Pricked

by Winter Renshaw

  “Took the night off?” I ask. Normally he works until nine or ten most days of the week.

  He winks. “Thought you might want help celebrating your first full day in the real world.”

  “Is this for us?” I point to the white bags on the counter.

  “Yeah. I didn’t know what you like so I just ordered a bunch of stuff.”

  I dig around in one of the bags, retrieving an egg roll and taking a bite off the tip. “I know you’re not a real boyfriend, but you’re a pretty amazing pretend one.”

  He rolls his eyes.

  “Stop.” Madden pulls up a chair at the table, and I take the one beside him. “So how was it?”

  “I survived.”

  “Never a bad thing.” He grabs a white cardboard container of rice and a plastic spoon.

  “Today was mostly orientations and paperwork. Gave me a tour of the building. Introduced me to my research team.”

  “Nerds?”

  “No,” I correct him. “Geniuses.”

  “My bad.”

  “Try this.” He forks a piece of chicken and feeds it to me. “You like?”

  I nod as I chew, and then I give him a thumb’s up.

  “Good. It’s yours.” He slides that particular container my way before digging into the bag and grabbing another.

  He’s in a good mood tonight. Not as broody as usual. More talkative too. In a perfect world I’d take the credit for it, but I’m sure it has nothing to do with me.

  I watch him eat, admiring the way his jaw flexes, the way he picks the peppers out of his entrée. Ordinary things, but the way he does them is all his own. Or maybe that’s just something that happens when you’re falling for someone … you find every little thing they say or do adorable or attractive. If anyone else did those same things that same way, it wouldn’t make me bat an eye.

  Pulling myself out of my daydream, I remind myself that this isn’t real and it never will be.

  “My parents forgot my oldest brother in a Chinese restaurant once,” I say. “He was playing on one of the arcade games in the back and my other brother had just thrown up and they were trying to get us all back in the car so we could get Eben home. My dad drove three blocks before he realized we left Graeme behind.”

  He laughs through his nose, once.

  I’m sure the story isn’t as funny to him as it is to me—if he knew how anal my father is and how flustered he gets around any kind of bodily fluids, he’d understand.

  “What about you? Any crazy childhood stories?” I ask. I don’t expect him to answer, but I hate to sit here and talk about myself.

  “All kinds,” he says. “None that I’m going to share.”

  “Okay.” I can respect that. “What about any good childhood memories? Something that makes you smile?”

  He digs around in his entrée, pushing peppers and onions aside. And then he nods.

  Is he actually going to tell me something?

  “When Dev was one, she went through this stage where she was having night terrors. Lasted about four or five months. Most nights of the week it’d happen,” he says. “Only one of us that could calm her down was me. She didn’t want our mom. Didn’t want a bottle or a blanket. Just me.”

  “Madden.” I tilt my head. “That's really sweet.”

  He shrugs.

  I wish I could have known this younger version of him, the softer Madden that the world hadn’t yet tainted.

  I also wish I could ask him about Dallas.

  I think about that sketch pad all the time, curiosity eating away at me. And part of me thinks it’s not so much the notebook … it’s more about what the notebook represents—which are all the things I don’t know about him.

  And all the things I probably never will.

  “Random question for you.” I clear my throat and head to the refrigerator to grab a bottle of water.

  “Nothing is ever random with you. But what is it?”

  “With this new job … I’m probably looking at getting out of your hair in about four weeks,” I say. “I’m just wondering what we were going to do after that. Do we keep on keeping on … or?”

  “Brighton.” The way he says my name deflates any and all hope I had that he might be open to turning this into something more. “I’m not going anywhere. You can still come over. It’s not like we have to stop hooking up after you move out.”

  “Yeah, but what if one of us meets someone?” I’m sure he sees through me. I’m sure he knows what I’m really getting at. But I can’t help myself.

  “We’ll deal with that when the time comes.” He takes another bite of chicken.

  “Can I ask you something else?”

  “Yep.”

  I uncap my water bottle. “Why are you so anti-relationships?”

  “Because people are selfish,” he says without missing a beat. “And I’m no exception.”

  “So you’re just going to be single the rest of your life?”

  He shrugs. It isn't a yes. It isn't a no.

  “It’s better this way,” he says. “This way I don’t get hurt and I don’t hurt other people.”

  “Don’t you ever get lonely?”

  “No.” He scoffs. “I’m surrounded by people all day.”

  “No, I mean ... don’t you sometimes just want somebody to love? Don’t you ever miss the way it feels when somebody loves you?”

  “Can’t miss something you’ve never had.” He shoots me a wink before getting up from the table and dumping his food containers in the trash.

  “I highly doubt you’ve never been loved,” I say. “Everyone’s been loved.”

  He shakes his head. “Not me.”

  I could love him.

  So easily.

  If only he’d let me.

  34

  Madden

  Brighton’s hips buck beneath me Friday night, her fingers hooked around the back of my neck as she presses moaning kisses onto my lips.

  She’s been working full-time for five days now, and the last couple of nights she’s been exhausted so we’ve only fooled around a little bit, but tonight she’s making up for lost time. That’s what the weekend does to us working stiffs.

  When she bites her lower lip, I know she’s getting close.

  Running my fingertips along her bare outer thighs, I hook the tender spots behind her knees and place her legs over my shoulders. Fucking her deeper, harder, and faster, I watch her face as she rides me back, meeting me thrust for thrust, eyes squeezed tight and nails digging into my flesh until she finds her release.

  When it’s over, I roll to the other side of the mattress, catch my breath, and stare at the ceiling.

  She doesn’t move, but I hear her breathing. A second later, I sneak a peek from my periphery and realize she’s out cold.

  “Brighton,” I whisper.

  She stirs, eyes fluttering open.

  “You tired or something?” I ask the obvious, but selfishly it’s a lame attempt to wake her up. We’re supposed to go to Pierce’s tonight.

  She rolls to her side, dragging the sheets up to her waist, and rests her hands between her cheek and pillow.

  “I’m sorry. This week has taken everything out of me.” She yawns, and her golden irises disappear behind heavy lids once more.

  I’ve gone to Pierce’s hundreds of times in my day, always alone. But for some insane reason, the thought of going there without her tonight holds almost zero appeal to me.

  It’s strange … I’ve never been the type to wait around for anyone, to be connected at the hip to another human being. I cherish my alone time like nothing else.

  But I missed her this week.

  I missed being in my shop and knowing she was upstairs, that I could run up and see her if I wanted.

  I missed coming up for dinner and seeing that light in her eyes, like an excited puppy who’s been waiting all day for its master to return.

  Secretly, I’ve been enjoying her company more than I ever plan to let on. And it’s fu
nny … because when I agreed to let her stay here, I thought for sure we’d be sick of each other by now.

  Turns out, I was wrong.

  I can’t get enough of her.

  All week, I’ve caught myself checking my phone more than usual—and I’ve yet to change her name to Brighton.

  It’s still The Girl with the Butterfly Tattoo.

  It’s kind of grown on me …

  The last few weeks, she’d send me these ridiculously cheesy memes or screenshots of songs she thinks I’d like. She was always thinking of me, even if I pretended to be annoyed every time my phone buzzed and Pierce gave me shit.

  Despite the fact that this “relationship” we have is fake … there are times it feels too real. Times I catch a fullness in my chest when I think of her or times when I’m dying to finish my last appointment so I can go upstairs and be with her again.

  I’ve been doing my best to stuff those feelings back down, though.

  It can’t be this way.

  Rolling out of bed, I cover her with the comforter and hit the shower.

  I’m finding myself no longer in the mood to go to Pierce’s, but I’m going anyway.

  Alone.

  Just to prove a point to myself.

  Even if I’m ninety-nine percent sure I’m going to miss her the second I walk out this door.

  35

  Brighton

  “I’m in a Barefoot in Paris mood today,” Devanie says Sunday afternoon, plucking a bottle of pale pink nail polish from the rack at Tina’s Nails.

  Now that I’ve started working during the week, I still want to make time for her, so we’ve agreed to meet up every Sunday.

  She still doesn’t know I’m living with her brother, and in a way, it feels wrong not to tell her, but Madden says there’s no point in letting her know. She’s never going to see us together and if she did, she wouldn’t understand the situation. She’s too young.

  Plus, he doesn’t want to hurt her.

  She’s pretty attached to me and if she thought I was in a relationship with her brother, she might take it hard if and when we eventually go our separate ways.

  “That’s one of my favorites,” I tell her before choosing a punchy pink option for myself. I’m in a mood for something bright. Something different. Something a little less classic and reserved.

  We get our toes done first, and we’re seated in side-by-side chairs. Devanie flips through an old issue of Us Weekly while I peruse my phone. I’m scrolling through my Instagram feed, though, when my screen darkens and my mother’s number flashes.

  I almost choke on my spit before rejecting the call.

  It’s been three weeks since I’ve seen my parents … I don’t know what she could possibly want now. Besides, I’m with Devanie. I’m not going to take a personal call in front of her.

  My phone stops vibrating and the call goes away. A minute later, there’s a voicemail notification. I glance at Dev, who’s lost in a Selena Gomez article, and then I take a deep breath, pressing play and lifting the phone to my ear.

  “Brighton …” she says, “…it’s your mother.” Her voice is shaky, slow. “I was wondering if you might want to get together sometime this week … and talk … your father and I discussed it, and we’re ready for you to come home …”

  I don’t listen to the rest.

  They don’t get to cast me out and reel me in.

  I’m not a fish.

  Plus, I don’t want to go home. I’m closing the book on that chapter of my existence. And on top of that, I just so happen to be having the time of my life …

  I look toward Devanie again, this time finding her tapping out a text message all the while wearing the biggest grin I’ve ever seen on her.

  “Okay, spill it,” I tell her.

  She places her phone down. “What?”

  “You’re smiling like crazy. Who are you texting?”

  She’s still cheesing, like she can’t wipe it off if she tried, and her eyes sparkle like two brilliant blue diamonds. “It’s a boy …”

  “Obviously,” I tease. “And does this boy have a name?”

  “Dylan.” Her phone vibrates. She taps another message out before pressing send. “He’s super nice. He’s a little on the shy side, but we’ve been going on walks and stuff lately.”

  “Does he … hold your hand?” I ask.

  Her face glows, beet red. “No!”

  Good.

  She’s still the sweet, innocent girl her brother thinks she is.

  “Better not.” I wink.

  “My brother would kill me if he knew I was hanging out with Dylan,” she says. “Please, please, please don’t tell him anything.”

  I drag my fingers across my lips and pretend to throw away an invisible key. “Speaking of … how’s he doing these days?”

  I hold my breath, realizing I don’t know what I’d do if she told me something I didn’t want to hear … like that he’s hanging out with another girl.

  Then again … he’s always with me. And when he isn’t, he’s at the shop “slinging ink” as he calls it.

  Devanie rolls her eyes. “Same old, same old. Working and refusing to mind his own business.”

  “He really cares about you, doesn’t he?”

  “He’s basically obsessed. But if you want to call that caring … be my guest.”

  I chuckle.

  “I told him he needs to find a girlfriend or something,” she says.

  “What did he say?” I can’t believe I just asked that … God, I’m being so obvious.

  Devanie shrugs. “Says he doesn’t want one. But I don’t know. The more I think about it, maybe what’s really going on is, like, maybe no one wants to date him. He can be kind of a jerk to people sometimes.”

  “Has he ever … had a girlfriend before?” I hope my question seems natural.

  “Only one that I know of.” She rests her head against the back of the chair, staring at the ceiling. “Veronica was her name. They started dating before I was even out of diapers.”

  I do some quick math in my head and conclude that she was likely his high school girlfriend.

  “They were ob-sessed with each other.” She returns her attention to her magazine and flips to the next page. “Annoyingly obsessed. Together all the time. Joined at the hip. He even proposed to her.”

  My stomach drops at the thought of the stoic, unreadable Madden that I know being that head over heels for another woman, and then it drops again when I imagine him down on one knee, hoping to spend the rest of his life with her.

  “They broke up a few years ago,” she says.

  “Do you know why?” I have to know …

  Devanie shrugs. “No clue. He just came home one day, told me they’d broken up and that I wasn’t allowed to say her name ever again.”

  Sounds like Madden—or at least the Madden that I know.

  Warm water bubbles around my feet and the technician shakes the punchy pink bottle of nail polish, thumping it against the heel of her hand.

  I can’t help but wonder if Madden is still hung up on Veronica, if that’s why he won’t let himself move on or fall for anyone else.

  Maybe he’s waiting for her to come back?

  I don’t know this woman, obviously, but the sting of jealousy burns my chest anyway.

  I’ll never be his first love.

  I’ll never be the one who broke his heart.

  I’ll never be the one he misses, the one he longs for.

  I’ll only be the girl he kept at arm’s length for a tiny sliver of his long life.

  I’ll only be the girl who kept his bed warm once upon a time.

  And at the end of the day, I’ll only be some girl he never wanted half as much as he wanted Veronica.

  “Anyway, tell me more about this Dylan guy,” I say, forcing a smile and blinking away the tears that prick my eyes.

  I have no right to feel this way.

  I knew from the beginning what I was getting myself into.

&nbs
p; I knew from the start that he could never be mine.

  I knew from the moment I laid eyes on him that this was going to hurt.

  36

  Madden

  A pretty little thing with a mess of blonde waves and glossy pink lips sneaks in the back door of my shop Wednesday night, a tinfoil-covered plate in hand.

  “Brought you dinner,” she says. “And for once, I didn’t burn any of it.”

  It’s shortly after ten and I just wrapped up my last appointment. I’d planned on sticking around a little bit more, sketching some new flash on my Wacom as I’m getting sick of looking at the same old, same old on the front walls of the shop.

  “You didn’t have to do that.” I spray my client bed with disinfectant and tear a couple sheets of paper towels from a roll.

  “It’s fine. I know you said you had back to backs all day today. Figured you didn’t have time to eat.” She places the plate on the counter. “I don’t know where you want this …”

  She glances past the half-parted curtain, to the darkened shop.

  “Everyone gone for the day?” she asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Come upstairs.” Her mouth slips into a hesitant smile.

  I nod toward an open sketch pad on top of my chair. “Was just going to finish working on a concept I was doing for this new client.”

  “Can’t you do it upstairs?” She maintains her rosy, hopeful disposition. The last few days, I’ve been finding every excuse to work late. I need to distance myself from her. Shit’s getting way too real and moving way too fast, and this is how people get hurt.

  And the last thing I want to do is hurt Brighton.

  “You look tense …” she slinks up to my client bed and perches on the edge before grabbing a fistful of my shirt and pulling me closer.

  Her legs are spread, anchoring me into place, and her hands slide up my arms, stopping at my shoulders where she rubs the knotted muscles, forcing the day’s tension to evaporate. Her fingers trail up the back of my neck next, and she lifts her mouth to mine, a silent plea for a kiss.

  I try to resist her.