by R. K. Lilley
We’d been silently sipping our drinks for a stretch when he leaned in close to me, whispering conspiratorially, “Let’s ditch this thing and go check out our old swimming hole? Can you think of a more Gram thing to do?”
I was more distracted by the way he was leaning into me with that old, familiar twinkle in his eyes than his words. I was looking up at him, eyes devouring his face, some part of me so stuck in the past that I couldn’t even remember why I was supposed to hate him so wholeheartedly.
But then I remembered.
There was a great pit of despair inside of me, and I felt it flare open, given life by his nearness, fed by his proximity, growing every second I let him close enough to breathe my air.
Just then it felt big enough to lose myself in.
“Excuse me,” I told him tersely, and fled into the reception.
The place was packed. The good news about that was I didn’t even see a familiar face at first so I was free to move about, ignoring the strangers to my little anti-social heart’s content.
I heard noises coming from one of the large parlors and I knew instantly what it was.
The house was old, but they’d still done a halfway decent job converting one of the larger parlors into a makeshift theatre.
On the screen they were playing one of Gram’s old movies.
I’d been afraid to watch any of them since I’d heard the news, even though I loved them all. I’d thought it would make me too sad.
But as I saw her beautiful face on screen, so young then, I felt only comfort.
She was immortalized.
And this role in particular suited her. She was playing what she would have called a wicked, wicked woman, and she threw out one sassy line after another in grand Gram style.
It was everything. I took an empty seat toward the back of the room and ate it up.
I don’t know how long I sat there before a man sat down in the chair beside me.
I shot him a glance and found him studying me.
“Have we met before?” he asked me.
I gave him a second look. He was an older man with a kindly face. “I don’t think so. Were you a friend of Gram’s, I mean Vivian’s?”
Something slipped into his eyes, some bit of dawning recognition that was odd to me. It hit me in a strange and troubling way.
“Oh,” he said very quietly. “I recall now. I treated you once. I’m a doctor.”
My brow furrowed. “I don’t believe so.”
“I-I’m terribly sorry. You’re right. Please forget that I ever brought it up.”
And with that he stood up and left the room, looking harried and I don’t even know what.
As he walked out, Dante walked in. The men saw each other, each briefly pausing, steps faltering before they both nodded and continued on their way.
“Who was that?” I asked Dante when he, predictably, sat down beside me.
His whole face closed off. “Some old friend of Gram’s, why?”
“He said he was a doctor and that he’d treated me once,” my voice trailed off and I looked away as realization struck. “Never mind,” I muttered.
Dante squeezed my hand, and for a second, I let him before pulling away.
I nodded at the screen. “This is my favorite part,” I said weakly.
“Mine too.”
“I could stay in here all day.”
“Let’s,” he replied.
We didn’t do that, but it was tempting.
One of Dante’s old football buddies came in shortly, sat down next to him, and started catching up.
I didn’t even look at the guy. I hadn’t been friends with any of the jock douchebags in high school, and I saw no reason why I should have to waste my time on one now.
Also, just thinking about football put my mind in a dark place.
I got up without a word and left.
I couldn’t move without tripping over a server, but I went back through the kitchen and served myself another scotch.
It was starting to do its job and take the edge off. Numbness felt just around the corner.
I lingered at my moment of peace. It was just too pleasant to take a minute alone when the last thing I wanted was company, especially the company that could be found in this house at present.
“Of course you drink scotch,” a soft voice said behind me. “That’s so you. Always the guys’ girl.”
I turned to face Tiffany, tipping my glass back to pointedly finish off my drink.
Once again, I eyed her dress. It was perfect, damn her. Flawlessly tailored and obviously designer.
I wore cheap, trendy clothing, and I despised all the people there that knew the difference. She was certainly one of them.
One consolation was that my shoes were up to snuff today, at least as nice as hers, though I still had a mad shoe crush on her lavender stilletos.
We just stared at each other for a pregnant moment, and I, for one, had no clue what was going through her head.
It seemed to me that some bond should be made between two women when they’ve both had their hearts broken by the same man.
But there was no bond here. There was no person on earth I felt less of a kinship with.
It was like we didn’t even speak the same language. She was fluent in passive aggressive fake niceties. Darling is what she said as she plunged a knife into your gut.
I’d never understood it, could never relate. Passive aggressive women were beyond me. Or the passive part of it, at least.
Straight up aggression, that I understood.
I was fluent in liberal doses of painful honesty, well, at least when the subject didn’t delve too deeply into how I felt about a certain manipulative bastard.
“No guests in the kitchen,” I finally broke the silence with. Rudely.
I was feeling three-scotches-in honest, could not even try to play her fake nice game.
“Actually, I’m staying at the house.” She dropped the words on me pleasantly as she moved to the old bar I was leaning against, carelessly tossing her drop-dead gorgeous black and white clutch on it. Damn her and her amazing bag choices. “That grants me the precious kitchen access even according to Gram’s rules, right?”
I was floored. Why the hell was she staying here? Unless . . . My mind wanted to draw the worst conclusion, which was likely the truth. Of course she was doing it to get close to Dante. The only question was: How did he feel about it? Did he know? Care? Was he playing the same games with us both, drawing us in, messing with our heads?
“Why wouldn’t you stay at your parents’ house?” I asked her bluntly.
She started making herself a drink. She didn’t answer me until she’d taken a drink that made her nose scrunch up in distaste. “Renovations. Two thirds of the place is under construction. You know how my mother is.”
I didn’t. I only knew her as Adelaide’s evil counterpart. I’d never been to their house and I had no clue about her decorating choices.
“Isn’t it like a mansion? They don’t have one spare room you can use? A sofa?”
She shrugged. “It’s fine. I don’t mind staying here. I love this house. Reminds me of the good old days, spending time with Dante here when we were teenagers.”
She could have punched me in the stomach and it wouldn’t have knocked more of the wind out of me.
She’s a manipulative bitch, I told myself. She hides it better, but she’s just like his mother. She’s either lying or exaggerating.
“Did you spend a lot of time here when you were a teenager?” I asked, trying for a bland tone, having no idea if I succeeded.
I knew she’d spent some, I’d been there for most of it, back in the early days of my hatred of her. But the way she said it was the way I thought it, like it had meant more to her than the simple short trips when she’d come to visit.
She eyed me and, seeing something, changed the subject.
Either she couldn’t back up what she’d said or she wanted me to think that she was spari
ng my feelings.
It wasn’t hard for me to pick one, and I felt instantly better when I did.
“Did you see that Whitney Holloway is here?”
Well, she was certainly a good subject changer. That got my attention. “I did not,” I said succinctly, taking a long drink.
Whitney was another privileged trust fund baby. She was rich from birth, but for fun she modeled in her spare time. Barf. She also happened to be the woman Dante had started seeing immediately after he and Tiffany had called off their engagement.
Her tinkling laugh rang out hollowly. “We should start a Dante’s ex club. There are certainly enough of us floating around, right?”
That passive aggressive jab was meant to bring home the fact that we’d both had a relationship with him, and that mine was no more significant than any of his others.
“Oh look, speak of the devil,” she said with a smile.
I turned to watch as Dante approached us, looking ill at ease.
Tiffany met him halfway, throwing her arms around his neck as she rose up to say something in his ear.
Images of her wrapped around him assaulted me. Of them, together, naked and writhing. They were graphic, and I’d never get them out of my head.
Seeing him with her gave me that feeling again. My skin humming, bile rising in my throat.
But then—he recoiled from her, moving around her without so much as a hello.
Well, whatever he was doing with her for this twisted little trip, he was not playing the same games as he was with me. If I had thrown myself at him like that, I’d have been over his shoulder and carried to the nearest bed in about three seconds flat.
It was something, some sad sop to my ego. I made a vengeful note to use that against Tiffany the first chance I got.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
PAST
Tiffany was only a despised name in my head for years before I actually met the girl.
When her parents started sending her to stay at Dante’s house for a few weeks every summer, I was already solidly turned against her.
It is a fact that I never gave her a chance.
Blind hatred will do that.
Dante was kinder than I was, or at least that’s what I told myself back then. He tried not to hold their mothers’ crazy ideas against her.
When I first got wind of it, we were alone in Gram’s parlor right before dinner. We were sitting side by side, waiting for her to finish a phone call.
He had a hold of my hand when he told me the news.
I wrenched it away.
I was already his girlfriend, already possessive of him and sure of my ownership.
And so I threw a fit.
“She’s staying at your house?” I was trying not to raise my voice. It was the thing I’d been dreading since his mother had told me about her.
He shrugged, looking helpless. “She’s just some girl I don’t know. My mom invited her. It’s not like I can stop them, but who cares? I’m hardly ever home. The only thing I do is sleep there.
That sounded ominous enough to me. “If you stay in that house with her, I’m breaking up with you,” I told him.
He did not like that. I’d never threatened him with such a thing, never even thought of it before.
“Are you kidding me?” he spoke low, temper flashing in his eyes.
He tried to grab me, but I evaded him, standing up and walking away. “You let me know when you decide what you want to do.”
Of course he didn’t let me leave like that.
He caught me, picked me up, and carried me back to the couch. He had me pinned on my back, face looming over mine when he said. “Stand down, tiger. Who do you think you’re talking to? Whose side do you think I’m on?”
I was not standing down, still fuming, face turned away, lips trembling. “I don’t even know.”
“You do. Pretend all you want, but you know I’m on your side. Don’t you?”
“No.” I knew I was pouting like a brat, but I felt so helpless. I couldn’t stand the thought of him sleeping in the same house as that girl in the picture.
A picture I’d kept, buried somewhere in the bottom of a drawer, my fear of what she represented not buried nearly as deep.
He was the only thing of value in the world that belonged to me, and the thought of losing him made me feel impotent and weak. Made me want to lash out at anyone and anything. Even him.
“What do you want me to do?” he whispered right into my mouth. “I’ll do whatever you want. Don’t you know I’ll do whatever you want?” His voice was cajoling. Seductive. Completely unfair.
And as he spoke, he was shifting on top of me, moving his hips until he was lying flush between my thighs and we were both breathing hard.
He shifted, grinding against me. “Anything you want,” he repeated, “but don’t threaten me with that again. It’s not okay. It’s not an option. Don’t you know it’s not an option?”
I had, but I didn’t know how to pull my punches when I was blindly lashing out. “I don’t want you sleeping in that house with her,” I told him.
He had his lips on me now, was placing deep, drugging kisses on my cheek, my jaw, my throat, as he said, “Okay. Fine. That’s easy. I’ll stay with Gram until she leaves. Is that all?”
I nodded and he started kissing me. With a groan, I kissed him back, wrapping my arms around his neck and my legs around his hips.
He groaned into my mouth and kissed me deeper, grinding harder against me.
We made out like this just about every chance we got, but we normally weren’t this shameless about it. We usually found someplace where we knew we were alone before we did anything like this. The fight had distracted us both.
“Dante, get off her,” Gram’s exasperated voice broke through the air.
He leapt off me like she’d burned him.
I sat up, straightening my clothes as I looked guiltily at her. More than anything, I wanted her approval, and I hated the idea that she’d look down on me for finding us like that.
But she just rolled her eyes at me. “Boys!” she said, throwing her hands up. “What on earth will we do with this one? Too brazen for his own good!”
I smiled, sending a disgruntled Dante an evil look. I even stuck my tongue out at him. He’d been blamed for the whole thing, and I couldn’t make myself be sad about it. It had been his fault.
Over dinner Dante casually asked Gram if he could stay over for a few weeks.
She didn’t hesitate. “Of course. Any time. You don’t have to ask. You’re welcome here, always. You too, Scarlett. Come for a sleepover any time you like.”
Dante and I shared a look, both of our minds going to the same place, which was he and I sleeping under the same roof, quickly followed by thoughts of us in the same bed.
I blushed and looked away. It was a hopeless fantasy. My grandma would never let me sleep over at Gram’s, especially if she had an inkling that Dante was there.
“How about it?” Dante asked me later as he walked me home. “Want to have a sleepover with me at Gram’s?” He was grinning ear to ear.
My whole face went red. “Knock it off.”
He laughed, backing me into a tree, pinning me there with his big body. “You don’t want to have a sleepover with me?” he laughed some more. It was contagious, and I found myself smiling up into his face.
“I swear sometimes Gram still thinks we’re ten years old,” he told me.
“She didn’t think that when she found us dry humping in her parlor earlier,” I said wryly.
His eyes did something fascinating when I said that. “Dry humping, huh? As opposed to what? Wet humping?” He wasn’t even smiling anymore, his body crowding me.
“Stop,” I told him.
“When are you going to let me wet hump you, Scarlett?” he was laughing again, which was good. For a second there he’d seemed too much for me to handle.
“Shut up,” I told him, my usual retort for being teased.
<
br /> “We’re almost to your house,” he told me, though we really weren’t since we weren’t even moving anymore. “Aren’t you going to kiss me goodbye?”
“Are you going to stop teasing me?”
He leaned in close. “Never.” He kissed me.
I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him back. We were good at it by then, we’d done nothing but practice lately. It was a new and dear hobby.
And I was very good at giving him a little then backing off, never letting him get too far since my grandma had put the fear of God in me.
I won’t deny that the thought of another girl as competition had more than a bit to do with it, but we got a little more carried away than usual. He was grabbing my butt, holding me against the tree while he ground his hardness into me, rooting around for my softness through our clothes.
I brushed my breasts into his chest, rubbing them back and forth against him until he made the noises I liked best.
My nipples were so hard and sensitive and I couldn’t seem to stop doing it, brushing them back and forth, making him feel what he was doing to me.
He ripped his mouth away, panting as he pressed our foreheads together. “Jesus,” he muttered, a refrain that let me know he was reaching his limit.
Licking his lips, I started pulling my shirt up. Since that first time, when we’d been caught by my grandma, my breasts had been pretty much off the table, but I decided right then to put them back on it.
He pulled back to watch as I exposed my bra, his hips moving in little movements that I doubted he even knew he was making.
I unsnapped my bra and pulled it apart, letting my breasts swing free.
“God,” he said, reaching for them.
I let him fondle me while I watched him through heavy lids.
“Does this feel good?” he asked me, kneading at my flesh.
“Mmmhmm,” I hummed. So good. “Does it feel good to you?”
His breathing was heavy, his hips circling as he started tugging on my nipples. “You have no idea.” He bent his head down to me. “Can I?” he rolled his eyes up to look at me.
I bit my lip and nodded, covering his hands with mine to lift myself up to his mouth.