by K. V. Rose
“I’m not going to touch her.” There’s no way. I can’t do that again. Not now. Now that I know my dad has been all over her. Claiming her. Owning her.
Benji smiles. “You just close your eyes and pretend it’s Vivian.”
I shake my head. “You do it.” Even as the words leave my mouth, I’m already regretting them, and I hate that.
Benji shrugs. “Okay,” he says.
I want to bash his face in. Instead, I shake my head. “No, fuck it. I’ll do it. She always did have a tight pussy. Hopefully she still does.”
She does. I just had my fingers inside of her. But my dad…I clench my jaw.
“You film it. Send it to your dad. He cuts off her supply of money to get her here. She’s fucked. And she won’t come back here again.”
I sigh. “Benji, there’s a lot of legal ramifications to filming someone without their consent.”
He shrugs. “Good thing you’re a lawyer.” He stands to his feet. “Figure out how to work around it. When do you want to do it?”
“You said you gave her a chance to leave.” I hope to God she takes it, even as a part of me is excited about this plan Benji has. Round two.
He nods. “I did. But I’m not sure she will. I’ll know tonight if she books a flight.”
I don’t ask how. “Okay. If she doesn’t…Tuesday is always a good day to fuck shit up?” And a good day to give Riley the payback she deserves.
He winks at me. “Perfect. I’ll be in touch.”
As he walks out of my office, I can’t help the sick feeling that’s still in my gut.
Twenty-Four
June, 3 Years Ago
This party is out of control, and I don’t mean that in a good way. I’ve already seen two chicks vomiting on a white rug, a dude whipping his limp dick out by the water cooler, and whatever speaker is thudding Slipknot at full volume has definitely busted. The twang beneath the bass is evidence of that.
This is a regular Friday night in Grove, one of the richest areas of the city. Even rich people get sloppy.
I need to find Benji and get the fuck out. He invited me here, the dude won’t pick up his phone, and if I don’t let him know I stopped by, he’ll piss and moan about it for days. Or come to my condo in the middle of the night and yank my ass out of bed. I should’ve never given him a key.
I thread my way through the crowd in whatever poor family’s living room this is—a rental, Benji said, from some chick named Morgan—my shoes stepping into something sticky, and make my way upstairs, keeping my eyes peeled for Benji. A few guys nod my way, some call my name—law school friends, old high school friends who never left, some from university—and more than a few women tug on my arm.
I shrug them off. I don’t want to fuck someone in this shit storm.
I pass by two closed doors, the smell of cigarettes and marijuana thick up here. I hear girls moaning, some dude retching, and wonder—not for the first time—why the fuck I’m here.
A flash of lightening and a crack of thunder from the window at the end of the hall sour my mood more. I don’t relish the thought of getting my blazer drenched and I didn’t bring a goddamn rain coat because I’m only here for Benji.
I check the last room on the left, at the end of the narrow hallway, pushing it open with my toe.
At first, I think it’s empty. Then the door swings open a little more, and I see a girl in her bra and underwear, on all fours, apparently teasing some dude beneath her.
She’s got a nice, tight ass and she’s biting this guy’s neck. He’s got a beer bottle dangling from his fingers in one hand, but his eyes are closed. He lets out a low groan as she trails her hand down his bare chest and over his jeans, palming him.
I turn to leave them to it when I realize I recognize the girl.
Riley Larson.
Riley fucking Larson.
She doesn’t even go to parties. Like, ever. I think she’s got, like, two friends.
What the fuck is she doing here?
I run my hand over my mouth, these two still oblivious to my presence with the pounding, piss-poor quality music downstairs. I try to convince myself to turn around and go. I’ll shoot Benji a text, lock up tight at home, and go to sleep.
Besides, Riley dumped my brother last weekend after he came home from a university tour. I haven’t been home since I heard that news because, quite frankly, I don’t want to deal with his tears. And Mom said there were, in fact, tears.
I also didn’t want to deal with something else.
Not seeing her there.
I don’t know why she broke it off with him. Well, I do. Because he was a controlling, possessive asshole and she deserved better, but I’m not sure what made her realize it.
Maybe this dude that she’s crawling down the bed for?
I should go.
This is her business.
She doesn’t owe me anything.
The guy is enjoying the show—who wouldn’t be—and she seems to be enjoying giving it to him. I’ve stepped between her and a guy—my brother—far too many times. She doesn’t need me.
I’m too old for this shit.
I turn to go.
She starts to unbutton his jeans.
And even though I know she’s been fucking my brother, even though I’ve seen his tongue down her throat far too many times...well, it doesn’t stop the jealousy coiling in my gut.
Hell, it never stopped it then, either.
I take a step toward the bedroom, the floor creaking under foot. She glances my way. Her fingers are poised over the dude’s jeans and his obvious hard-on.
She meets my gaze. And freezes.
“Hey, what’re you doing, Princess?” And then the guy reaches down and slaps her ass.
I watch it bounce, see his red handprint forming across it.
I really didn’t want to do this.
I go into the room and stare down at him. “Shut the fuck up.” Then I look to Riley, whose green eyes are lined with red and I know that look. It isn’t from crying. It’s from drinking.
“Let’s go.”
She sits back on her heels, and I try to keep my eyes on her face.
“Where are your clothes?” I ask her.
“Hey, man, this is my girl—”
I glare at him. He looks like he skateboards very poorly and smokes far too much pot in his spare time.
“She is not your girl.” I feel anger rushing into my veins. I look to Riley again. “Where are your clothes?” I ask her through gritted teeth.
She frowns up at me, but then she points behind me. I turn and see a dresser at my back, jeans and a t-shirt piled on top.
I hand them to her. “Get dressed.”
“Man!” the guy says as Riley pulls her top on, and then her jeans. I hand her socks and shoes—knock-off Vans, because of course they are—and when she’s ready, she stands unsteadily to her feet.
“What a fucking cock block!”
I don’t bother responding to the guy. If I do, I might punch him in the face. Instead, I wrap my arm around Riley’s shoulder and get her out of there. This place is disgusting.
“I-I don’t know what I was thinking—” she starts to say. Her words aren’t quite slurred, but her steps are definitely not even. She would not pass a roadside sobriety test.
“You were thinking that you’re single and this is a party and why not get drunk as fuck?” I smile down at her, try to block out the memory of her on that idiot’s lap.
She shakes her head as we head down the stairs and I realize two things:
I have no idea where the fuck I plan to take her and
Something is bothering her.
It’s obvious. She looks on the verge of tears. I feel her shoulders tremble beneath me. But in this crowd with this music and the peels of laughter and people banging on tables and some chick calling after me, this is not the place to talk.
I open the car door for her, trying to shelter her against the rain—fruitless, really—and then run
around to the driver’s side. I peel out of the muddy parking lot, make a mental note to run through a car wash tomorrow morning. Or get someone to come to the condo.
I hate dirty cars.
The music is on low—Soen—and the only sound is Riley’s steady breathing. Steady, but audible. Like she’s scared. Or trying not to cry.
The highway is, unsurprisingly, fucking packed. It’s a Friday night. We come to a stand-still, and quickly. The party house was in Grove, a five-minute drive from the downtown core, but that five minutes is now going to take us fifty. And I still don’t know where I’m going. I can’t take her to my condo…can I?
She’s my brother’s ex.
They just broke up.
“How’d you end up at that party?” I ask her. The rain has passed for now, but lightning still streaks the sky. I roll down our windows to let some of the night in. I rest my forearm on the windowsill, glance her way. She’s staring straight ahead, her own scrawny arms wrapped tight around her body.
“Morgan invited me. Her parents own the place.”
Then I recognize the name, when she says it.
I guess, then, the better question is: Why the fuck was Benji there? But Benji is always where a party is. And if there’s undergrad girls there, he’s definitely there. I wonder if he expected high schoolers, too. I feel the unexpected urge to break his jaw when I think about him touching Riley.
But he didn’t.
Some stoner loser did that instead.
“Morgan is your friend, right? That came over sometimes?” She seems surprised I remember the redhead, her eyes snapping to mine, but she nods.
That’s not what’s bothering her though. I try again. “I heard about you…” I trail off, glance at her out of the corner of my eye, try to gauge her reaction. “You and Jack.” I don’t say my brother because I don’t want to make this weird. I’m surprised she even came with me. And I’m more surprised she hasn’t asked me where we’re going. She’s always been the quiet type, but not meek. My brother hated it. But I think some sick part of him loved it, too.
I know I did.
Finally, she looks at me. I hold her gaze at the red light. But she doesn’t say anything. She only nods. I wonder if she’s that upset about it. I always thought my brother loved her, in his own weird way, far more than she loved him. Maybe I just hoped that was true. Maybe I just wanted it to be so. This was a bad idea. I should have left her to it. She’s getting over a breakup. She deserves to be drunk and happy, and not pouting in my car.
“Are you okay?” I ask anyway, tearing my eyes away from her, looking at the road.
She laughs. It’s bitter. “Yes.”
I shake my head, rub my hand over my jaw. “You don’t seem okay.” I wonder how far I should push this. Do I really want to be the shoulder she cries on because she left my brother?
“You pull me out of a party, drag me into your car, and we’re going fuck-knows where, and you want to psychoanalyze my feelings?”
My jaw drops as I turn to stare at her. I see that fire in her green eyes, the fire I’ve seen so many times with my brother. Now it’s directed at me. I actually want to squirm under her gaze. She’s in fucking high school. She’s eighteen years old and she’s making me uncomfortable.
But that’s not how this is going to go.
We stop at another red light, and I let her question hang in the air a minute.
“You really wanted to fuck that loser?” I ask her quietly, meeting her gaze again.
She shifts in her seat. “You don’t even know him.” She’s not looking at me anymore.
“Did you?” I counter.
“Do you know every girl you fuck?” Her brows knit together, and she runs a hand through her long, light brown hair. The lights from the city reflect over it, bringing out her natural highlights. It’s a little damp, and a strand sticks to her forehead.
I like it.
“Do you really want me to answer that?” Of course, the answer is No, but I’m not sure I want to talk to her about how many girls I’ve fucked, that I did and didn’t know. She’s seen me bring girls over before. It’s not like she doesn’t know. And all the while, I knew she was fucking my brother. It isn’t a secret between us.
“Yeah,” she says, surprising me. She sits up straight, brings the strap of her seatbelt behind her back so she can turn and face me. She draws her legs into the leather seat, and she doesn’t look away as she challenges me. “How many girls have you fucked that you didn’t know, Caden?” She licks her lips. They’re so full and pink; she’s always had nice lips.
I clear my throat. “I’ve lost count,” I say easily.
I see her olive skin go red and feel some weird satisfaction at that. “How many that you did?”
“Same answer.”
There’s a steady silence between us. I creep the car forward. We’re crawling in traffic now, and I hear music thudding, see people walking hand-in-hand down the sidewalk, packs of friends joking and smiling together, as if it never rained here. I see an elderly couple hobble across an intersection and marvel that they’re out so late, together. My parents would never be like that.
“How many times did you let my brother have you?” I nearly whisper the words.
She’s still turned toward me, and her arms are crossed over her chest again. She pulls her lip between her teeth, cocks her head, as if she’s thinking.
My God.
“In your room?” she asks me, brow arched.
I still, bring my arm back into the car, on the wheel. Both of my hands are gripping it so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t break in half.
“You don’t want to play that game, Riley.”
She smiles, and I see a dimple flash just beside her lips. “Oh, I think I do, Caden.”
“My brother wouldn’t want you anywhere near my room when he was fucking you. You were his.”
“Your brother didn’t always get what he wanted.”
This fucking brat. I don’t think she really had sex with Jack in my room. I know she’s probably fucking with me, but even still, I’m on edge thinking about it, and I don’t even know why. What does it matter to me? I rarely slept there. I only came…to see her.
“Where are we going?” she suddenly asks, exiting this sick game. I can’t say I’m not glad.
“Where do you want to go, Riley?” And I reach out to her, my hand clamped over her thigh. I feel her muscles flex, tense, under her jeans, beneath my touch. I don’t even know why I do it except that I can’t stand being this close to her and not touching her, knowing that now she’s not my brother’s anymore. She’s not anybody’s right now. Except mine.
She looks down at my hand over her thigh, and then she looks back up, staring straight ahead. “Anywhere,” she murmurs. Then she brings her small hand over top of mine, pressing me further into her.
Twenty-Five
Present
Dinner with Morgan is paid for courtesy of Benji.
I gave the rest of the money to the receptionist, telling her I found it in the hallway. There are probably cameras all over this hotel, and she might see our interaction, but I don’t care.
Morgan tips back her glass of wine—fourth already—in the snazzy little restaurant of The Villa and tells me about this dude she’s seeing named Francis. She owns this place outright and Francis sounds like a druggie with no future, but who the fuck am I to judge?
I throw back my rum and Diet Coke—second—and nod in all the right places, laugh in the others. I used to be afraid of Diet Coke. Now, I relish in it. Conquering the thing that conquered you and all that. I glance down at my salmon, fork off another bite and savor it. I can’t remember the last time I ate.
Finally, Morgan runs out of Francis stories and she tucks a strand of short red hair behind her ear and nods toward me. “What about you?” she asks, fingering her wine glass. “What brings you here to Haven? Are you still living in the States?”
I smile, swallow the salmon, finish my drink and fin
ally speak. “Yeah, I am. Almost done with university.”
She wrinkles up her nose as if the word personally offends her. Someone with her money, it probably does. “I’m glad I didn’t waste my time with it,” she says, waving a hand dismissively.
I remind myself she’s letting me stay in her hotel for free, for as long as I want.
“Yeah, it blows going to school.”
She giggles as if I’ve just told a particularly funny joke. She adjusts the strap of her white dress on her tan shoulder and takes a bite of her steak. It’s a tiny bite, and I imagine she won’t touch the mashed potatoes at all. I’m small myself, but Morgan is as wide as my pinky finger.
“Meet any hot guys out there, in the South?”
She doesn’t know about Adam. We started dating after high school, after Jack. Caden. Not that she knows anything about Caden. Only Tyler knows that. And Benji, apparently. And fucking Rolland.
I stab my salmon, glare at the approaching waitress, who backs off, and keep my tone light. “Not really,” I say, shaking my head. “I mean, there are. But I’m too busy for a relationship.”
Or friends. I don’t bother to tell her this is the first meal out I’ve had with someone in a long, long time.
She nods, as if she knows what I’m talking about. But I don’t know if Morgan has ever been busy in her life. She has people running this place for her, and from all the vacations she spilled to me about, I’m not sure she’s in Haven long enough to do much work.
But again, she’s being generous. I repeat this to myself over and over in my mind like a mantra as she opens her mouth again.
“You know,” she leans forward, hands clasped together, “I always thought you might find comfort with Caden…after…Jack.” She has the decency to say his name quietly, but even still, I stiffen, drop my fork with a clatter, and hold up my empty drink to a waitress at Morgan’s back. As she goes to get my drink, I force myself to meet Morgan’s dark brown eyes.
“Why would you think that?”
I found nothing with Caden after Jack. We didn’t speak after we saw his body. And that note, covered in blood.