Pricked

by Winter Renshaw

  The lab isn’t too far from Olwine, so I stop by Madd Inkk on my way home.

  I park my car in the back lot and head to the side entrance to his building, trekking up the stairs to his apartment. He took the day off, something about getting Devanie registered for school and taking care of a few errands, but he told me to stop by any time after five.

  This past weekend, Madden met my parents, which actually went better than I thought it would. I could tell they weren’t crazy about him, but they were cordial enough and so far, they’ve yet to say anything.

  I think they’re biting their tongues, certain that things will cool off and we’ll go our separate ways as soon as I go back to school this fall …

  Knocking on Madden’s door when I reach the top landing, I replay bits and pieces of today's interview in my mind, analyzing and then re-analyzing and then over-analyzing my responses, trying my hardest to view them from an objective standpoint and assure myself that they were the best answers I could’ve given.

  There’s so much riding on this job, namely freedom, that I can’t stop thinking about it, can’t stop getting my hopes up, can’t stop ruminating on all the good things that can come from having my own money and being completely independent.

  “Hey.” Madden answers the door a moment later, pulling me in and shutting it behind me. A second later, my back is against the door and his mouth claims mine.

  He isn’t wasting any time.

  When I come up for air, I say, “Hi to you too.”

  His hands slip beneath my top, then beneath my bra, and he cups my breasts as he buries his face into the side of my neck. Pressing his hips against me, the outline of his hardness confirms he’s revved and raring to go.

  A moment later, he lifts me up, wrapping my legs around his hips, and then he carries me to his bed. He works his belt next, and I slide my skirt down.

  As much as I want him and as much as I know I’m going to enjoy this, I can’t help but stay fixated on today’s interview.

  By the time we’re both naked, he climbs over top of me, his fingertips trailing down my side and detouring between my legs, where he teases my clit with his thumb before sliding a finger inside me. It hurts a little, as I'm slightly dry down there, but within a few seconds it starts to feel good.

  His mouth claims mine again, and I lift my arms over his broad shoulders, trying my hardest to focus, but my mind and my body are on completely different pages.

  And then he stops, his arms extended as he hovers above me.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, sitting up and leaning on my elbows. My hands splay across the cold sheets.

  “You’re not turned on.” He climbs off me, the strangest look on his face, as if this moment doesn’t compute.

  “It’s okay, just keep going. I’ll get there.” I reach for him in an attempt to pull him back, but he dodges out of the way. “Madden.”

  “If you’re not into it, you’re not into it,” he says.

  “But I will be.”

  “You’re not a fuck doll, Brighton.” He climbs off the bed and slips into his dark gray boxers.

  I grab the nearest sheet and wrap it around me, suddenly feeling overexposed and underdressed.

  “I’m sorry.” I place a flattened palm over my forehead. “I guess I have a lot on my mind.”

  “Don’t apologize.” He slips his jeans on next. If he’s disappointed, he’s doing a good job of hiding it. “It’s cool. No worries.”

  I climb out of his bed and gather my clothes as he takes a seat in the living room and grabs a sketch pad and ink pen off the messy coffee table.

  “Come here,” he says. “And leave your clothes off.”

  “What?” I half-chuckle.

  “If I don't get to fuck you, at least let me sketch you.” He reaches for his phone and taps on the screen until Nirvana begins to play from a wireless speaker across the room.

  The idea of being drawn naked is equal parts thrilling, terrifying, and flattering. “Why would you want to do that?”

  “What kind of question is that?” He scoffs, pointing at the chair across from him. “Sit. Get comfortable.”

  I fold my clothes and place them on the edge of his bed before taking a seat in the chair, drawing my knees against my chest.

  “You’re covering all the good parts.” Madden places the sketch pad in his lap and stares up at me, chin tucked. “Try something else.”

  My feet return to the floor, and I clear my throat. “I’m … I'm not good at this.”

  “If you’re worried someone’s going to see it, I promise they won’t.” He points his pen at me. “Cross your legs and rest your arm on the back of the chair.”

  Swallowing the thickness in my throat, I do as he says, but only because I can’t think of anything better. “You’re giving me the sketch when it’s finished.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Brushing my hair over my shoulder, I assume the position and watch him sketch. Each time he glances up at me with those shiny dark eyes and bites his lower lip, I relax a little more. As long as he gives me the drawing when he’s done, I don’t see the harm in this. And maybe I can think of it as a lesson in self-empowerment, in being comfortable in my skin.

  It helps that when Madden looks at me, I know he sees a woman and nothing else. And more important than that, he treats me like a woman.

  “So when were you going to tell me about med school?” he asks a few minutes later.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your parents mentioned you were going to med school this fall.”

  “Oh. That. Yeah, I’m not going,” I say.

  He stops sketching and looks up. “Do they not know that yet or …?”

  “Not yet.”

  “And when do you plan on telling them?” he asks.

  “Once I have a job and some money saved up … because more than likely they’ll cut me off financially. I have to be prepared for battle before I drop the bomb.”

  “You know they’re probably going to blame me for this,” he says.

  Shoot. He’s right. That’s something I hadn’t thought of before. They’re going to correlate the meeting of the “boyfriend” with my dropping out of med school.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, because it’s all I can say.

  “It’s all right. I’ll take the fall. It’s the least I can do since I’m having my way with their perfect little princess.”

  I roll my eyes. “You make it sound dirty.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No. It’s fun,” I say. “I’m having fun. Are you?”

  “That’s a stupid question.” He continues to sketch, shading something in it would appear. A second later, his eyes flick to mine. “I’m having a fucking ball. This is the best sex I’ve had in my entire life—and I’m having it multiple times a week. If it means getting blamed for shit I have nothing to do with, then that's a price I’m willing to pay.”

  He makes me smile, and I try to catch a glimpse of his drawing when he shifts positions, but it’s too dark and he’s too far away for me to make out any detail.

  “So why don’t you have any tattoos?” I ask. I feel like we’ve been in each other’s lives long enough now that it justifies revisiting this topic.

  “Almost finished ...” he doesn’t look up.

  “Madden,” I say. “Don’t ignore my question.”

  He’s quiet and Kurt Cobain croons in the background.

  “I'm sure you get asked that all the time,” I say. “A tattoo artist with no tattoos … you’re quite the enigma. Or maybe you’re trying to make a statement. I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

  "It’s not something that I talk about,” he says.

  I pause for a second. “Really? That’s all I’m going to get?”

  “Yep.” He continues to draw. “Aren’t there things in your life that you don’t talk about?”

  I think about my grandparents’ deaths all the time. That tragedy has sort of become the background
music to my life. An undercurrent that’s always there. I’m reminded of them constantly, little memories that fill my head when I least expect it or when I catch a whiff of my grandmother’s perfume while walking through Saks on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon.

  They’re never not on my mind.

  But talking about that night has always been too painful.

  It stirs up the muck and mire, sucks the joy out of the present, and it’s something I’ve generally spent the majority of my life avoiding at all costs—with the exception of my sessions with Dr. Greenberg, when I was forced to discuss that event inside and out, until my parents were certain there would be no lasting impact on me.

  “Yeah,” I say. “There’s one thing that I don’t talk about.”

  “So you understand.”

  I nod, but he’s fixated on the drawing, his dark brows angling inward as he makes a few more strokes.

  “There,” he says.

  “All done?”

  Madden flips the sketch pad to face me and I harbor a short breath, prepared to see myself ... as he sees me.

  Only the image on the paper isn’t me.

  It isn’t even human.

  It’s a butterfly.

  A beautifully detailed butterfly, spots and stripes and flared wings. It’s so realistic I’m half-expecting it to flutter off the page.

  I’m at an utter loss for words as he carefully rips his art piece from his sketch pad and hands it over.

  “There,” he says. “For you. Like I promised.”

  This might be the sweetest thing he’s ever done for me—possibly the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me.

  I take the drawing, studying the intricacies. I knew the man was talented, but to just whip this up like it’s nothing is just …

  “You feel better now?” he asks. “Thought this would be a good way to distract you, get your mind off of things for a little bit.”

  I don’t know whether to punch him for tricking me or wrap my arms around him for being so wonderful to me.

  I didn’t think about the interview once in the past twenty minutes.

  Placing the drawing carefully on top of a magazine on the coffee table, I saunter over to him, grabbing the sketch pad and pen from his hands and tossing them on the opposite couch cushion before lowering myself into his lap.

  Hooking my hands over his shoulders, I bring my mouth to his. “Thank you.”

  His hands rest at my hips and he kisses me back.

  A second later, he’s flipped me to my back, his body pinning mine. Hovering over me, our eyes meet, and without saying a word, I know what he’s asking.

  “I want you,” I say, my fingers trailing down the bare skin of his muscled back. “Inside me.” I dig my nails into his flesh. “Now."

  26

  Madden

  I stop over at Mom’s Tuesday morning, a bag of breakfast in hand for Dev.

  Brighton stayed over last night and then left before the sun came up. At one point, I caught her asleep in my arms. We must have assumed that position in our sleep.

  Sometimes I think the sleeping human body is like a heat-seeking missile. If someone’s next to us in bed, we’re naturally more inclined to gravitate toward them. At least that’s the explanation I’m sticking with.

  As long as the cuddling and lovey-dovey shit doesn’t become a habit, we won’t have a problem. And I say that as someone who enjoys the ever-loving hell out of my time with her.

  I’m protective of it.

  It’s perfect.

  And I don’t want it to get ruined by bullshit feelings.

  It’s so easy to get caught up in that stuff, to make life decisions based on fleeting emotions.

  Plus, let’s be real here—Brighton deserves a hell of a lot better than me.

  “Dev, food’s here,” I call when I walk in. She comes out of her room, phone in one hand, hair wild, still in pajamas.

  I haven’t told her yet about Brighton and me, and I don’t plan to. Figure there’s no point in telling her unless I have to, and so far, my time with Brighton has never intersected with my time with my sister. Besides, I’d hate to get her hopes up. I know how much she worships the ground Brighton walks on.

  “What’s the plan today?” I ask when we take a seat at the kitchen table.

  “Meeting with Brighton at noon,” she says.

  “You need a ride?”

  “She's going to pick me up here.” She pulls a sandwich out of the brown paper bag. “Your birthday’s next month.”

  “Yep.”

  “Brighton’s taking me to get you a present.”

  “You don’t have to get me anything.”

  She pouts. “Yeah, but I want to. You get me something every year.”

  I don’t need another reminder. I don’t need to commemorate anything about the day that I was born.

  Not anymore.

  In fact, if I could forget the day altogether, I would. But I don’t have that luxury. Instead, it’s the one day of the year I allow myself to wallow in my own self-pity. I don’t talk to anyone. I shut my phone off. And I do the thing that I always do so I can get it out of my system for another three hundred and sixty-five days.

  The sound of footsteps coming down the hall sends Dev’s gaze into mine.

  “Mom’s up,” she says.

  I check the time. She’s never up this early.

  Shuffling into the kitchen, Mom heads straight for the coffeemaker. “Morning, Dev.”

  She ignores me, as per usual. We haven’t exactly been on speaking terms for several years now, but she lets me come and go because it’s what’s best for Devanie.

  “Okay, I’m out.” I say, ruffling my sister’s curly mop as I get up from the table.

  “Hey.” She brushes her hair back into place.

  “Stay out of trouble today. And tell Brighton I said hi.”

  Her nose wrinkles. “Why would I tell her you said hi?”

  Shit.

  I’ve got to be more careful. As far as my sister knows, the last time Brighton and I saw each other was the morning Brighton drove her home after that party.

  “Because.” I leave her with a non-answer and get the hell out of there before I back myself into another corner. Devanie might be twelve, but she’s perceptive. She doesn’t miss a thing.

  I’m halfway home when I get caught at the red light on Bellevue Avenue, which always tends to take a solid couple of minutes to change coming from this direction. Grabbing my phone from the passenger seat, I fire off a text to Brighton.

  ME: Off at 10 tonight …

  BRIGHTON: See you then. ;-)

  By the time the light turns green, I realize I’ve been sitting here for the past two minutes, thinking about tonight with the dopiest grin on my face.

  I think I’m starting to actually like this girl.

  God damn it.

  27

  Brighton

  Today marks a lot of things.

  First time ever having sex in the shower—fun, but not my favorite.

  First time bringing a guy to my parents’ annual Fourth of July Extravaganza—he’s so excited he can hardly contain himself.

  Also, today marks one month since we officially started fake dating and exclusively screwing.

  I don’t dare tell Madden that though …

  It might freak him out to know that I’m keeping track of a date that’s supposed to mean absolutely nothing to either of us, but to me, June 4th is like my own personal Independence Day.

  Madden’s bathroom is cramped and the two of us fight over who gets the bulk of the steamed-up mirror first. We’re supposed to leave for my parents’ party in less than an hour, and I still need to dry my hair.

  “Let me shave and I’ll be out of here,” he says, his hands gripping the thin bath sheet hanging low on his hips.

  “Fine.” I re-secure my towel and take a seat on the lidded toilet, watching—admiring—the view as he lathers his chiseled face. I don’t know what it is, but there’s s
omething so sexy about watching a man shave. The careful drag of the razor. The masculine, soapy scent of the cream.

  He taps his razor on the sink before rinsing it out.

  “There,” he says. “All yours.”

  As soon as he’s gone, I grab my little travel bag of toiletries that he lets me stash under the sink, and I get ready, humming along to the Stone Temple Pilots song coming from the next room. I’m desperate for a distraction—anything to temper my nerves and get my mind off tonight, if only for a few minutes.

  Three days ago, I got a call from Hershman Medical Research, where I’d interviewed for a research assistant position a couple of weeks ago. It was my fifth job interview ever, one that I was positive I bombed. The questions were nothing like the ones I’d been asked in the four interviews that preceded it, and I found myself stumbling over answers and losing confidence every step of the way.

  I was off my game that day, and I couldn’t walk out of there fast enough.

  And then they called me ...

  ...and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

  Tonight, with Madden by my side, I’m going to tell my parents that I’m not going to medical school this fall and that I’ve accepted a job at Hershman Medical Research.

  I’m hopeful they won’t make a scene since they’ll be surrounded by their closest friends and the Who’s Who amongst their Park Terrace social circle. I’m also hopeful that by the time I see them again after tonight, they’ll have had ample time to cool off so we can have a rational discussion about this.

  “Forgot my cologne.” Madden’s presence fills the doorway, and I try not to gape at what he’s wearing.

  Khakis.

  A chambray button down cuffed at the elbow.

  I hardly recognize him …

  “This is new,” I say, tugging at his shirt.

  He leans across the sink, reaching for a bottle of cologne. Meanwhile, I can’t take my eyes off this new version of him—not that there was anything wrong with the old version. Madden Ransom is Madden Ransom. Hot as sin. I’ll take him any way I can. Clothes or no clothes.