppy, so I’m going to try a new approach. Being … nice. That sounds totally lame, and maybe I’ve gone mental, but if the end goal is still to get her naked beneath me, does it really matter?
The way her eyes go all shifty as she stands just feet away from me, on the other side of the island, makes me think about what Luigi said about her. Is she really a prude, or just exceptionally frigid? Maybe there is a man in her life, one she doesn’t make public. Is that why she’s acting like I may just set her living room ablaze?
“And now I’m … what? Supposed to offer you a cup of tea?” The words seem to cause her physical pain as she directs them at me.
I can’t see those gorgeous, toned, tanned legs behind the counter, but I can tell Poppy is shifting from foot to foot. The world’s favorite model is dressed down today, in a pair of worn-in blue jeans and a casual gray T-shirt. Her face is free of the paint and sorcery that transforms women, and all of those long chocolate waves are spilling over her shoulders. Something in my chest wriggles free, and I’m hit with a burst of realization that I’d prefer seeing her with her hair let down, so to speak, than in a glitzy cocktail dress any day.
Who the hell have I suddenly turned into? I give my head a tiny shake, to clear it, and remember my mission; get in her knickers.
“I’ll take that, or sexual favors. Either repayment is fine with me.” I take it upon myself to walk to a particularly cozy looking chair and flop down on it.
“Does this really work for you?” She points a red fingernail in my direction, her nose wrinkling in distaste.
“Being ridiculously good-looking and curling my finger at whatever woman I want?” I shrug. “Yes, typically.”
Poppy sighs in annoyance. “The women of this world … no standards.”
“What are your standards? Come on, I’m dying to know. If I’m not good enough for the number one Boudoir Bombshell, who is?”
She busies herself with the kettle, filling it with water and adding four tea bags and a dollop of sugar before even putting it on the stove. It’s the way one of my favorite nannies used to fix tea. A memory of my mother calling it a backward method and correcting the employee comes floating back to me. I always did prefer my tea that way rather than soaking the herbs and leaves in already boiling water.
“Why, so you can turn yourself into Prince Charming? I’ll give you a heads-up, it’s not going to work.” The muscles in the slim column of her back work as she moves around the kitchen.
I follow her, all of her grace and strength hypnotizing me. “Nah, I know I play the role of the scoundrel. No need to tell me that. But maybe I can be your wingman. Get you a good shag. How about it?”
“You really are just a randy twit, aren’t you?” She laughs, almost as if it’s with me rather than against me.
“And proud of it.” I slap a hand to my heart, as if I’m pledging allegiance to the dirty rotten playboy she’s found me out to be.
Poppy sighs and turns around, having no more busy work to distract her from me sitting in her living room. Her long legs eat up the space between us, and she folds them underneath her on the white linen sofa she sinks down onto.
“Honestly, I’m too busy most of the time to think about finding a nice bloke. Or what he’d even look like. But I suppose, if I had to dream one up …”
She taps one of those red fingernails to her chin and I wish I could bite the tip of it, gently, with my teeth. This is probably one of the only times I’ve ever been alone with a woman, in her home, completely sober. Much less, in the middle of the day. I’ve had many women, but none of them have ever been more than a one-night fling … if I even let them stay until the morning.
Bickering with Poppy, sitting here in her space, it’s kind of … nice. Bloody hell, how lame is that?
“He’d be tall because he can’t be shorter than me.”
I hold one finger in the air. “First checkmark for me. Go on, I want to see how many of your boxes I tick off.”
If she notices that I give a little side of eyebrow waggle with my innuendo, she doesn’t say anything.
Though she does actually seem to consider my question. “A job, he has to have a good one. One he’s passionate about because I love my job and won’t date someone who doesn’t feel the same way about their career. And I’m busy; I don’t have time to entertain some lazy bugger. He ought to be kind and supportive, a man who can take charge but also is comfortable letting me lead. And I don’t want someone who takes themselves so seriously, like a lot of the men I encounter do.”
“Hmm, this is really turning out to be eye-opening. Seems the perfect man is sitting in front of you.” I wave my hands up and down my body, as if to demonstrate that I’m available on a silver platter.
Poppy lets out an amused sigh. “Oh, Kingston. I do have to admire your tenacity. It’s still a no, though.”
As she rises to shut off the stove and remove the whistling kettle, I follow her. This conversation was just getting interesting, and now she wants to extinguish it by pouring hot tea all over it.
“What about his ability to pleasure you? To make you scream in ecstasy? How about an orgasm quota he has to hit?”
“Kingston, stop …” Her voice is doing that haughty deflection thing I’ve come to recognize.
She does this when she’s shy, or uncomfortable. And, as is my nature, I barrel right through it. I’m moving closer to her, invading her space, and she sets the teapot down, trying to maneuver away. The counter and island have her blocked in. With nowhere to run, she has to answer my questions.
“Okay, fine. I’ll leave the sex talk for another day. But how about kissing? Does he have to satisfy a minimum amount of kisses a day? Maybe just one when he leaves for work?”
Those aqua pools shift nervously, and something I don’t quite know how to read appears in her irises for a split second. It sends a jolt right through me.
I’m so close to her right now, that teasing scent of coconut wafts over me. She’s so beautiful, blinking up at me like some kind of innocent, naïve animal. This encounter has ripped away all of her acerbic words and biting attitude. Underneath the facade, Poppy Raymond is just a young girl who …
Wait one bloody minute …
My voice is a whisper of pure shock when I ask my next question. “Have you ever been kissed?”
10
Poppy
“Have you ever been kissed?”
He poses the question as if the answer is simple. For most people, it would be. But for me … I’m not even quite sure how to answer that.
Have I ever felt the
rush of excitement at the thought of a boy pressing his lips to mine? Yes. Was the opportunity to learn that feeling, to learn about the physical expression of my body, taken from me without consent? Yes.
I suppose the answer is no, that I’ve never been willingly, sweetly, gently coaxed into a kiss. I’ve never used a bodily action to demonstrate how I feel about a man. For five years, I’ve never remotely felt the urge.
But now, standing here with this incessant, nagging, devastatingly handsome nitwit it’s all I can think about. As if my body isn’t listening to the logic my brain is trying to scream at it. As if there is a force greater than me pulling me to the edge of a cliff, and I’m gladly following it straight over the edge.
“Pshh, of course, I have. Don’t be daft.” But my voice is too high, the notes of it too strung out and panicked.
Kingston rubs one large, olive-skinned hand over his boyishly rugged features. “Oh my fuck, you haven’t. How is that even possible? I mean … look at you!”
I try to take one step back, but he follows, and the fridge is at my back. “I have to kissed someone.”
“No, you haven’t. You may think you’re a brilliant liar, but you’re actually pretty shite at it. It is a crime against humanity that no one’s tasted those lips.”
And now he’s staring directly at said lips, and I can’t help it when I run my top teeth along the bottom one. Kingston tracks the movement, and the familiar tingle he keeps inciting low in my belly bursts to life.
“Let me do the honor?” His voice is the deepest octave, a gravelly hoarse laced through it.
It’s not a direct question, but he is asking permission. It’s more than any man has done in my life, and I’m so jumbled with sexual energy and electric heat that I do the one thing I wasn’t sure my body would ever allow.
The Lion Heart (Rogue Academy Book 2) Page 5