Pricked

by Winter Renshaw

  “That won’t be necessary,” she says, shutting me up because deep down she knows this is one argument she won’t win. “Transparency and honesty are not only an expectation in this household, but a requirement. You will not continue to sleep under this roof and enjoy the privileges you’ve known if you choose to stay on your current path of deception.”

  She’s bluffing.

  Letting me out from under her thumb would punish her more than it would me.

  “I know you almost lost me once,” I say. “But you can’t spend the rest of my life punishing me because you’re scared something’s going to happen again. You’re not going to lose me, Mom. It’s okay to let me grow up. It’s happening. In fact, it’s already happened.”

  She gasps. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that I’m not a little girl anymore.” I linger for a minute, letting her take in my words and interpret them as she sees fit, and then I leave, heading up to my room and closing the door behind me.

  Washing up, I free myself of Madden’s taste on my tongue and his scent on my skin.

  Last night was nothing short of perfect—and he had to go ruin it by making assumptions. He might be good at reading people, but at the end of the day, how well can you read someone if you don’t know the core of who that person is?

  If he hadn’t said what he did, I’d have entertained the idea of making this a regular thing for the summer. I could easily see myself becoming addicted. Addicted to the release, the escape, the sensation of being wild and free and not bogged down with the obligations and responsibilities that come with being Brighton Taylor Karrington.

  For a few short hours, I was a butterfly exploring a strange new land with a man who made her feel the very essence of who she was before he set her free the next morning.

  It was glorious.

  And it’ll never happen again.

  Because Madden Ransom is an asshole.

  I finish showering and slip into a robe after drying off. With a towel wrapped around my head, I head out to my bedroom to grab the bottle of vanilla almond lotion sitting on my nightstand, only to stop in my tracks when I find my mother sitting on my bed, legs crossed and hands in her lap.

  What I wouldn’t give for a lock on my door—but growing up, my mother wouldn’t have it. She wanted to be able to access me at all times “in case of an emergency.”

  “Brighton,” she says, chin lifted and eyes on me. “If you’re dating someone, I’d like you to bring him over so we can meet him. I’d rather know who you’re with than have you sneaking out to see him.”

  I laugh, unable to help it. “I’m not dating anyone.”

  “Then where were you last night? If you weren’t with Honor?”

  “With a friend,” I say. “Who happens to be a guy. A guy that I am very much not dating.”

  She draws in a long, hard breath. “You slept at his house last night?”

  I swallow but keep my head held high. “I did. We had a couple of beers and I didn’t feel safe driving home, so he let me sleep there.”

  Her nostrils flare, but she maintains her composure like a good Karrington. A moment later, she rises, smoothing her hands over her thighs and tugging her lavender cashmere twinset into place.

  “All right. Fine,” she says. “But let me just remind you one more time that living in this house is a privilege, and your father and I will not be disrespected by your late-night trysts. There will be no more coming and going and lying about your whereabouts, do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I say. Because it doesn’t matter. As much as I enjoyed myself last night, I won’t be spending another night with Madden.

  My mother leaves, gently closing the door behind her, and the sound of her footsteps grows weaker by the second. Swiping my bottle of lotion off my nightstand, I carry it back to the bathroom, placing it beside my phone on the counter.

  Slipping out of my robe, I massage the rich cream into my soft skin as I stand before the mirror, in front of the image of a woman desperate to experience life in its fullest form—the good and the bad, the highs and the lows, everything she’s been shielded from her entire life.

  And it’s then, in that moment, my phone vibrates with a text.

  MADDEN: When can I have you again?

  22

  Madden

  She made me wait eight whole hours before responding to my text Tuesday morning. And then when she agreed to see me again, she made me wait until Friday night.

  I deserved that.

  “We’re here.” I park my car in front of Pierce’s place, where we all tend to hang out on Friday nights after the shop closes. He’s got the quintessential bachelor pad set up and has no qualms about kicking people out if they start acting like morons.

  This is the place to go after a long week, when all you want is to throw back a few beers, have some laughs with some people you don’t actually mind being around, and let your mind shut off for a couple of hours.

  I made it a point to tell Brighton not to dress in her ‘country club best.’ I told her jeans and a t-shirt.

  She showed up in a dress.

  It’s like she gets off on defying me, proving me wrong. That or she hates being told what to do. I’m not quite sure yet. We didn’t talk or text at all after Tuesday, when she agreed to come to Pierce’s with me. So in a way, we’re still strangers. She knows very little about me. I know very little about her. And honestly, it’s for the best, especially if we plan to keep this strictly physical—and I do.

  We climb out of the car, and I lock both doors with my key before joining her at the sidewalk. The house is lit like a Christmas tree, party lights, the flicker of the TV in the living room, the porch light on full blast so drunks don’t trip on the steps.

  I take her in through the garage, where a couple of guys—Cooley and Brian—are smoking fat cigars and nursing whiskey neats.

  “Hey,” I say as we pass.

  The guys nod, and Cooley’s shameless stare lingers on Brighton, scanning the length of her before settling on her rack. She doesn’t notice. My jaw clenches and I move to her side, blocking his view.

  Taking her in through the garage entrance, we end up in Pierce’s kitchen. A group of Olwine girls, same ones who show up every Friday, are gathered around the peninsula doing tequila shots. They’re laughing and chirping away until they see Brighton, and then they’re all silence and eyes.

  “Hi,” Brighton says, offering a friendly wave and a smile.

  I’m sure she intimidates the fuck out of them, with her long legs, shiny blonde hair, long, thick lashes, and million-dollar radiance. They don’t make ‘em like that around here.

  “This is Brighton,” I tell the girls. “Brighton, that’s Tanya, Melissa, Gabby, and then you know Missy from the shop.”

  The girls still gawk and gape but if it fazes Brighton, she sure as hell doesn’t act like it.

  “Why don’t you go have a seat in the living room. I’ll grab us a couple of drinks,” I say, my hand pressing the small of her back.

  The second she’s gone, Gabby shoots me a look. “Dude, Madd. What the fuck?”

  The other girls simper and snicker. I know what they’re thinking, that we look ridiculous together, that I have no business bringing someone like that to Pierce’s, but I couldn’t care less.

  “Something bothering you, Gab?” I ask, digging around in Pierce’s fridge until I find two of the better beer options. He’s on some Millennial craft beer kick lately, and half the shit in here is stuff I wouldn’t give my worst enemy. Beer shouldn’t burn going down. It shouldn’t make you gag either.

  “What’s with the girl?” Gabby asks. “Quite a departure from, uh, Veronica.”

  My ex used to be one of them. Back when we were together. She was the fifth member of their Olwine girl gang, all of them having gone to high school together, all of them having made the decision to stick around here and become what the locals call “lifers.”

  Tanya punches Gabby’s shoulder.
“You know we’re not supposed to say that word anymore.”

  “What? Veronica?” Gabby asks.

  Missy rolls her eyes.

  Ever since Horatio-gate, the girls refused to talk to Veronica, opting to pick my side over hers. Though I’m sure some of that had more to do with the fact that there’s no better place to be on a Friday night than here and they didn’t want to lose their hangout spot.

  That’s some small-town loyalty right there.

  Uncapping the bottles, I pass the girls, stopping to add, “She’s cool, okay? Be nice to her. Or else.”

  “You don’t scare us,” Melissa says with a wink.

  When I get to the living room, I find Brighton deep in conversation with a local mechanic by the name of Cash McConnell. Or as some of us call him when he’s not around: Manwhore McConnell.

  Dude looks like the reincarnation of James Dean, the take-no-shit attitude of Vin Diesel, and he’s good with his hands, which is apparently a thing that drives 99% of the female population wild.

  Brighton smiles and nods, glued to whatever bullshit he’s feeding her. I stand for another minute, unnoticed until I clear my throat.

  “Oh, hey,” Cash says, pretending he didn’t just ignore me for the last sixty seconds.

  I hand Brighton one of the sweaty beers in my hand and she mouths, “thank you.”

  “Anyway, that’s so funny that you say that because my brother actually lives in New York,” Brighton says when she turns to him. She’s angled in such a way that her back is almost to me.

  I might as well be invisible.

  A third fucking wheel.

  “No way,” Cash says, as if she’s just revealed the most fascinating tidbit of information in the history of ever. “That’s crazy. Small world.”

  “Do you think you’ll be going back soon?” she asks him.

  “Shit. I go all the time,” he tells her. I brace myself for some shameless humble bragging. “I own my own shop, so I can usually just pick up and go whenever.”

  “That really surprises me that you like Manhattan so much,” she says. “You know, if you’re a car guy.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because you mostly walk or ride the subway there.” She takes a drink. “I’d imagine you miss driving when you visit.”

  “Nah.” Cash flashes his trademark sexy grin. “I like to change things up every once in a while.”

  Yeah. Which is why he has a different girl in his bed every single weekend. And this weekend? It sure as hell isn’t going to be Brighton.

  “Hey, Cash, I think Cooley and Brian were looking for you earlier,” I lie.

  “Oh, yeah?” he asks.

  “They're in the garage.” I nod in that direction. “Smoking those Cuban Sugarfinas.”

  “Sweet.” Cash rises from his chair, towering over Brighton, who gazes up at him like he’s some sort of marble Adonis. And then he winks before gifting her with a half-dimpled smile. “Brighton, it was nice meeting you. We can talk more later?”

  “Of course,” she says, glancing up at him through her dark lashes. “Nice meeting you as well, Cash.”

  As soon as he’s gone and we have the living room to ourselves, I say, “Don’t.”

  Brighton gives me side eye. “Don’t what?”

  “Cash … just ... don’t.”

  “I’m going to need you to use your words, Madden,” she speaks to me like I'm a goddamned toddler.

  “You don’t want him,” I say, taking a swig from my beer bottle. “Guy’s dirtier than an oil filter that hasn’t been changed in decades.”

  “He seemed really nice,” she says.

  “Yeah. You would think that.” I roll my eyes. In the entire time I’ve known Cash, I’ve yet to hear him ever speak of Manhattan. For all I know he’s never even been there—he was just pretending so he could impress her and keep the conversation going.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I shrug. “Nothing. You’re just a little … don't kill me for saying this … naive.”

  “Well aware,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone. “That’s kind of why I’m here.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve spent my whole life being sheltered. I’m trying to undo all that damage. I’m trying to meet as many people as possible and experience as many different things as I can.” She takes a drink and offers me a slow smile. “You were one of those things. One of those experiences. When I told you the other night that it wasn’t about the sex, that it was about the liberation … that’s what I meant.”

  “Huh.” I stare straight ahead at the flickering TV and the sports highlights that reel across the bottom, and then I take a drink.

  A moment of silence passes between us.

  “What? What are you thinking about?” she asks.

  “Not that it’s any of your business,” I say, “but I was thinking about—"

  I'm seconds from telling her how much I respect her for stepping outside her Park Terrace comfort zone when in walks fucking Cash McConnell.

  “They weren’t looking for me, bro,” he says, scratching at his temple before reclaiming his chair next to Brighton.

  Pinching the bridge of my nose, I release a hard breath as the two of them pick up right where they left off.

  “Have you ever done New Year’s Eve in Times Square?” Cash asks.

  “Never. I’ve always wanted to though,” she says. What she doesn’t say is that her parents probably never let her.

  “Oh, man. You have to do it at least once in your life,” he says.

  “So you’ve done it?” she asks.

  I shoot him a look. “I heard you have to wear an adult diaper when you go. Is that true, Cash?”

  Both of them look to me, neither of them speaks.

  “You know,” I say. “Too many people. Not enough toilets. You could lose your spot. I just heard people wear diapers.”

  Cash gives me a death stare and mouths the words, “shut the fuck up.”

  I can’t help but laugh.

  And then, overcome with machismo and the early stages of alcohol coursing through my veins, I slip my arm around Brighton's shoulders.

  Cash's hardened expression vanishes. He sees now that she's with me. Or at least he thinks she is. And that’s all it takes to get him to walk away.

  He’s not going to waste his time and energy if he won’t be reaping those rewards later tonight.

  As soon as he’s gone, Brighton flicks my arm off of her.

  “You can thank me later,” I tell her with a wink.

  Her full lips press flat and she shakes her head before taking a sip of beer. “You’re such a jerk.”

  “I was doing you a favor.”

  “You were acting like a territorial alley cat,” she says. “I was having a nice conversation and you pissed all over it.”

  “Right. But did you notice as soon as he thought we were together, he walked away without so much as a goodbye? He wasn’t interested in you, Brighton. Just the possibility of fucking you.”

  She’s quiet now, which I interpret as a sign that she knows I’m right.

  “Would that bother you?” she asks. “If I slept with someone else?”

  I scoff, lifting my bottle to my lips. “Of course it would.”

  “But we’re not together.”

  “I know that,” I take a drink. “I’m just not into the whole sharing thing. If I’m fucking you, you’re fucking me and neither one of us are fucking anyone else.”

  “That sounds like a relationship to me,” she says. “Thought you didn’t do relationships and dating and all that bullshit.”

  She lifts her fingers, air-quoting the word, “bullshit.”

  “You can’t have it both ways,” she says.

  “So you’re saying if I want you to sleep with me exclusively, you want me to be your boyfriend?”

  Part of me thinks she’s messing with me, trying to point out the fallacies and loopholes in my self-made clauses. The
other part of me doesn’t want to call her bluff.

  As much as I don’t want to be anyone’s boyfriend, as much as I loathe the entire concept of dating and relationships, the idea of Brighton giving another guy those sparkling hazel eyes, those pillow-soft lips, those long legs and dangerous curves makes me see red for half a second.

  The mental image of Brighton's arms draped over Cash, of Cash’s hands exploring her body, plagues me for a moment, sending a boil to my blood, but I shake it off, down the rest of my beer, and slip my hand into hers.

  Leading her out of the living room, she asks, “Where are we going?”

  “Back to my place.”

  Brighton digs her heels into the ground and wrenches her hand from mine. “Maybe I don’t want to go yet. Maybe I’m having a nice time and I’m not ready.”

  I get it.

  She wants to assert her autonomy and not let some jackass tell her what to do since everyone’s been telling her what to do her entire life.

  But I’ll be damned if I sit around here another couple of hours, watching these other jackasses look at her like she’s ripe for the picking.

  “Come on. Let’s go.” I wave for her to follow me.

  She stays put.

  “Brighton,” I say.

  Her arms fold across her chest. “Madden.”

  There’s a rare, devious glint in her eyes. “Say it.”

  “Say what?” I scoff.

  “You’re jealous,” she says. “You’re jealous because I was talking to someone else. And that means you like me.”

  “Can we not?”

  “Oh, but we must. I’m not leaving until we do.” She fights a chuckle. Good to know at least one of us is enjoying this shit show.

  “Just tell me what you want me to say.” I throw my hands in the air. “Because the sooner I say it, the sooner I can get you home and do the kind of things I refuse to let another man … like fucking Cash … so much as think about doing to you.”

  Brighton’s expression morphs from ornery to satisfied and she all but lunges for me, jumping into my arms.

  “You so like me, Ransom,” she says as I carry her back to my GTO. “It’s okay if you can’t admit it yet.”