Corrupt

by Penelope Douglas

And then she turned around and left.

  I locked eyes with Michael again, my body rushing with liquid heat. It felt good to stand up to him and his antics.

  “Why are you always messing with me?” I demanded.

  “Because it’s fun,” he admitted, “and you’re getting so good at it.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Why are your friends messing with me?”

  But he just stayed silent.

  I could see the challenge in his eyes. He knew they were fucking with me, and instinct told me to be afraid, but for some reason...

  I wasn’t.

  The pushing and shoving, the head games and the mind-fucks…everything twisted me up and tore me down so much that when I finally got tired of stumbling and falling and backing down, I found that it felt really good to play.

  Michael leaned back in the booth, resting against the corner and looking out at the bar.

  “So if Diana is Dirty Diana, what about Sam?” He tipped his chin. “The bartender. What’s his song?”

  I turned my eyes out, finding Sam Watkins behind the bar, working alone. He was taking down bottles of liquor, wiping them off, and replacing them.

  “Closing Time,” I guessed. “By Semisonic.”

  Michael snickered, looking at me like I wasn’t even trying. “That’s too easy.” He took a drink of his beer and nodded to someone else. “Drew, at the bar.”

  I inhaled a breath, trying to relax. Looking over at Drew Hale, a middle-aged judge who was well-connected but not particularly rich. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, and his suit pants were wrinkled. He was in here a lot.

  “Hinder. Lips of an Angel,” I tossed out, turning to Michael. “He was in love with a woman, they broke up, and he married her sister on a whim.” I looked down, my heart going out to him a little. “And every time I see him he looks just a little worse.”

  I couldn’t imagine how hard it was to see the woman you loved all the time and not be able to have her, because you married the wrong woman.

  Blinking, I looked up, seeing Michael. And all of a sudden, it wasn’t so hard to imagine.

  “Him,” he continued, gesturing to a heavy-set businessman sitting at a table with a younger woman. She had platinum hair and heavy make-up. He wore a wedding ring, and she didn’t.

  I rolled my eyes. “She’s Only Seventeen. Winger.”

  Michael laughed, his white teeth shining in the dim booth.

  He went on, jerking his chin to a pair of high schoolers playing pool. “How about them?”

  I studied them, checking out the black hair hanging in their eyes, the black skinny jeans and T-shirts, and their scary black boots with five inch thick soles.

  I smiled. “Closeted Taylor Swift fans. I promise.”

  His chest shook, laughing. “And her?” He nodded.

  I twisted my head over my shoulder, seeing a beautiful young woman leaning over the bar. I could see a good bit of thigh going up her skirt, and when she leaned back down again, I saw her pull her mouth away from a drink and take hold of the straw, dipping it in and out of a milkshake.

  I couldn’t help but laugh as I turned back around, singing, “My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard…”

  Michael choked on his beer, a drop of it spilling out of his mouth as he tried not to laugh.

  I picked up my shot of whiskey the waitress had left before, swirling the amber liquid in the glass.

  I hadn’t felt anything from the beer, but for some reason, I hadn’t really needed it. My body felt warm now. I was relaxed, despite what had happened to the house, and I felt something building in my gut. Something hot that made me feel ten feet tall.

  Michael leaned in, his voice turning low and heavy. “And how about me?”

  I swallowed, still studying my drink. What song described him? What band?

  That was like trying to pick one food to eat for the rest of your life.

  “Disturbed,” I said, naming the band and still looking down at the glass.

  He said nothing. Only remained still before finally sitting back and tipping his drink up to his lips.

  Butterflies swarmed in my stomach, and I kept my breathing even.

  “Drowning Pool, Three Days Grace, Five Finger Death Punch,” I continued, “Thousand Foot Krutch, 10 Years, Nothing More, Breaking Benjamin, Papa Roach, Bush…” I paused, exhaling nice and slow despite the way my heart drummed. “Chevelle, Skillet, Garbage, Korn, Trivium, In This Moment…” I drifted off, peace settling over me as I looked up at him. “You’re in everything.”

  His eyes held mine, narrowing with just a hint of the pain I’d felt while longing for him all these years. I didn’t know what he was thinking or if he knew what to think, but now he knew.

  I’d hid it, pushed it down, and acted like it wasn’t there, but now I’d owned it, and I didn’t care what he thought. I wasn’t ashamed of what was inside me.

  Now he knew.

  I blinked, lifting the glass to my lips and downing my shot. Leaning over, I swiped his and slammed it down as well.

  I barely felt the burn in my throat. The adrenaline overpowered it.

  “I’m tired,” I told him solemnly.

  And then I got up and left the booth, knowing he’d follow.

  Present

  THE HOUSE SCARED ME AT NIGHT. It always had.

  A light wind blew outside and bare tree branches scraped against windows in various rooms as I crept downstairs, passing the ticking grandfather clock in the foyer.

  Its sound echoed though the vast house and always reminded me that life went on while we slept. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…

  Kind of a scary thought, actually. Creatures stirred outside, trees sat patiently in the forest, and danger could be lurking right outside the front door, mere feet away from our vulnerable spots in our warm beds.

  And the Crist house held that same mystery. There were too many dark corners. Too many nooks to hide in and too many dark closets hidden in dormant rooms lurking behind closed doors.

  The house was heavy with secrets and surprises, and it scared me, which was probably why I always found myself wandering around at night.

  I enjoyed the fear of the silent darkness, but it was something else, too. You became aware of things under the shroud of night that you didn’t see in the light of day. The things people hide and how lax they become with their secrets when they think is everyone is asleep.

  In the Crist house, the most interesting hours would often be after midnight. I’d learned to love the sound of the house being shut down and locked up. It was like a new world was about to unfold.

  My bare feet didn’t make any sound as I walked into the dark kitchen and headed over to the pantry.

  This was where I’d first found out that Mr. Crist was scared of Michael. It had been the middle of the night, and Michael had been sixteen. He’d come into the kitchen to get something to drink and hadn’t noticed me on the patio outside. I’d gotten up to watch the rain under an awning with a stash of fruit rollups Mrs. Crist had bought me. I remember it clearly, because it was my first night in the new bedroom she’d decorated just for me for when I slept over.

  His father walked in to the kitchen, and I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it turned heated, and Mr. Crist slapped his son across the face.

  I hated it, of course, but it wasn’t something I hadn’t seen before, unfortunately. Mr. Crist and Michael didn’t get along, and it wasn’t the first time Michael had been hit.

  But this time was different. He didn’t take it quietly. He immediately lashed out and grabbed his father by the neck. I stared in horror as Mr. Crist struggled. Something had come over Michael, and I’d never seen him act like that before.

  And as second after second passed, it was clear that Michael was too old for his father to push around, and now Mr. Crist knew it.

  I watched as his father start to choke and cough.

  Michael eventually let go, and his father stormed out of the kitchen. The incident lost Mic
hael his car and his allowance, but I didn’t think Mr. Crist ever touched him again after that.

  Opening the pantry door, I turned on the small light and walked down to the third column of shelves, finding the peanut butter.

  Holding it to my chest, I gazed around, spotting the half-full bag of mini-marshmallows on the top shelf near the corner.

  I smiled, walking over and arching up on my tiptoes, trying to pinch the bag between my fingers and grab it.

  But then an arm reached out over me, snatching the bag, and I jerked my hand down, sucking in a quick breath.

  “I thought you were tired,” Michael said, holding out the bag to me.

  I swallowed to wet my dry mouth and turned, peering up at him. He was dressed in black lounge pants with no shirt, and his hair looked wet, probably from a shower.

  I wanted to groan at the ache between my legs. God, he drove me crazy.

  With everything that had happened tonight, I hadn’t had a chance to slow down enough for it to occur to me, but…

  The last time I saw Michael was in the pool cave. I tensed my thighs, the little pulse in my clit suddenly beating harder at the memory and wanting a whole lot more of whatever he did to me in there.

  Thankfully, he hadn’t mentioned it.

  After we’d arrived home from Sticks, we’d both gone our separate ways. I went to my room and hurriedly dialed the number for the satellite phone he’d finally given to me in the car ride home, unfortunately not getting an answer.

  After calling a few more times with no luck, I decided to try again in the morning. She was fine. Damon had just scared me with the threat, which was probably all he was trying to do to begin with.

  I then crawled into a hot bath and slipped into some pajama shorts and a white cami. But I was no longer tired. Since I hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning at my apartment, I went downstairs in search of food.

  Brushing past Michael, I left the pantry and set the provisions down on the island, trying to get away from him.

  No such luck.

  He came to my side and stood next to me, grabbing the loaf of bread and taking out two slices for me and two for himself.

  Guess he was hungry, too.

  I let out a frustrated breath and spun around, sliding two plates out of the cabinet while he opened the refrigerator and dug in one of the drawers for something.

  We didn’t speak as we busied ourselves making sandwiches. I dug into the marshmallow bag for a handful and poured them onto the peanut butter I’d already spread while he unscrewed a pickle jar. I stopped what I was doing, twisting up my lips as he laid slices across his peanut-butter sandwich.

  Gross.

  “That makes you so much less attractive,” I said, wincing.

  He snorted, and I watched as he replaced the top slice of bread and picked up the sandwich, bringing it to his mouth.

  “Don’t knock ‘til you try it.” And he took a huge bite, grabbing his plate and walking around me.

  I shook my head, amused.

  “Let’s watch a movie,” he said as he left the kitchen.

  I popped my head up. A movie?

  “And grab a couple of waters before you come,” he shouted from the hallway.

  I cocked an eyebrow. The only time Michael and I had ever watched movies together was when Trevor was in the room, too. Otherwise I was too scared to invade Michael’s space.

  I exhaled a sigh and turned around, taking two bottles of water out of the fridge. Grabbing the rest of my food, I left the kitchen, my arms full.

  The media room was dark, lit only by the light of the seventy-inch flat screen hanging on the rock wall ahead of me.

  As beautiful as the house was, it was this room I liked best.

  There were no windows, as it was buried in the center of the house, and all the walls were made of stacked stone. It gave the room a cave-like feel, and it was usually the one Michael and his friends hung out in when he lived here.

  In the center of the room sat a three-sided brown suede couch. Huge and comfortable, it had throw pillows and a large matching ottoman sitting in the empty space in the middle.

  Michael carried his plate to the couch and tossed the remote down, sitting down with his back to me.

  My blood started to heat, and my hand with the plate shook. It almost felt easy. Like just a relaxing night watching TV.

  Too easy. I couldn’t relax around him. I knew better.

  I walked into the room and rounded the couch, tossing his bottle of water on the seat next to him and taking the right side of the sofa, perpendicular to him.

  I sat cross-legged, facing the television and eating while he surfed.

  “That looks good,” I spoke up, seeing Alien vs. Predator.

  “That looks good?” he mocked in my voice, and I turned my head toward him.

  He was slouched back on the couch with his left arm tucked behind his head and his long, tight torso looking so smooth and beautiful. I once saw a girl straddle him as he sat like that, and I turned away, feeling the ever-present longing I wished would go away.

  “You’ve already seen it, Rika,” he argued. “I saw you in here watching that movie back in high school. At least twice.”

  Twenty-one times, actually.

  I liked horror movies, but I also enjoyed sci-fi, so the Alien and Predator franchises were a big hit for me.

  And then when they combined them and made Alien vs. Predator? Holy shit.

  “Fine by me,” Michael allowed, clicking on the channel, the movie starting just as the team of archeologists had gotten to Antarctica.

  The hair on my arms stood up, and my toes curled. I held the sandwich with both hands, taking small bites as I watched the screen. I could hear Michael biting into his sandwich and uncapping his water, and by the time the Alien queen had started laying eggs, I had spread out on my stomach, leaning up on my elbows as I held the sandwich and chewed.

  My stomach tightened, hearing the alien queen’s heavy breathing. Her hissing echoed through the surround sound, and when the team of scientists entered the sacrificial chamber, unaware of all the alien eggs in the room that were about to hatch, I put down my sandwich and pushed it away. Grabbing a throw pillow, I crouched down behind it, peeking over the top.

  And locking my ankles in the air, I winced as the eggs began to open.

  Long legs crawled out of the opening, the music got faster, and the creature lurched, flying through the air toward a woman’s face.

  I shot my head down, burying it in the pillow as the shot cut to a new scene.

  I twisted my face to the side, laughing as I peeked over at him. “That part always freaks me out.”

  But he wasn’t paying attention to the TV. His eyes were on my legs.

  I immediately warmed. Had he been watching the movie at all?

  He still sat back on the couch, relaxing, but his eyes were trained on my body, and I could only imagine what he was thinking.

  And then, as if realizing I’d just spoken, he finally raised his eyes, meeting mine, and then shot his gaze back to the screen, ignoring me.

  I slowly turned back, too, and even though I wondered if he was still looking at me, I made no move to sit up or grab a blanket.

  Over the next hour I continued to hug my pillow as the Predators hunted the Aliens and slowly all of the archeologists became collateral damage. I felt Michael’s eyes on me from time to time, but I didn’t know if it was real or just my imagination.

  But every time a Predator lurked in the dark or an alien crept out of a corner I could feel the heat of his stare, and I gripped the pillow tighter and tighter until, by the end of the movie, my fingers ached.

  “You like to be scared, don’t you?” I heard his voice behind me. “That’s your kink.”

  I twisted my head to the side, narrowing my eyes as the credits started to roll.

  Like to be scared? I enjoyed scary movies, but it wasn’t kink.

  He placed his palms on his thighs, leaning his head back an
d watching me. “Your toes curled every time the Aliens and Predators came on the screen.”

  I dropped my eyes, lowering my legs and slowly sitting up.

  All the movies that I enjoyed the most came to mind—the slasher flicks, like Halloween and Friday the 13th—and I noticed how tight my stomach muscles were. I took a deep breath, forcing them to relax.

  Yeah, okay. I liked the way my heart pounded harder, and I loved the way my senses were sharper when I was scared. The way every simple tick-tock in the house became mysterious footsteps, or the way I was hyper-aware of empty space behind me as I sat on the couch, feeling like someone was lurking back there.

  I enjoyed the fright of not knowing what was coming and from where.

  “When we used to wear the masks,” Michael said, dropping his voice to a near whisper, “you liked it, didn’t you? It scared you, but it turned you on.”

  I raised my hesitant eyes and tried not to let out a laugh. What was I supposed to say? That the fact that they’d looked like monsters got me hot?

  I shook my head clear and stood up, saying in a quiet voice. “I’m going to bed.”

  I grabbed my phone and took a step, but Michael’s voice stopped me.

  “Come here,” he said softly.

  I turned my head, narrowing my eyes. Come here?

  He sat up, resting his forearms on his knees and waiting, while I shifted on my feet.

  He was always playing games. I didn’t trust him.

  But the temptation to engage was too great. He was right. I was getting good at it, and I kind of liked it, too.

  I took slow steps, holding up my chin to steel myself.

  When I reached him, he placed a hand on my hip and pulled me in between his legs. I gasped as he fell back against the sofa again, pulling me in with him. I shot my hands out, planting them on both sides of his head on the back of the couch, keeping myself upright as I leaned into him.

  “Say it,” he breathed out, holding my hips with both hands now. “It turned you on.”

  I closed my mouth and shook my head, looking down at him with a challenge.

  “I know it did,” he maintained, a fire in his eyes. “Did you think I couldn’t see how tense your body would get or how your nipples got hard through your shirt when you saw me wearing it? You’re a little twisted. Admit it.”