Claimed

by Portia Moore

  My face is thin, my eyes huge, my hair thick and silky. For the first time, as I try to see myself through someone else’s eyes, I realize that I might actually be pretty. The thought seems too vain to hold onto for long, but still, it feels good.

  I flop down on the edge of the mattress, reaching for my phone. Nine p.m. My mom usually goes to bed in half an hour. By then, I should be able to slip out of my window without her hearing the noise, and sneak off to meet Zach. My heart flutters in my chest, the fist-sized knot unfurling and sending butterflies into my stomach. I try to picture the look on his face when he sees me. The surprise.

  My phone vibrates and I snatch it up. I see his name on the screen, and the butterfly wings flap harder, my stomach turning over with nervousness.

  I remember how soft his lips felt as I click on the screen.

  Hey Rain. I’m sorry, but I can’t make it out tonight. Some stuff came up and I can’t get past the folks.

  The butterflies die. I feel my heart sink, clenching in my chest again.

  He just wants an excuse to not have to turn me down again, not have to deal with the awkwardness of telling a girl…

  Who he thinks of as a little sister?

  …that he doesn’t want to kiss her.

  He regrets what happened today.

  I feel like an idiot as tears well in my eyes. The dress is stupid. My hair is stupid. I’m stupid. I suddenly hate the scent of vanilla on my skin, the softness of it, the way I got ready for him like it was some kind of date. Didn’t I hear anything he said today?

  I rush into my bathroom, strip off the dress, and throw it on the floor. I turn on the shower as hot as I can stand it, and scrub the scent of vanilla off of me, wash the strawberries out of my hair. I scrub and scrub until my skin is pink and I smell like my own soap, that cheap berry scent that fades in minutes, and my hair smells like nothing, just the shampoo I get from the dollar store.

  I pull on my old ratty pajamas and climb into bed, pulling the sheets up to my chin. I won’t cry, I tell myself firmly, but the tears are sliding down my cheeks and dripping off of my chin anyway. I don’t wipe at them, trying to pretend that they’re not there.

  It’s fine, I tell myself. I’ll find new friends. I’ll find a hobby. I’ll find something to occupy myself that isn’t just following Zach around, and then he’ll miss me. I’ll be the one that got away, the friend that he wants but can’t have.

  I repeat it in my head over and over, even as I know that if he texted me right now that he’d changed his mind, I’d jump out of bed and go. I need to figure out what I’m doing with my life. I don’t want to be poor forever; I don’t want to live the life that my mother has. And the ticking clock of eighteen suddenly seems closer than ever, that looming deadline where I have to choose my path.

  I’m not throwing away Zach’s friendship. I can’t. He’s the only person I trust implicitly. But it’s time I learn to be my own person, too. Then, maybe this won’t hurt so badly.

  I close my eyes, willing the tears away. Willing the knot in my chest to loosen.

  Willing it to stop aching.

  I think about what, as I walk from class to class in a daze the day after Zach blew me off. I don’t see him, and I try to put him out of my head. Instead, I focus on a hobby—specifically, a hobby that might help me choose a career.

  As I’m walking through the cafeteria to get my lunch, trying not to think about the fact that I don’t see Zach at our usual spot, I see a long table set up with three kids sitting behind it, my age or a little older than me. The sign in front of it says Creative Writing Workshop in big, bold letters, and I walk up slowly, eyeing the three kids warily. One is a tall, handsome guy who looks a year or two older than me, with dark skin and short, curly dark hair. He looks like something out of a fashion magazine, honestly, with ripped stonewash jeans, an electric blue t-shirt, and a matching, frayed stonewash jacket. Next to him is an overweight girl about my age, with thick glasses and neon pink lipstick, and then a tall, thin girl, pretty in a librarian-ish sort of way, with a head full of curly dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses, as well as a face covered in freckles.

  They’re an interesting trio. Interesting enough to make me want to see what their writing group is about. I like writing stories—well, I like writing the first chapter or so of stories, until I inevitably get bored and start on a new idea. Maybe this group can help me get past chapter one.

  And that’s a career, isn’t it? Or the door to one. Writing, editing, publishing…I have a sudden picture of New York City in my mind, and me dressed in jeans and a wool blazer, hair pulled back into a high ponytail, carrying a stack of books to my office.

  Or whatever it is that publishers or writers do.

  In a few years, I could be sitting in a Manhattan coffee shop writing my first bestseller.

  It’s crazy, but it won’t hurt to check out, I might make a friend, at least. I’m supposed to be building a life outside of Zach.

  The guy in the ripped jeans looks at me with interest as I approach. “Hey,” he says, his tone light and casual. He grins at me, showing bright white teeth, and I return his smile cautiously.

  “I’m, um…interested in the group? What do you guys do?”

  His smile broadens, and he pushes a sheet of paper towards me. “Well, we meet twice a week after school. We’re working on short stories now. We each come up with a prompt, mix them into a bowl, and pull them out. Then we spend about a month working on a short story based on that prompt, eight to ten thousand words or so, and then we pass them around and review them, edit, that sort of thing. Rewrite, and go again. It’s entertaining and educational.” He winks at me, and I feel myself flush a little.

  It startles me. It’s the first time I’ve ever had that reaction to any man other than Zach. But this guy in the retro jeans is handsome, I can’t deny that. He must go to a different school—I’ve never seen him around here. I would’ve noticed if he went to this one.

  That thought makes me feel slightly guilty, as if I’m being disloyal to Zach somehow. But how can I be? He’s dated girls, plenty of them. He’s the one who keeps turning me down. He’s probably slept with at least one of the girls that I’ve seen him with. Maybe more.

  The thought makes my heart clench in my chest again, and my throat feels tight. I don’t want to imagine that. I think about Zach in various stages of undress more and more often these days, but I don’t want another girl in those images. Just the thought of it makes me want to cry and throw up, all at the same time.

  And it seems like the best way to make that stop hurting so much might be to find someone else to flirt with. After all, flirting is harmless. Noticing a cute guy never hurt anyone. So, I smile back at the guy, tentatively, and hold out my hand.

  “I’m Rain,” I introduce myself. “Rain Carlisle. I’ve done a little writing, but not much. I’d really like to join your group if you’d have me.”

  “I’m Marcus,” he says cheerfully. “This is Katie”—he points to the girl with the neon lipstick—“and this is Cassie.” He gestures at the girl with the freckles. “Honestly, you’re the first person who’s come up to us since we set up this morning. So yeah, I think we’ve got a spot for you.”

  “That…that sounds great!” My heart is speeding up in my chest—I didn’t expect to just get to walk right in and be a part of the group. Now I’m nervous…but I’ve gone too far to turn back now. “So…next Tuesday?”

  “Next Tuesday,” he confirms. “Just put your name and phone number—and email if you have it—down on this sheet here. Other than that, just turn up with a notebook and pen.”

  “Well, I’ll see you guys on Tuesday, then,” I say cheerily, still looking at Marcus. Neither of the girls have said anything to me. Cassie just looks shy, but Katie is looking between Marcus and I with an expression that is very clearly envy. But I don’t care. I feel as if I’m floating. Just a little bit of effort, and I’ve not only joined a group, but I might have a new friend.

&nbs
p; “See you Tuesday,” Marcus says with a charming smile and wave.

  I turn to walk back to the line for lunch…and almost walk straight into Zach.

  “Hey, everything okay?” I ask, almost accusingly. The mixture of anger and sadness flares up in me again, and I cross my arms over my chest and wait for him to explain.

  “I’m sorry,” he says quickly, and his eyes are apologetic, wide, and sorrowful. “I shouldn’t have…Rain, I’m sorry. I really am. I just needed some space to collect my thoughts after what happened. You know, in the garage.” He runs a hand through his thick, shaggy blond hair, and I try to push down the wave of longing that passes through me.

  “Well?” I don’t uncross my arms. “How much space do you need, exactly? Because I can eat lunch alone if you need more space.” I back up a step. “How about that? Is that better?”

  “Rain…” Zach looks at me, a mixture of exasperation and sadness on his face. “I was just afraid that if we met up…”

  “What, I’d try to kiss you again?” My jaw tightens. “I’m sorry it was so terrible for you.”

  “It wasn’t…Rain!” He just looks frustrated now. “It wasn’t terrible. But I told you, we can’t do that. And I was afraid…”

  I know what he’s not saying, and a small thread of hope wraps around my heart. He was afraid of what might have happened if we met up. That he might have given in, that it’s hard for him to not feel about me how I feel about him, that he does, that he just doesn’t want to.

  “I don’t want to fight with you. You’re my best friend,” he says, taking my hand in his. “I

  saw you at that writing table. Are you thinking of joining?” he asks, his voice quiet and warm.

  “I’m just making some new friends,” I return flatly. “You have your group of friends outside of me, and it’s time I make some of my own. I can’t just rely on you all of the time.”

  I glance up at him and my heart clinches at the hurt that passes through his expression.

  “It’s not that they’re outside of you Rain, it’s just…” He trails off rubbing the back of his neck.

  “You never invite me to hang out with you guys.”

  “That’s because they, you’re…” Zach looks at me, surprised his words are colliding clumsily against one another.

  “Yeah?” I lift my chin.

  “I…” Zach rubs his hand across the back of his neck. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. They’re not like you, I mean… Look, I’m hungry. I was waiting for you to eat lunch. Can we just go get some food, and table this?”

  I’m hungry too, but I don’t want him to just blow off the subject.

  “We’ll talk about it later, I promise,” he says, giving me a pleading smile.

  “Alright,” I relent.

  I see his shoulders relax, and we walk together to the lunch line companionably, the argument mostly forgotten—by him, at least.

  Chapter 17

  Rain

  Present day

  I expect Vincent to come up and meet me, but when I walk out into the bedroom, Andrea ushers me towards the door. “Mr. Jamison is waiting downstairs,” she says sharply, gesturing. “It’s 7:30.” She hands me a small rose-gold clutch purse that matches my jewelry down to the hibiscus-flower clasp, and points towards the front door. “Go.”

  I make my way to the elevator, my knuckles white around the hard shell of the purse. I open it once I’m safely inside and see nothing in except a small pack of blotting paper and a tube of liquid lipstick—the same one that’s on my lips, I think. No license, no ID, no money. But, I guess as the elevator stops at the lobby and chimes, I won’t need money out with Vincent.

  Or your identity?

  I shrug off the thought that wherever we’re going, I’m probably not legally able to get into. There’s a sleek black car waiting at the curb, and just as I reach it, a man in a sharp black uniform comes around the front and opens the side door for me, gesturing for me to get in.

  I slide inside without a word, the scent of leather, polish, and Vincent’s now-familiar smoky cologne filling my nose. I look up at his face, heart pounding, wondering what he thinks of me—of how well I’ve managed to pull off what he’s picked out for me.

  He’s wearing fitted black dress pants and a dark-blue button-down shirt that somehow makes his eyes seem brighter. The shirt is unbuttoned just enough to show the hint of the dark hair on his chest. His thick dark hair is effortlessly styled. His eyes are filled with desire as they land on me, his mouth curving up in a half-smile as he watches me slide into the car, trying not to trip or snag anything.

  “You look astonishingly gorgeous,” he says softly, reaching for my hand. His thumb rubs over the cocktail ring, his gaze taking in every inch of my appearance, from the diamonds that sparkle even in the low light of the car, to the shimmering dress, my perfectly painted toenails in the strappy shoes. “Everything I could have hoped for my little Poppy flower.”

  His Poppy flower? It’s kind of cute, I guess. “Where are we going?”

  “My newest club, the Palace. It’s the grand opening tonight, and I couldn’t go without the most beautiful woman in Chicago on my arm.” He grins, and I shake my head.

  “I don’t think that’s me, Vincent.”

  “Oh, but it is.” He reaches for me, tapping a button on the door as he pulls me towards him. A screen slides over the divider between the backseat and the front, blocking us from the driver’s view. He reaches for a bottle of champagne that is sitting in a bucket of ice, and begins to pour two flutes of it, handing one to me.

  I stare at it. I’ve drank alcohol in a moving vehicle before. Of all the things that have happened so far, this seems the most over-the-top, the biggest sign that the ordinary rules don’t apply. I take it from his hand and swallow a small sip.

  I’ve never really liked champagne. I’ve only ever had the kind you get from the grocery store that’s under ten dollars, dry and bitter on the back of my tongue as I rang in another new year with friends and kissed boys I didn’t know. This is different. This is faintly dry with a sweet edge, the bubbles sparkling over my tongue and down my throat, the rich flavor of the grapes exploding in my mouth.

  “Good champagne tastes different, doesn’t it?” I glance over to see Vincent looking at me, clearly enjoying watching my reaction. “This can be your life, Rain. All of the time, every night. I want you to see what it’s like tonight, being on my arm. What you could look forward to if you were with me.”

  I try to contain my eye roll because this has to be something; he tells every girl he dates. He can’t be serious, but I’ll play along. I take another sip of the champagne, feeling his arm around my waist as he pulls me closer. “This is all so new,” is all can think of to say to his declaration.

  “New is good.” He leans towards me, and I feel his lips on the shell of my ear, brushing softly over it. “You deserve all of this, Poppy.”

  I feel him slip the champagne flute out of my fingers, and his same hand starts to slide up my inner thigh as he nips softly at the lobe of my ear, his breath warm against my skin. I whimper softly, and he does it again.

  “Is that one of the spots where you like to be touched, my beautiful flower?” His lips move down to my jaw, down to the spot just at the corner of it, breathing softly against my skin so that the tiny hairs all stand up. I shiver.

  “I want to find all of those spots on you.” His hand slides a little further up my thigh, beneath the hemline of my dress. “Every spot that makes you quiver and shake and moan. Is it here?” He kisses my neck. “Or here?” His lips brush over my ear again. “Or here?” His hand slides up further, and his fingers sweep over the silky lace of my panties.

  I can’t speak. My body is heavy and warm, my skin flushing from forehead to toes with sudden heat. I can feel myself growing wet between my thighs, and a sudden wave of embarrassment as his fingers brush against me there. I know he’s going feel it, how easily turned on he’s made me.

  “Don
’t be ashamed, Rain,” he whispers against my ear, angling his body towards me. I glance down and can see that he’s hard, his dick a clear outline in his dark pants. His fingers brush over my panties again, moving towards the edge of them, and I see him throb and stiffen. It sends a fresh wave of desire through me, and when his fingers touch the edge of my panties, hinting that they might slip beneath, I moan.

  “What if I decided I didn’t want you to wear these tonight?” He bites my ear again, softly, and his fingers dip beneath the lace, stroking along the space between my legs. “So wet,” he whispers. “Does that turn you on?”

  I let my head rest against the back of the seat, my back arching as I press against his hand without thinking about it. I’m hot, pulsing under his touch, and I want more. The ache is spreading through me, the need for release. I’ve had a taste of it and now I crave it. As embarrassed as I am to be getting fingered in the back of a car inches away from the driver, I’m close to not caring.

  I reach out with one hand, groping for the ridge of his hard dick, wanting to touch him in return, but he pushes my hand firmly away, pressing it against the leather of the seat. “Not yet,” he says. I feel his index finger slide over me again as he holds the lace of my panties out of the way, exposing me to the cool air. His lips run down my neck slowly as the tip of his finger glides over my clit, and I moan, suddenly not caring who might hear.

  “Don’t come,” he warns me as he moves his finger in slow circles, shifting his hand so that the pad of his thumb rubs my clit as two of his fingers slide inside of me.

  “Oh god, Vincent,” I whimper his name at the feeling of his fingers inside of me, torn between the sweet relief of the sensation and wanting to climb into his lap, unzip him, and replace them with what I really want—him, hard and thick, filling me up. I’m a different person right now. This isn’t me. These aren’t my thighs spreading apart willingly for him in the back of a town car, expensive champagne pulsing through my blood. As his fingers curl, finding the sweet spot inside of me, I moan. “Vincent, I’m going to—”