A Gorgeous Villain

by Saffron A Kent

  “I’m not afraid of you.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Disgusted, yes. But afraid, no.”

  He hums thoughtfully. “Maybe you think that once I put my hands on you, you won’t be able to control yourself.”

  “Control myself from what?”

  His ruby red lips stretch up in a smirk. “From touching me back.”

  “You mean my fist touching your face?”

  His smirk only grows as if I didn’t say anything. “From wanting me. From falling for me again.”

  “You —”

  “I mean, you did before, right? I twirled for you a little and you thought I was your knight in fucking armor.” Then, “Wait, shining armor. That’s what you called it, isn’t it? You thought I was your knight in shining armor.” He chuckles then, thick, syrupy condescension dripping from it. “I mean, there are silly teenage girls who fall in love at the drop of a hat and then there’s you. You, who lives in a house made of cupcakes and whose dreams are full of pink glitter. And who thinks that every story is a love story where the prince is going to get down on his knees and offer you forever. And you both will ride off into the sunset. In his Mustang.”

  By the time he finishes, I’m flushed.

  With anger.

  My spine is the straightest that it’s ever been and my chest is the heaviest. It feels like my bones have turned into iron and all I want to do is use them to hurt him.

  To hurt him like he’s hurt me.

  Like he continues to hurt me.

  But I won’t.

  I won’t lower myself to his level. I know he’s provoking me and I know he wants me to give in.

  And I will.

  But in a different way.

  In a way that will prove him wrong. That will show him that I will never ever be that stupid again.

  “Fine,” I say, fisting and unfisting my hands at my side. “Let’s do it. But only because you taught me that not every story is a love story and you’re the villain everyone said you were.”

  He watches me a beat before he throws a curt nod and bends down, hitting play on the stereo.

  The sound comes on, the buzzing static before the music fills the air.

  This moment has the power to send me back to the past, to Bardstown High, to the auditorium. But I keep myself in the present. I keep myself grounded to Blue Madonna as I walk toward him to begin.

  I try to erase my memory.

  I try to develop amnesia.

  Especially when as he sees me approaching, he widens his stance and dips his chin like he used to do two years ago.

  Especially when the violins come in and I have to assume position, my arms straight up in the air and my calves stretched up, my weight supported on my toes.

  Especially when I remember that when I danced for him, I felt perfect.

  I felt beautiful.

  I felt like a flawless ballerina, and when I take my first turn under his scrutiny, that feeling comes rushing back.

  The feeling that I’ve been missing.

  The feeling that I’m on fire. That the wings on my back can really fly me away and that I’m spinning so fast that my toes have left the ground and I can levitate.

  The feeling that I’m really a fairy.

  I haven’t had this in two years.

  Not since he went away.

  But tonight it’s back.

  Tonight, I feel perfect. I feel beautiful and ethereal.

  I feel like a fairy.

  His fairy, as I dance around him.

  As I twirl and leap and jump and lose myself in the music like I was made for it.

  As he watches me with a certain kind of possession in his eyes, the same kind from two years ago.

  I don’t want to, though.

  I don’t want to feel perfect or on fire or ethereal.

  I don’t want to feel his.

  But I do, and when the time comes for him to lift me and he puts his hands on my waist and gives me a boost after two long years, stars explode in my veins. The violins are so loud that they shatter the ceiling, the sky, and I throw my arms up in the air, my lungs swelling up with his scent of wildflowers and woods.

  I’m so lost in it, in his grip, in the fact that my soft flesh gives so easily beneath his strong fingers, that it takes me a few seconds to realize that the music has stopped.

  I don’t even know where the time went.

  I don’t even know how it moved so fast and there’s pin-drop silence now.

  Except for our breaths, panting and heavy.

  I lower my arms then and put them on his shoulders, looking down.

  As always, his eyes are already on me, a gunmetal gray so intense and liquid that I could drown in it. I could drown in the deep lake of his wolf eyes.

  And I should save myself.

  I should look away.

  I shouldn’t admire his thick lashes, the strands of his dark brown hair that flutter over his forehead. The long strands that make me think that he needs a haircut.

  I shouldn’t flex my fingers on his shoulders and knead the muscles. I shouldn’t marvel over how big they feel now, how strong and rock-like. Even more than before.

  Like he’s been pumping iron for the past two years, building himself muscle by muscle, tendon by tendon.

  And why wouldn’t he?

  He’s an athlete. A soccer player.

  The best soccer player.

  The one who won the championship two years ago. Who defeated my brother, the Angry Thorn, and became the reigning champion of Bardstown High, the Wild Mustang.

  I bet people still remember him. They remember his victory. They remember his swagger, his style, his legend.

  And if they remember him, they probably remember me too.

  They probably remember what the Thorn Princess did in the name of love.

  How she went crazy.

  For him.

  And God, I need to get away from him. I need to leave.

  I need to save myself.

  “I have to go,” I whisper and hastily climb down his body.

  Looking away, I step back from him and in my mind, I’m already putting things back, closing down the studio and catching the bus back to St. Mary’s when he decides to break the silence.

  “I’ll drop you off.”

  He’s waiting for me by his Mustang.

  He’s leaning against it, his arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other.

  When he told me that he’d drop me off, I didn’t argue with him. I didn’t want to prolong our time together and I didn’t have the energy for it either. Giving in seemed like the best course of action.

  Now though, not so much.

  Because I can’t stop this pain in my chest, this wild thunderous beating of my broken heart.

  This is how he always waited for me.

  Leaning against his car, his strong arms folded, his animal eyes — that I think can see even in the dark — pinned on whatever door that I’d come out of.

  Usually his front door.

  Because that was when he’d take me out on rides, when I visited Tempest over the weekends, and he’d bring me back safe and sound before my curfew.

  And I’d run to him.

  I’d rush down the cobblestone driveway to get to him, to go wherever he planned on taking me before ending up in the woods so I could dance for him.

  Tonight though, I walk slowly.

  I breathe slowly too. In and out.

  But most of all, I don’t look into his eyes. I don’t stare back.

  I keep my eyes on his black boots with metallic buckles even though I know that he doesn’t have such qualms.

  I know that he is staring at me.

  I can feel it.

  I can feel his eyes looking at me as I walk toward him, taking me in, my changed dress, my tight bun, my ballet flats.

  But I power through it. I power through the short walk and when I’m close, I see that he unfold
s his ankles and straightens up. And then he does something that knocks the breath out of me.

  Like it used to before.

  He walks around his car and opens the door for me.

  He always did that, and two years ago I didn’t know what to make of it.

  I didn’t know how to protect myself from his charms, from a villain with manners.

  He’d stand there with the door open, his eyes tracking my every move as he’d wait for me to get in. So he could close the door after me as well.

  And turns out I still don’t know how to do that, how to protect myself.

  Because when he opens the door for me tonight, my whole body trembles. My breaths come out faster and I have to dig my nails into my palms to make it all stop.

  “Thank you,” I say, finally looking at him, remembering my own manners.

  His reaction to my thank you is not the same, however.

  Before, he’d smirk or say something inappropriate or simply stare at me with bright intense eyes to make me blush.

  Tonight, he does stare at me and his eyes do glow.

  But he makes no comment. His stubbled jaw is harsh and his gorgeous features are tight.

  Despite everything, I’m slightly disappointed, but I ignore it and get inside and then I have other thoughts. Other things to contend with besides his changed reaction.

  Things like I’m inside his Mustang after two years. His Mustang.

  Somewhere I never thought I’d be.

  And those trembles intensify.

  I shake as hard as his car does when he snaps the door shut after me.

  Last time I was in this car, I drove it into the lake.

  I was crying and shaking and in so much pain. And strangely it comes back to me that on that night, his Mustang smelled the same as it does tonight.

  Wildflowers and woods.

  And his seats, they feel the same too. The same plush smooth leather. The carpet even. Everything feels the same, cozy and warm and thrilling.

  When Reed gets inside, I want to ask him about it.

  I want to ask him how he managed that.

  How he managed to put it all back together the same way as before.

  He must be good then, right? Extremely good with cars if he could achieve this level of perfection. And I want to ask him.

  I want to ask him why he never told me that he worked at a garage, that he has this amazing talent. So much so that he built this car with his own hands. Why he never shared those things with me, those little parts of himself.

  Well, because he never loved you, Callie. You never meant anything to him.

  Right. Of course.

  There’s nothing for me to say to him then and so I let him drive me back to St. Mary’s in silence. Soon though, the ride comes to an end and we reach our destination.

  He parks the car by the side of the road and I know that I should get out and leave. I should walk back through the woods and scale that fence to go back to my room.

  But I can’t.

  Because there is something that I want to say to him. There is and I can’t let it be.

  I can’t keep quiet anymore.

  Not when I’ve been wanting to do this for the past two years.

  I’ve been wanting to do this since the moment I saw his Mustang disappear into the lake.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt out.

  There’s no indication at all that he heard me. He’s staring straight through the windshield. I’m not sure what he’s staring at though; it’s all dark.

  But I don’t let that deter me.

  I hug my bag to my chest and continue, “About your car.”

  Yes, I’m apologizing.

  Because I’m a good person. I feel guilt. I feel regret. I’m not like him.

  At this, there is some movement — the clenching of his jaw — that alerts me that he’s more attuned to my words than he’s letting on. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing or bad, that clench, but as I said, I won’t be deterred. “You hurt me that night. You broke my heart, and even though you deserved all my hatred and all my anger, you still do by the way, I never should have done what I did. I never should’ve stolen your car and driven it into the lake. I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking, I guess. I was… I was hurt and in pain and I just wanted to hurt you back. And your Mustang seemed like the best way to do that and —”

  “I know.”

  I blink. “What?”

  His jaw moves again, all tight and rigid. “I hurt you. So you wanted to hurt me back. I know that.”

  “I didn’t know,” I blurt out.

  "Didn’t know what?

  "That you’d built your car.” His grip goes tight on the wheel and before he can say anything, I speak. “I didn’t know that. I knew you loved it but I didn’t know that you’d built this car yourself. I didn’t even know that you could do something like that, Reed. I had no idea. I had no idea that you worked in a garage and —”

  “Who told you?” he cuts me off.

  His jaw is ticking and I fist the fabric of my backpack because I know he’s angry. Extremely angry.

  His wolf eyes shine a different way when he’s angered. They become all dark and dangerous, narrowed. His jaw becomes a true V, as if his agitated emotions have chiseled it down.

  This is exactly what used to happen back on the soccer field, with Ledger. This is how all their fights would start, and I know from experience that I should back off now.

  He wouldn’t physically harm me, of course, but I shouldn’t anger him further.

  But I don’t care. So I tell him, “Tempest.”

  “Tempest,” he bites out.

  “Yes, but you have to know that she didn’t tell me this for the longest time. And she wasn’t going to. She was going to keep your secret. It was me. I forced it out of her. It’s my fault. Not hers.”

  Reed watches me in the darkened interior of the car.

  If there’s a moon out tonight, it’s hiding in this part of the world. But even so, I know he can see me clearly. I, on the other hand, am struggling.

  I only see him in tight lines and shadows and when he moves his jaw, I know he’s going to speak. “Are you done?”

  “No.”

  A ripple cuts through the still air and I’m forced to look into his glowing eyes that are somehow both dark and bright at the same time.

  “Excuse me?”

  I raise my chin. “I want to know how.”

  “How what?”

  “How you saved me?”

  At this, his reaction is so unexpected that I can’t breathe for a second.

  Not to mention, so violent.

  Those knuckles that were already jutting out almost tear through his moon-kissed skin. He almost tears the wheel off with his grip. And when he looks at me again, I flinch at the ferocity in his wolf eyes.

  “I saved you,” he grits out.

  I’m not sure what it is that I said that made him so angry, that made his cheekbones even more pronounced, but I somehow manage to respond. “I always thought it was you. I always thought that you were the one who reported me, who pressed charges. I guess it was my mistake. I just assumed it would be you. But it wasn’t. You didn’t press any charges against me. You —”

  “Get out.”

  I don’t.

  I won’t.

  I have to know. I have to know how.

  How did he save me? What did he do?

  “Con told me,” I continue, hugging my backpack to my chest, pressing my back against the door, watching his angry frame. “Again, he didn’t want to. He let me believe that it was you who did everything, but he told me the truth. That it wasn’t you. In fact, you came to him with the deal. You made those charges go away. Reed, I need —”

  “Get the fuck out of my car, Fae.”

  I shake my head. “And it was your d-dad, wasn’t it? He pressed those charges against me. And I know you don’t l
ike to talk about him. But Reed, what did you do? You must’ve done something, right? To make him back off. To get me off the hook. What did you do, Reed?”

  Maybe the why doesn’t matter. Maybe his conscience did wake up, as Con said. Maybe he saved me to amuse himself, to do his good deed of the year.

  Like he did two years ago. When he let me go, unscathed, from his clutches.

  When he left me a virgin.

  But I want to know how.

  I want to know what he had to do.

  Because it’s his father.

  The man he hates.

  The man I’ve never even met but who wanted to see me punished for what I’d done to his son’s car. Not that I blame him. I take full responsibility for my actions.

  But I know, I know, there’s more to the whole story and I need to know what.

  “What did you do, Reed? What did you have to do to save me from your father?” I ask when he doesn’t break the seething silence.

  And it’s as if that word — save — is some kind of a trigger for him, making ripples cut through the air again. His hands on the wheel vibrate. His entire frame vibrates.

  His eyes were already dark, already angry, but now they become bottomless pits.

  They become the eyes of a demon. The villain that he is.

  Someone so heartless and cold that I almost breathe out in wintry vapors. And when he turns toward me completely, it takes all of my courage, all of my bravery, to stay put.

  Not to shrink back. Not to run away.

  That’s when he grabs me.

  Or rather, my backpack.

  When his hand shoots out and fists it.

  He uses it to bring me forward.

  To bring me closer to him, to his icy heat and his chilly blazing eyes. “You can’t take a hint, can you?”

  “I just —”

  “Why?”

  “What?”

  “Why do you want to know what I had to do?” His grip on the backpack tightens and he inches me forward again as he leans over me with narrowed eyes. “Why are you so curious, Fae?”

  I swallow, afraid and trapped and God, thrilled. Thrilled to be so close to him. Something I don’t want to be.

  “Let me go,” I tell him sternly.

  “No,” he says in a rough, edgy tone. “Not yet. Not until you tell me. Tell me if it’s happening again.”

  “What’s happening again?”

  He runs those angry, somehow both heated and chilled eyes over my upturned face. He pauses at my lips. He studies the color of Train Wreck Princess, the lipstick I chose for tonight.