The Prick Next Door

by Rose Queen

  Then he died.

  Then I changed.

  "What's happened to you?" Dylan had asked at around the four-month anniversary of Dad's death, when my anger peaked at critical mass. "This isn't you, Cassius."

  Sometimes I remember. Most times, I don't want to. I'm not that nice guy any more. Our mother is not that nice woman anymore, either. She calls me despicable and useless. Maybe I deserve what she gives me. Maybe I want it. Maybe I ask for the beatings.

  Mr. Chaste had said the loudest men are the weakest. I'd felt that statement like a dozen blows. I don't know what to make of it. Or him. Or his oldest daughter.

  Today, Annabelle joins us in the wheat field. Apparently, kids stop going to school here after eighth grade, so she's around all the time. She's working by herself at the moment, pressing her hands into her back and arching while bulkier bodies shift through the stalks in the background. It looks like a Millet painting.

  This place is too slow and peaceful. It forces me to think of easier times, memories I don't want to remember. There's no way in hell I want to dwell there.

  I run my hand through my uncombed hair. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch her watching me. My mouth rises in a half-grin. I'm about to break our unspoken rule, but who cares? I'm bored. I'm rapidly going berserk as it is. And she's stretching her body so nicely.

  Once I'm at her heels, my dark shadow tenting over hers, she tenses. I get the feeling she wants to run away, and I wonder if our first encounter in the cabin is still fully loaded in her mind.

  I wonder if she has dirty fantasies about me like I have with her...

  I wonder if she touches herself at night…

  I yank on a wheat stalk and tickle the back of her neck. She whips around, smelling like soil and soap. A teardrop of sweat slides behind her ear, and her lips are chapped. The freckles across her nose are even more prominent than usual.

  "Hey," I say.

  She lifts her chin and nods.

  “So formal. What are you? A Duchess?”

  She huffs at me. As usual.

  The Duchess and the Prick. That’s our title.

  While we move through the field, I openly concentrate on her, and she pretends to concentrate on everything but me. It's easy to antagonize her. All I have to do is stay close.

  I’ve seen her staring when she thinks I’m not looking. I know this little innocent girl has a not-so-innocent mind. She wants me.

  And fuck if I wasn’t gonna give it to her.

  A voice tells me to stay away, but I’m a too much of a fucking prick to listen.

  I want her.

  And I get what I want.

  Reaching out for the same stalk, our fingers brush. Her skin is warm despite that chronically cold scowl of hers. I have to admit, I kind of dig the scowl.

  Alright, so she's not bad company.

  Her fingers tremble as she pulls away and mutters, "Excuse me."

  I swing my arm toward the stalks. "No, excuse me. After you, Duchess. You get dibs."

  She scans the area. I scan her body. Everyone is too busy to pay attention to what we're doing. “Who gives a shit if they see us together? Stop being so prissy. You enjoy my company. Just admit it. This isn't the Vatican, and I'm not a leper or a libertine who's going to wolf down your virginity in one-two-three. And it's not like our proximity will cause some kind of cross-contamination.”

  That gets me another scowl.

  I smirk.

  "Come on," I tell her, aware that she's tossing around a new thought. "Say what you want. It's just us. I dare you. Talk to the bad man."

  "I was going to say, you could be a charming soul if you wanted to, Cassius Gunner. Try it."

  I used to be like that with everyone. Now, I'm selective about who matters.

  I beat the stalk against my hip. Her eyes linger there, watching the movement. Nothing else happens for a few thick seconds. And then I tell her, "My dad used to say I could charm the skin off a snake."

  "And the habit off a nun, I imagine."

  "Wow." My brows leap into my forehead. "You have a twisted imagination."

  Think I was right about her dirty mind.

  Thoughts of fucking her in nasty ways enter my mind.

  Annabelle looks horrified. "I do not…that was only…"

  I flick her braid with the wheat stem. "A dirty joke?"

  She narrows her eyes but manages to laugh at herself. I laugh with her. As we work, she shuffles through the field fast, and I ask where the fire is, and she slows down.

  "Sorry. I get ahead of myself," she says.

  "Imagine that."

  "I love gathering, and I..." She bites her lip.

  "Keep going," I say, wiggling my ringed fingers. "You're not done yet by a long shot."

  "You will mock me."

  "Why? 'Cause I'm a delinquent? Or 'cause you get made fun of all the time?"

  Annabelle hesitates, but I've spotted a glint of desire there. She wants to talk to me. Maybe I'm the only one in this place who won't judge her because I have no limits.

  "If you must know," she begins.

  "Oh, there are lots of things I must do."

  "The night you gave me the drawing, I said that you speak through art."

  "Art is infinite. Everyone has a match to their mood. Music. Dancing. Reading. Sex—"

  She makes a hiccupping noise and then gives me a look that could flatten a monster truck. Evidently, she thinks I'm not being serious, so I let my heated gaze tell her otherwise.

  She clears her throat. "And then you told me to find out how I speak."

  That's not all I said to her. I notice now that the strings of her headdress are double-knotted. I would make a comment, something blush-worthy, but what she's saying seems to matter to her. It's like she's starved to be heard. I know what that's like.

  Also, I'm stuck on the fact that she actually spent time thinking about what I said. I wonder if she thought about it in bed, in a nightgown, with her braid undone. Her underwear stripped off…

  She admits, "When I was little I made this bow and arrow out of twigs and yarn and used to pretend I was huntress. It was the happiest I think I've ever been. The skill and concentration. The silence and patience. Archery is how I'd like to speak. Show myself to the world." Her voice has become weightless, but then it hits a sour note. "But I'm not a man."

  "So what?" I ask.

  "So this is the closest thing I can do to feed my family."

  "Archery suits you. It’s sexy and hot.” He cheeks go crimson. “Do it if you want, babe."

  "We don't do whatever we want here."

  Obviously, she doesn't remember who she's talking to. I'm incapable of accepting that kind of statement. "You're not a we, Annabelle. You're a you. Ever think about that?"

  She's quiet for a moment. "I enjoy the harvest. It's enough."

  "If you say so, Duchess."

  She rips out a wheat stalk.

  “I bet you want to hit me with that wheat stalk. I'd love it if you did. Kinky as fuck.”

  “Stop it.”

  "I get the whole harvest thing," I say, after she goes silent with rage. "My dad owned a café. I used to work there. I like feeding people, too. Or...I did." I run my hand over the wheat. It tickles my palms. "Guess this is where it starts."

  "It is," she agrees.

  "But is that really enough? Is this field everything?" I challenge, getting irritated for no good reason. "Is it who you are?"

  My question throws her. We share a long and disturbingly sincere look.

  "Annabelle," a male voice calls out.

  A tall, clean-shaven guy our age strides toward us. I give him a once-over. And shoot him daggers.

  Annabelle makes a hasty introduction. "This is Cassius Gunner. And this is David. My…"

  David pulls her close to him and aims his frigid gaze at me. "I'm her beau."

  In split of a second, my blood boils in my veins, and a red haze fills my vision. I’ve never been this angry before in my life, and my h
ands tighten into fists. My whole goddamn body tightens. I want to tear him apart, limb from limb.

  I camouflage my reaction with amusement. I don’t want to scare Annabelle. "Ahhh. What's up, Boyfriend? Checking in on her?"

  "Do I need to?" he questions sternly.

  I have to fight from chuckling. I don't care if he's a Unity member—this dude's so bluntly marking his territory that it's making Annabelle uncomfortable.

  And it’s making me want to turn into a murderer. I fucking hate I can’t do or say anything about it. If I do, the deal my lawyer bargained for would be over. I’m eighteen now. I could end up in prison.

  I can't resist my next words, though. "Hell, I'm just a juvie veteran-turned-servant. I do whatever she wants, whenever she wants it." I twirl the stalk between my fingers. "It's my pleasure."

  Annabelle flushes. I've gone too far, too fast, but that's never stopped me before.

  David's fingers lock onto her waist. I shove my free fist into my pocket. "Don't worry, Boyfriend. I'll keep a close eye on her to make sure she doesn't misbehave."

  From the looks of it, he's not certain if I'm kidding. Some people have zero sense of humor. He's about to respond, and I bat up for another inning when Annabelle whispers something to him. He relents, smooths her hair—I’m gonna kill this asshole! Nobody gets to touch her hair but me—and scrutinizes me before retreating back to his section of the field.

  That's when I notice how many people have been spying on us, as if expecting our conversation to cause mutiny any second. I give them my best What are you looking at? glare. They turn away.

  Annabelle is oblivious. "You were smug," she lectures.

  "I was kidding," I correct. "He wasn't." No way in hell would I refer to him as her boyfriend.

  She. Was. Mine.

  She sighs. "He's protective."

  "Well, tell the woolly mammoth he needs to chill out or he'll start shedding in no time."

  Wryly, she shakes her head at me. "You are terrible."

  Terrible is Catholic for prick.

  "Yeah, and you love it, babe."

  We continue working, but David's ghost lingers, and she resumes her normal pace, racking up the distance between us. I let her go. But damn if I was gonna let that asshole from stopping me get what I want.

  Annabelle Chaste.

  I’m going in for the kill.

  That night, Mr. Chaste gives me a second invite to dinner. I shrug. Why the hell not? Gives me time to seduce the little pure Duchess, and get her the fuck away from Asshole.

  I've noticed during my excursions to use their bathroom that the place is plain, but I get a more thorough look now. Unfussy wood furniture. Straight lines. Drab colors, except for the light brimming from the fireplace. Lots of baskets.

  No art. No family pictures. I remember once pouring through a photography book and reading a brief mention about Unity not allowing themselves to be photographed. A glance around this house tells me nothing about the Chastes.

  I'm not crazy about the praying part of dinner, but it's nice the way no one feels the need to flip the table in a fit of rage here. There's laughter. There are moments of easy silence. Mr. Chaste treats both girls like gems without showing favoritism. He listens to them but doesn't coddle. He makes sure they know they're worth something to him.

  He glances at me in approval. I find myself wanting his respect, which sets me on edge since the other half of my brain knows how to define a lost cause. My mother never had any problem reminding me I'm a screw-up, but Mr. Chaste keeps telling me the opposite, minus pity or doubt. Seriously, I don't know who to believe.

  Elsie throttles me with questions about the city, which Annabelle tries to hush, which Elsie ignores.

  "Annabelle is prissy," Elsie declares. "She's not interested in adventure."

  "Young lady, that's enough teasing," Mr. Chaste scolds. "We have a guest."

  My gaze darts over to Annabelle. She eats like a conveyer belt, mechanical and steady. Though she's not fooling me. I see how her gray eyes reflect hurt.

  I feel the inexplicable need to strike back. "I don't know," I say to Elsie while digging into my zucchini. "The quiet ones are the most interesting where I come from. It means they have nothing to prove. They're real. Being real is cool. Adventure can be overrated."

  I don't believe that last part for a second, but it does the trick. Elsie blinks. Mr. Chaste studies me. Annabelle, however, appears baffled by my chivalry, her brows drawn together.

  Mr. Chaste insists his eldest daughter walk me home.

  Fuck yeah.

  Little lamb was walking this wolf home.

  As we migrate through the darkness, she breaks the silence. "You didn't have to do that with Elsie."

  "I know," I say.

  I guess the fact that I don't explain further makes her relax, because she offers me a grateful smile wrapped with a bow.

  When we reach the cabin, I decide to detour her evening. "Come in for a sec," I say in a low voice, then step inside without giving her time to refuse. As I kneel in front of the wood stove and light a fire, I sense her hovering in the doorway. "What's wrong?" I bait. "Think I'll bite?"

  She steps inside. I grin to myself. I want to see that fiery girl from the first night.

  Annabelle keeps the door open. I pass her and close it with a deliberate click.

  "It needs to warm up in here," I say, enjoying the pink tinting her cheeks. I flip through my iPod. "How long has Asshole been hanging around you?"

  She uncrosses her arms. "Six months, but I've known him all my life. And he’s not hanging around. He’s my boyfriend."

  I wince.

  She notices.

  I try my hardest to calm my breathing, my lung bursting with anger. "You can come further into the room, you know."

  "That's perfectly alright. I know what the cabin looks like. I see you cleaned the wall."

  "You didn't leave me much of a painting when you threw water at it. Thought any more on archery?"

  "I don't know. I have no plans—" she ends with a squeak when I stand and face her. An acoustic guitar vibrates through the cabin. A band of earthy voices begins to sing.

  "What kind of music do you like?" I ask.

  "We sing in church. And some kids in our Order hide radios in their rooms. I've heard stuff before, but my father doesn't permit it at home."

  "That's tragic," I murmur and curl a finger at her. "Come here."

  Annabelle blinks. I lose patience and close the gap. Her body heat is a magnet to my own.

  My fingers toy with the sleeve of her dress. "Dance with me."

  Her throat bobs. "I'm not allowed to unless I'm with a group."

  "Dammit, Annabelle. Dance with me."

  I hadn’t meant to swear. I don’t want to be a prick with her.

  "I have the distinct feeling you mean sway with you. Without steps. Dancing without steps is just an excuse to touch."

  "Exactly. So dance with me."

  She gulps. "Why?"

  "Because you're allowed to here. Because the music's beautiful. Because it's powerful. Because it speaks when you can't. And because you want to. Because I want you to."

  "Y-you flatter yourself," she stutters as I take her hand. When she doesn't object, I flatten my other hand on the small of her back and press her against me. Beneath the thick cotton, her skin yields under the pressure.

  We begin to ‘sway.’ The melody is a current that pushes us in a lazy circle. Annabelle's palm sweats into mine, creating a humid little pocket. She keeps her head down, shy and demure and not at all what I want.

  I tip my gaze until it catches hers. "Don't break eye contact with me."

  After that, she doesn't. Her face becomes the only source of light and air in the room. Those steel-cut eyes unwillingly land on my mouth.

  We fall silent. Slowly, I graze my thumb over her hand, and she catches her breath. The sound rolls through my chest, cracking it open and forming a chasm. I want to fill it with cement before she dives i
n and stays there.

  He skins feels like redemption. Like swimming through an orgasm and ridding my sins, all at once.

  This is a mistake, I realize. This whole fucking thing is a mistake. My blood is howling, and I'm about this close to—

  The song ends. We switch gears as if our senses have been hijacked and we've just recognized the violation. She jerks back. I try to pull her back.

  “Don’t. I’ve gone too far.”

  Annabelle wipes the residue of our dance from her hands, curtly wishes me a good night, and bails.

  I'm a fucking prick. I've been telling myself it's a stupid idea to let her in, but I blew off that rule today. I dug my own grave. The old Cassius asked her to dance and got high off the Annabelle drug, sucked up a bong's worth of it, and annihilated the new Cassius who normally likes his girls quick and loud.

  It hits me why I really invited her inside. It had nothing to do with sex, the rush, or testing Annabelle's innocent boundaries.

  Shit. I’m falling for her.

  6

  The Good Girl

  I'm unsettled. I ask myself over and over, how could I have let him touch and hold me, stare at me, talk to me like that? I ask myself but have no answer. With him, life unfurls. Against my better judgment, I end up floating. It's feels too good.

  Why do I think of him so often? Why do I spy on his cabin after delivering his food? Why do I have these fantasies that no amount of prayer can dissolve?

  I keep looking at my hands, coarse from good labor but not varied in experience. Am I being loyal to my Order, my faith, by choosing blindly without comparison?

  My father encourages me now in small ways to interact with Cassius Gunner. He wants us to achieve a mutual regard for one another, as he did with the man's father. For all his strictness, Papa is nostalgic when it comes to that man. And he trusts me to be responsible.

  Other than for archery, I wasn't interested in exploration before. Should I be now?

  The music Cassius Gunner played in the cabin was unexpectedly lovely. The guitar. The voices. I could have curled up in that song and fallen asleep, or bathed in it, or just kept swaying with him. It wasn't until I got home that I missed the music. It had been so long since I tested my own singing skills, but that night, I prayed and then hummed the tune from our dance.