ARROGANT BASTARD

by Winter Renshaw

  “Look, I’m not trying to impress you. Just making a statement. Don’t flatter yourself. You’re too young for me. Plus, I’m taken.”

  “Poor guy.”

  She scoffs and flips me off with a shit-eating grin. I kind of like her. If I were looking for a friend, I might consider someone like her. Her sass isn’t unlike mine, and it’s a breath of fresh air in the boring land of Whispering Hills, Utah. I have a feeling we’re both treading the same dark water, in some way or another.

  “Jensen?” A man appears from behind Liberty. His dark hair matches hers, though his eyes are black as coal. He wipes his oil-stained hand on a dirty shop rag and extends it. “I’m Rich. Mark said you needed a job?”

  “Mark said you needed a… gofer.”

  “I do.” He motions for me to follow him out to the shop. A team of young guys are rolling tires, hoisting cars up on lifts, and running hydraulic tools. We weave between a sea of vehicles until we reach a back room where all the parts are kept. “You familiar with car parts?”

  I nod.

  “Good.” He hooks his thumbs into the belt loops of his dirty gray pants and rocks back and forth on his heels. He may as well be chewing the end of a piece of straw. He takes me in from head to toe, sizing me up before he makes it official. “Pay is eight bucks an hour. You can work a couple hours after school during the week. Saturday mornings too, if you want to pick up extra hours.”

  “I’ll have to look into transportation, but I think I can make that work.”

  His brows furrow. “Got an old diesel Dodge in the back. Doesn’t run. Been meaning to fix it up myself and sell it. If you can get it running, it’s yours. You can work off the parts, if you need to. Just keep a running tab with Lib. Keys are in it.”

  I’m not sure what I did to deserve such a karmic pay off, but I wholeheartedly accept.

  I spend the next two hours running parts back and forth. The guys are friendly enough, but I’m not here to make friends. By seven, Rich says I can mess around with the Dodge for a bit, which is good because I have no other way to get home, and I’m not about to phone in any favors from Waverly.

  I pop the hood and tinker around a bit, running back and forth from the shop floor and grabbing various tools and parts. Mostly new spark plugs and a battery get it running, but it sounds like a dying cow. It’s going to need a timing belt soon and a few other odds and ends, but it should get me back and forth for the next few days.

  “Congratulations,” Rich says come eight o’clock. He hands me the title to the Dodge with his signature on it and shakes my hand. I get the feeling he’s taking pity on me. I don’t like the pity, but I’m not in a position to turn down the free truck.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now get on home, boy. I know Mark likes his kids home by a decent hour.”

  I restrain myself from telling him I’m not one of Mark’s kids. I’m Kath’s son, biologically speaking, and I’m only passing through for a few months. Instead I bite my tongue, offer a nod, and climb up in my silver and blue truck.

  Blazing through the quiet streets of Whispering Hills in my loud-as-fuck ride, I’ve never felt more alive. For the first time in years, I’ll get to go home and not be met with the Spanish Inquisition, be slapped around, or be reminded I’m a piece of shit disappointment.

  I almost smile.

  Instead, I crank the radio, roll down the window, and go for a drive until the moon is high in the sky.

  By the time I pull up in front of the street I’ve now dubbed the Suburban Compound, the main house is lit up like the Fourth of July. But the silhouette of a man peering out the living room window with his hands on his hips is concerning.

  I drag myself up the steps and show myself in, bracing for rapid-fire questions from Mark-of-Many-Wives Miller. It’s hard to take a man serious who truly believes with all his heart that marrying multiple women is a straight ticket into the pearly gates of Heaven.

  “Before you say anything,” I begin. “I stayed late after work fixing up this old truck Rich gave me.”

  “I called Rich.” Mark’s face is the color of a beet. I never knew the human face could turn such a garish purplish red. “He said you left the shop two hours ago. Where were you, Jensen? What do you have to say for yourself?”

  None of the wives are in sight. Discipline must not be on their chore list for tonight.

  “I went for a drive. Had to clear my head.”

  “You call, Jensen. You don’t just take off and not tell anyone where you’re going.” The vein in his head is protruding, and he’s halfway to an aneurysm by now. He’s trying to make it sound like he gives a shit about me, but I know what this really is. It’s a control thing with him. He’s got his wives and daughters and children under his thumb, but not me. He doesn’t quite know how to wrangle me in yet. News flash—he’ll never be able to. “Your mother was worried sick.”

  Right.

  Must have been why her house was pitch black when I pulled up.

  “Nothing good ever happens after dark,” Mark continues his lecture.

  “It won’t happen again.” I want him off my case. I’m tired, I want a sandwich, and I want to go the fuck to bed. I swallow a big old batch of pride and lower my head in faux-shame.

  “Damn right it won’t.”

  Uh-oh. Mark said damn. He must be angry.

  “All due respect, Mark, you really don’t need to worry about me. I can handle my—”

  “I won’t have you coming in here, setting your own rules and disrespecting the rest of the family.” His nostrils flare, pulling in long, hard breaths like a bull about to charge. “We have a strict eight o’clock curfew in his household. The example you’re setting is completely inappropriate.”

  “Be home in time for Dateline. Got it.”

  His mouth parts for a second. He wants to continue lecturing and berating me, but he doesn’t. Instead he pulls in a deep breath and rubs his tired eyes. He’s giving me that look—the same one Rich gave me. They look at me like I’m some victim—an abused, defenseless little boy. I’m anything but, and I refuse to ever identify as a fucking victim.

  Mark mutters something like, “goodnight.” He’s gone, disappearing into the darkness of the main house. I head straight for the kitchen, pulling a loaf of white bread from the pantry and ransacking the fridge for something so shove between a couple slices.

  I grab a packet of bologna and a bottle of ketchup and slam the door. My heart nearly falls clear to my feet when a figure standing in the kitchen doorway appears without warning. My eyes focus in the dark until I recognize those virginal Coke bottle curves.

  “Shit, Waverly, you scared me.”

  “Sorry.” She stands there all saucer-eyed before tiptoeing toward me. “Want me to make you something?”

  I’m not sure where this niceness is coming from. Last I knew, we’d left things on a sour note. Maybe she heard Mark yelling at me.

  I pull out a plate and knife and go to town. “Nah. I can make my own sandwich.” I start to cut my sandwich on the diagonal and then freeze mid-slice. “Aw, shit. Am I not supposed to be in the kitchen?”

  Her brows furrow.

  “You know, ‘cause I’m a guy and all.”

  She crosses her arms and fights a smile for a quick two seconds. She wants to smile. I know it. But she won’t allow herself.

  “Be careful with Dad,” she says, her voice hushed. “It’s better to let him get it all out. Just don’t talk back. He doesn’t like that.”

  “I take it you’re not mad at me anymore?” I shove a third of the sandwich into my mouth at once. Bologna and ketchup sandwiches were a staple at my old house until Juliette came along. Josiah didn’t cook much, and most evenings were fend-for-yourself.

  “I wasn’t mad at you.” She’s still playing the denial card.

  “Okay. If you insist.” I shove the rest of the sandwich in my face, eating like a prison inmate guarding his food, but I don’t care. I’m fucking hungry. I make myself a
second sandwich and inhale it as she watches. “You want one?”

  She shakes her head. I consider asking why she’s still standing there, but I don’t have the energy. I’m dirty. I’m tired. I need a shower. Waverly cleans up my mess without saying a word.

  “You don’t have to do that.” I’m trying not to laugh, but the girl flits around me like a goddamned housemaid.

  She wipes up the crumbs and replaces the rag. The dampness rubs against her white cotton pajama top and sells out the fact that she’s most definitely not wearing a bra. Who knew under all those thick cardigan twin sets, Waverly Miller was packing a set of perky, round tits?

  “Go on upstairs, Jensen. Get to bed. I won’t have you making us late for school again in the morning.” Her languid command reminds me the rest of the house is fast asleep. It’s just us two standing in the dimly lit kitchen of the main house.

  “Don’t worry about me. Rich gave me a truck. I won’t be needing your brake-slamming taxi services anymore.” I head out of the kitchen. Waverly follows in step.

  “I’m a great driver.”

  “Not when you’re mad.” We take two steps, then two more. I stop short and she bumps right into me. “You were mad about something today. I don’t care what you say.”

  The warmth of her breath hits my back as she sighs. She’s not going to argue. She won’t even put up a fight.

  “A life of servitude is no life at all.” I have to say it, even at the risk of pissing her off. I want to give her something to think about when she goes to bed at night. I can’t imagine what else might fill that pretty little head of hers. Puppies? Rainbows? Shit. She needs to think about real life, because real life is fucking hard. “You wait hand and foot on everybody else, you keep your opinions to yourself, and you’re giving them permission to walk all over you.”

  “This is all temporary.” She flashes a knowing half-smirk. “I walk a straight line. I get to go to college in the fall.”

  I knew there was more to her than meets the eye.

  I keep climbing stairs until we finally reach the top. The hallway is pitch dark. I turn toward her, though I can’t make out her face—only the outline of her profile. Her body heat radiates onto me, and her sweet scent fills my lungs. And then I say something for the sole purpose of provoking her, because a girl like Waverly needs to be incited once in a while.

  “I thought about you last night.” Darkness hides my smug smile as I wait for her reaction. My confession is stark and honest, unexpected and entirely inappropriate. I want her to slap me across the face so hard it makes my cheek radiate with pain. I want her to feel better when she does it. Only I’m met with nothing.

  “Goddamn it, Waverly, did you hear what I just said? I thought about you last night.”

  She swallows so loudly I can hear it. “I thought about you, too.”

  CHAPTER 6

  The road to hell is paved with impure thoughts, and I just bought myself a one-way ticket. I’m lying in bed, my face burnt red and raw as I try to catch my breath.

  Every part of my body came alive for the first time as we stood at the top of the stairs. Jensen’s confession nearly sent me over the edge. My body and mind fought like the mortal enemies they are until I said my piece and brushed past him like I hadn’t said it at all.

  I shouldn’t have said anything. All I did was make things worse. Breakfast is going to be awkward tomorrow. Chem class, too. I cannot entertain these thoughts. I’m in the Devil’s playground right now. One misstep and I tumble and fall, and my father would refuse to let me leave for college this fall.

  My head is buried face down in my pillow, the cool white pillowcase absorbing the cherry red heat of my cheeks.

  I can’t believe I let temptation and lust get the best of me. I know better than to entertain frivolous emotions. This is grossly inappropriate.

  I. Am. Mortified.

  ***

  I avoid confrontation like the plague, and that’s precisely why I wake up at the crack of dawn and head to school under the guise of tutoring another student before Jensen wakes.

  And it’s also why, when the first bell rings, I make a beeline for the nurse’s office, complaining of a stomach ache that coincidently subsides just in time for my Chem class to end.

  I don’t see him the rest of the day, thank goodness, and I rush home after school, grateful when I don’t see his truck because it means he’s working at Uncle Rich’s shop.

  I’m playing on the floor of the family room with the younger kids after dinner when I feel a presence lingering over me.

  “Missed you in class this morning.” I rotate around to see Jensen standing behind me, his arms crossed, and his lips curled at the corners. He must’ve just come home from work. “Don’t worry. You can borrow my notes.”

  “I wasn’t feeling well.” I swallow the enormous lump in my throat. It comes right back. My eyes trace the length of his solid body, stopping at his forearms as they flex just so. His dark hair is ruffled and he smells of diesel and bad intentions. Half a turkey sandwich rests in his hand, which he promptly shoves into his mouth. The indentation above his jaw hollows with each chew.

  Bellamy is across the room playing Sorry! with the twins, unable to peel her gaze off the two of us. She knows me better than anyone else, and the fact that she picks up on whatever is happening right now sends me into a dizzied state of humiliation. It’s like my thoughts are being broadcast across my forehead for the whole family to see. My father would never let me go to college if he knew I allowed any kind of lust to creep into the corners of my mind.

  I rise, force a smile onto my face, and say, “I think I just heard the buzzer in the laundry room. Better go fold those towels.”

  Bellamy opens her mouth to protest. I know she folded them earlier, but I need to get out of here. I need to get away from Jensen.

  Dashing down the hall to the laundry room, I don’t hear him following me. I release a relieved sigh and yank open the dryer door, thankful when I find a whole load of random white socks needing matched. This should keep me busy for a while.

  “Really, Waverly?” His voice makes the room spin and my body a few degrees warmer.

  I turn to face him, lifting my brows. “Can I help you?”

  He charges into the small confines of the laundry room, shutting the door behind him and invading my space like he owns it. His eyes are dark, darker than before, and his brows are arched. He licks his soft lips, the ones I’ve thought about more times than I would ever admit, and leans into me.

  “You can’t just say what you said last night and then run away.” His voice is low, throaty, almost. “Every confession has a consequence.”

  “I know.” I try to speak, but my words come out thin and breathless.

  “What did you think about when you thought about me?” His voice is a command, and I am trained to obey. He steps closer, his hand lifts to a space just under my jaw. I press my lips together in response to his touch, ensuring my words never see the light of day.

  Everything about this is wrong.

  And yet everything about this feels like it has the potential to be amazing.

  “Why are you shaking?” His eyes crease. “Are you afraid of me, Waverly?”

  Our stares lock. I don’t say a word. I keep my opinions to myself the way I always have and hope he grows bored of me and walks away.

  His hand still holds my face, demanding my attention. “What would you do if I kissed you right now?”

  My stomach hardens. My legs turn to Jell-O. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  He traces my bottom lip with his thumb and I release a harbored breath. My lips have never been kissed. Not by another man and not in that way. They’re supposed to be saved for my future husband. My first gift to him on our wedding day, followed by the rest of me on our wedding night…

  “You’re not my sister,” he says with a huff.

  “I am,” I say. He doesn’t understand how sealing works. I can’t fault him for that. I can only te
ach him. “I am your sister.”

  My heart thrums hard against my chest. Blood whooshes in my ears. Jensen still cups my face and his eyes refuse to release mine.

  “What do you want from me?” My voice is a hair below audible, but he hears me loud and clear.

  His lips turn up halfway, giving a small glimpse of his perfect white teeth. “I told you before. I want to save you.”

  “And I told you, I don’t need to be saved.” If anything, I need to be protected from temptation—from him.

  “I want to teach you about choices.”

  I scrunch my face. “What about choices?”

  “Just that you have them.”

  “I know that.” I’m not following.

  “You don’t. You have no control over anything. You have the illusion of it, and that could be very dangerous for you.” His hand leaves my chin and traces down my neck. My breath suspends. “Your body. Your heart. Your soul. Those things all belong to you.”

  “Obviously.”

  “But you’re trained to believe you can only use them a certain way. You’re told you can only give them away when the time is right, and that you have no choice as to when that is. You’re forced to wait until someone else thinks you’re ready.” Jensen’s voice vibrates through his solid chest and into the tight space between us.

  “Get over yourself,” I spit. “You don’t know me. You don’t know our family. You think you have everyone pegged. You go around saying whatever you want. You can’t just do that.”

  “I can do whatever the fuck I want to, kid.” His hand slides down my arms, leaving a trail of goosebumps. “You know why? Because I have choices. I have control.”

  His words wash over me, sinking into my bones and wrapping around my heart. The deepest part of me know his words to be true, but acknowledging them could be very dangerous, especially in this house.

  “I can think of something you don’t have control over.” I fold my arms and pull my shoulders tight.

  “What’s that?”

  “Me.”

  My words are a challenge—a dare, perhaps. I’m playing with fire, and I’m two seconds from being burned, but I don’t care. My body braces itself, fully expecting him to declare I’m wrong—to take my lips and to slide his hands all over my body in places no one else has ever been. My mind would fight it like hell, but my body would surrender. And maybe then it wouldn’t entirely be my fault, not if he forces himself on me.