I clasp my hands on her cheek and kiss her like a madman. She moans and bites my lip, slipping her tongue into my mouth, devouring me. The last time I actually tongue kissed a girl was my first kiss at ten and it was Grace Windom. It was horrible, nothing like kissing Scarlett. Scarlet is sexy. Scarlett is older. Scarlett is Scarlett. She is like no other. She’s bad for me, I know it, but I want the bad. I grip her ass, pressing her harder to me. Her chest on my chest, her legs wrapped around my waist. Her gasp gives me courage. I slam her onto the coffee table, knocking everything off with my free arm. Her smile gives me confidence. I kiss the top of her breasts then work my way down quickly. She moans my name and that gives me life. I move back up and land my lips back on hers. She places her hands on my face and looks at me, stopping the moment. I worry that I am not doing as great as I led myself to think. Her bright smile quickly diffuses my doubt. I can’t believe this. I’m about to lose my virginity in the living room of my new home. I just hope no one wakes up and comes in here. Then again I don’t really care.
“You’re a fast learner,” she tells me.
I shrug, grinning from ear to ear, proudly. “I guess I’m adaptable,” I say breathing heavily, anxious to continue. This is it. I will no longer be a virgin.
“You’re going to be fun,” she predicts. She kisses me and reaches for the button of my pants. She unbuttons them and moves the zipper down before reaching inside and grabbing hold of me. She starts to stroke it, preparing me for what is going to be the greatest night of my life.
This night will change everything. This night will be the beginning. I am so happy. I know I will be forever now. Scarlett will make me happy. Scarlett will make me strong. Scarlett will make me a man. I never knew sinning could be so invigorating.
Part 2
“It takes very little to govern good people. Very little. And bad people can’t be governed at all. Or if they could I never heard of it.”
- Cormac McCarthy (No Country for Old Men)
2
Years Later
JULIET
When I met the Queen of England, I only had one question.
“Where do you get your underwear?”
Yeah, that was what I asked the Queen of England. Scandalous behavior they all said. Ever since then, my mum has been sitting on pins and needles, waiting my next move as if I am planning to unleash a nuclear bomb.
“Juliet, are you listening to me?” She’s lecturing me on the phone right now. I used to be way worse. She didn’t lecture me then though, maybe because I was good at hiding the bad. Now, I am out and open with my, as she calls it, outlandish behavior. In translation, I just tell people the truth… a lot. And telling the truth means bad behavior. The irony of life, yah? “Juliet, I don’t want you getting into all sorts of trouble.”
“Mum, I’m not gonna get into trouble,” I say, readjusting my ear buds that are connected to my cell. “Don’t worry, everything will be okay. I’ll call you after I get settled.”
She pauses, probably biting her thumb. “Okay dear.” There’s the long pause. Cue the three words that she finds hard to say sometimes. “I love you.”
I smile. “Love you too. Give Dad and Gregor a kiss kiss for me.” I hang up and step on the escalator headed down to the luggage drop off.
My mum is a worrier and has always been very hesitant with displaying affection. She used to be ice, but now she has become ice that slowly melts. I’m sure it will be melting for a very long time. I like it though, her worrying. It shows she cares. Like everyone else, I always need the people I love to show me that they care. It’s always a confirmation that I’m not alone outside of my journey through life. We walk through life on our own, but we should always have people on the sidelines cheering us on and passing us a cup of water or whatever energy drink is on the high now. I personally value a Red Bull every once in a while. It does give you wings, especially mixed with whiskey. Nevertheless, she needs not to worry. I won’t get into trouble. Well, I hope not too much trouble.
JITTERY BIOOOTCCHH:
Did you arrive in America yet Bitch? I loathe Americans. Except Beyoncé. Brangelina too and all their kids that aren’t from a foreign country. I love them too. If you run into Taylor Swift sock her in the snatch for me! I know you love her and all that shit, but every time she’s on screen she’s so happy. I need her to stop it! Life isn’t that great.
I laugh out loud at the text I read. I didn’t name her this in my phone, by the way. She did. She gets a kick out of her problems.
Me:
I love me some Tay Tay. NO I WILL NOT ASSAULT HER! But I will hug and kiss Beyonce so her halo can bless me. Brangelina is overrated. But still my fantasy ménage a trois. And shutup. Life is great and you know it.
New York. I’m transferring here from London because I just needed a new scene. There isn’t a special reason why I wanted to move to New York; I just knew I didn’t want to live in L.A.—too much sun, too much blonde—or any other city in America, so New York it is and Columbia is a great university. I want an adventure. A real adventure would probably be traveling the world, but for my parents’ sake, I will finish school first. I’m going to be staying at Ms. Eleanor’s until the school term starts. I have only met her once during the summer I spent with my mormor in her villa in France. Her and Ms. Eleanor became best friends through mysterious circumstances they said. Ms. Eleanor left quite the impression when I first met her. She was just like my mormor—eccentric, full of life, and a shine to her, but a bit screws loose. My mormor ignored it. She always saw the best in people. This trait of hers is what saved me. She always saw the best in me even when I never saw it in myself. I always found it shocking that my mum turned out the opposite, but Mormor told me that she wasn’t always so free. “So there’s hope for you yet, darling,” she said to me when I was eleven and noticed I was becoming a real spoiled bitch. She actually called me that, but in the sweetest way. I miss her. I miss her every day and in return my heart hurts a bit every day, but as she would say, “The wind always blows.”
HUGO
No one ever truly cares about the bad things they have done, especially when it provides them with something good. I, on the other hand, just don’t care. I am guilt free, but Brook—she isn’t.
“You missed a button,” I point out while she gets dressed. She quickly looks down, her brunette hair falling around her face and shoulders.
“I’m late,” she says as she re-buttons her blouse.
“Don’t worry, I’m sure your husband and your marriage counselor won’t mind your late arrival,” I say, lighting up my cigarette.
“Yeah, well, I need to go home first and get dressed. These are the clothes I wore yesterday and he saw me before I came here.”
Brooke Winston is the wife of Gregory Winston and daughter of Gordon Bigford, the CEO of BGE, one of the largest energy companies in the U.S. At thirty-one, she has two kids, a shih tzu named Brutus, and has had five nervous breakdowns in the last six years. We started sleeping together two months ago. The usual failed marriage story—she found out Gregory was screwing one of the four babysitters she had taking care of their kids. It’s a tale as old as time. Husband cheats, wife either accepts it leading to a life of turmoil or fucks someone herself, like the pool boy, bellhop, his brother or—like her best friend and her two first cousins—me.
“Okay. Call me later?” she asks as she looks at the mirror fixing her bed hair.
“I never call,” I say, coldly. I never understand why women ask me this question with hope in their voice as if there is a chance I would call.
“Well then,” she says softly, clearly hurt by it. It’s one thing to get treated like shit by your husband but another by your lover too. “I’ll call you.” But it never stops her from coming back to me. She turns around and smiles. I don’t smile back because personally I rarely smile.
“Tell your husband and his imaginary sex addiction I say hello.”
She turns back and gives me the finger. I smi
rk at that.
Brooke is thirty-one and already unhappy. I can’t judge. I’m twenty-two and unhappy so what is the difference?
I lay out my black tailored suit jacket and pants and a crisped white V-neck shirt before taking a hot shower. I throw them on and grab my sunglasses, the ones my brother Gabriel once owned. I always wear sunglasses. It’s rare when people see my eyes. I walk down the steps to the foyer where I see little Cody Nichols.
“Good morning, Cody.”
Cody Nichols is an eighteen-year-old African American male and still a virgin. He still wears his class pin on his dinner jacket for Christ sakes. He’s a sad excuse for a teenage male. If only he would let me, I would make it my mission to get him to unlock his chastity belt and get deflowered by some housewife or a high-paid escort. There isn’t really a difference nowadays.
“Where are you going this early?” he asks me with a bowl of Lucky Charms in his hand.
“I have some business to tend to. I’ll be back soon.”
“New girl arriving today.”
“I heard. Hopefully she’s not a bore. Good day.” I pat him on the head like a little puppy and he frowns.
“Good day,” he mocks me.
JULIET
I step out of the limo to see the beautiful thirty-two-room triplex on the corner of Fifth Avenue. It looks old, still luxurious. The building is dark green with brown frames and roof.
A girl with short brown hair—the color of cinnamon to be exact—falling around her chin comes out towards me. She’s so tall. Must be at least 5’10. I’m 5’8, but she has the long legs to add to the depth. Most people don’t know I’m tall until they are up close.
“You must be Juliet Spears.” She stretches out her hand for me to shake.
“Yes.”
“Jordana Abbott.” Jordana is beautiful. Like painfully beautiful. She has to be a model or the daughter of very gorgeous parents. She is wearing a white sleeveless blouse and black trousers that stop at the ankles, showing her leather black flats with a gold buckle on them. Her skin looks enriched in smoothness and her eyes are dark green. Her skin is like the color of a porcelain doll and her lips are thin and pink. The only thing that looks childlike on her are her apple cheekbones that enhance the beauty of her face.
The driver starts retrieving my luggage and I follow Jordana in. I’m immediately in awe at the scenery as I walk through the foyer and turn to my right. The living room could be out of the Marie Antoinette film. White walls with gold Victorian style carvings on them. Beige green sofas sitting across from each other and a dark brown coffee table between them with gold carvings designed on the edges. Black Greek head statues on each corner over stone mantles. Gold candleholders on each wall section of the room. A painting of Frida Kahlo kind of throws me off. It doesn’t match the room at all, but doesn’t take away from the beauty of it. On the other side is the dining room. The gold curtains gain my attention. No profound reason; I just like gold.
Jordana leads me through the hall, pass the staircase and to the back patio where a woman is lying face down on a white full mini bed, moaning in pleasure while a shirtless, muscled, tan man with shiny black hair rubs oil on her back.
“Ms. Eleanor, our guest has arrived,” Jordana announces.
Ms. Eleanor’s head pops up. She screams in excitement and sits up, revealing her breasts to me. I immediately look away. “Juliet!” I wait a moment then glance to make sure she’s no longer indecent. She runs to me in her plush white robe and purple scarf around her head. She kisses me with a kiss on each cheek and a tight hug—firm but warm.
“You have grown up to be a beautiful young angel.” She smiles and brushes my hair.
“Thank you.”
“Isn’t she beautiful, Federico?” She turns to the sexy muscled masseuse.
“Yes, very beautiful.” He speaks in a thick Spanish accent and stares at me in a seductive way that makes me definitely imagine him on top of me.
Ms. Eleanor’s chocolate brown eyes gleam with joy. Her high cheekbones are still intact. Probably had some work done.
“Well, I have to get back to my massage.” She looks back at Federico then winks at me. “But Jordana will get you settled in and then I will see you at dinner, okay?” She taps her finger on my nose and I laugh a little. “Okay.”
“You will get used to her flashing those around,” Jordana says once we leave the room. “She’s very proud of her breast lift.”
I arch my brow in amusement. “I thought they looked a bit more perky than they should have.”
Jordana snickers. “You ready for the tour?”
“Yes.”
She shows me through the home. Thirty-two rooms, including full bathrooms for each bedroom. Three floors. The first floor consists of the kitchen, dining room, living room, and another room Jordana called a recreational room where everyone watches telly and doesn’t worry about dirtying up the fancy furniture when snacking. Aside from the kitchen, it’s the most modernized room in the home. Black leather couches and chairs and a red coffee table in the middle with a very large flat screen television mounted on the wall. The other rooms are more vintage and luxurious. Second floor are the bedrooms. Jordana leads me upstairs to introduce me to the other people staying here and I am not ready for the strawberry blonde girl in a pink tutu lunging at me.
“Juliet, this is Poppy,” Jordana introduces us as Poppy squeezes me tight. “Oh my God! Hi!” She gave me a big hug, probably warmer than Ms. Eleanor’s.
“Hello,” I breathe out as she releases me from her death grip.
“I’m so glad you’re here. I love the British! I love your accents. Say my name right now.”
“Uh… Poppy.”
Her scream makes me jump.
“That’s so cute. It’s so sophisticated.” I laugh at her compliment. This girl is clearly a nutter, but adorable.
“Poppy is our bright and bubbly ball of sunshine in our little family.” Jordana pats her on her head as she giggles.
“I can tell,” I say.
Poppy’s room is filled with pink. Pink couch, pink bed, pink curtains, pink carpet, and just pink everything. She’s also wearing a diamond necklace with a pink diamond as the charm. I’m sure that cost a mill. We waste no time and continue to the next room with Poppy joining us.
“Yo, blue balls!” Jordana loudly jokes with the boy sitting at his desk on his laptop.
“Can you please stop calling me that?” he says frustrated, looking up from his screen. “Oh, hi, you must be Juliet Spears.” He gets up and stretches out his hand for me to shake.
I greet him and look around his room. It consists of pictures of cars and artifacts from Egypt and Africa and a samurai sword mounted on his wall. I then study Cody. He’s very tall, mocha skin, scrawny, his hair shaved on the sides with a bit of hair at the top. He has the face of a child, really—a really cute boy. He has that sweet, assuring smile you don’t get every day. You can tell there’s still pureness within him. I wouldn’t be shocked if he were still a virgin.
“Cody is our resident saint,” Jordana says lying down on his bed.
“This house is full of ignorance, just to warn you,” Cody says, rolling his eyes and sitting at the foot of his bed. He ushers his hand towards it. “You can sit.” I sit on the edge and Poppy jumps on it next to Jordana. They all stare at me for a moment, trying to read me probably. Poppy stares at my outfit, twirling her strawberry blonde hair. All I have on is a white shirt, my gold nameplate necklace, jeans, and sandals. Call me crazy, but I think Cody and Jordana are both staring at my tits, which I lack, so maybe they just think I’m abnormal or maybe Jordana likes the ladies.
“So what’s everyone’s story?” I ask them. I’m curious to quickly know the people I will be living with and I want to stop the awkward silence.
When meeting people of wealth, sometimes we are used to stating the first thing when it comes to us, which is what type of money we come from. It just comes naturally in our minds because we think whe
n other people of wealth ask us, they are fishing for our credentials. Everyone is in competition when it comes to wealth. They want to know who is richer. Who comes from old money and who is fresh off the bloody new boat? I’ve always encountered people like this and I don’t want to encounter it here.
As each of my new housemates list their credentials to me in a typical rich kid fashion, I take mental notes.
Jordana Abbott
Parents: Bruce Abbott and Billie Jean Abbott. (Divorced but still sleeping with each
other, according to her.)
Bruce Abbott’s Occupation: Eleven time Grammy award winning producer and
cofounder of Hypnotic Records, one of the top record labels in America.
Billie Jean Abbott’s Occupation: Former model, author of seven bestsellers on
feminism, marriage, self-help books for women, and my personal favorite,
Men Come from Shit (page turner, I swear).
Family Net Worth: $735 Million (parents combined)
Cody Nichols
Parents: Jameson and Elaine Nichols
Jameson Nichols’ Occupation: owner of one of the best hospitals in New York,
eight medical research labs, and three pharmaceutical companies.
Elaine Nichol’s Occupation: ranked the 8th best heart surgeon in America.
Ranked 22nd best in the world. Co-owner of the pharmaceutical companies with husband.
Family Net worth: $18.6 Billion
Poppy Montgomery
Parents: Richard and Lindsey Montgomery
Richard Montgomery’s Occupation: self-made millionaire, CEO of Montgomery
Holdings.
Lindsey Montgomery’s Occupation: former model, socialite.
Sinners & Saints (Sinners & Saints #1) Page 3