Enemy Dearest

by Winter Renshaw

  Before I can protest, he’s stalking toward the back patio in his wet t-shirt, crumpled towel in hand. I canter after him.

  “You’re really a man of few words, aren’t you?” I try to joke with him.

  He slides a door open and disappears into the darkness of the house, swallowed into a void. I step in after him. The scent of leather and cedarwood and time fills my lungs. This house is over a hundred and fifty years old. At least that’s what the plaque said by the front gate.

  Built in 1869.

  It’s been in the Monreaux family since the day someone dug a shovel into its earthy grounds. My house doesn’t have much of a history. It was a tract home built by some fly-by-night builder in the seventies who was trying to cram as many entry-level houses onto one plot of land as he could—hence why I can hear with perfect clarity my neighbors fighting after dinner every night.

  He leads me down a dark hallway, to a set of stairs so polished they shine in the dark, and once we reach the top landing, we take a left down another hall lit with hardwired sconces with flickering lights.

  “I feel like I’m in a movie or something,” I say, a slight nervous chuckle in my tone. I don’t add that said movie would be a thriller. Something with ghosts and a haunted house. I don’t want to offend him more than I already have.

  Within seconds, we arrive at what I can only assume is his bedroom. Or at least it’s a bedroom. There have got to be at least a dozen of them in this house, given its enormity.

  August closes the door behind us before flicking on a lamp on a desk. The shades on his windows are pulled open and the moonlight and party from outside illuminates the surroundings. A bed. Two nightstands. A chest of drawers. I’ve yet to spot anything personal. Not a trophy or ribbon. Not a framed photograph or memento.

  Strutting into his closet, he returns with a clean t-shirt and a white button down, both of which appear crisp and freshly starched.

  “Here.” He hands me the button down.

  “Are you sure?”

  He exhales. Annoyed, I think. I mean, it is a dumb question. He wouldn’t have led me all the way inside and offered me clean clothes if he wasn’t sure.

  “Thank you.” I tug the shirt over my head, unbutton the last few buttons and tie them at my waist. The stain on my dress is mostly covered—even if this outfit combo is insane.

  His gaze drinks me in. I can’t tell whether he approves nor can I tell why it suddenly matters to me …

  In one fluid movement, he rips his wet t-shirt off, tosses it on the bed, and tugs the clean one on. I force myself not to stare at his chiseled torso or the rippled abs that peek out from the fabric. Without breaking eye contact, he finger combs his messy waves into place.

  “This is really kind of you.” I smooth my hand along the front of the white dress shirt. “I’ll have it cleaned and returned to you next week.”

  Somehow …

  I don’t even know what dry cleaning costs. I’ve never owned clothes that couldn’t be shoved in the washer with a scoop of Gain and hung on Mama’s line.

  “What would your parents say if they knew you were here?” He finally breaks the silence.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re Rich Rose’s girl.” It isn’t a question, and there’s a finite layer of disgust in his tone, like muck and mire at the bottom of a sparkling pond.

  I nod. “I am.”

  “Can’t imagine your parents would be thrilled to know you were here,” he says, adding, “with me.”

  “You’re right. They wouldn’t be.”

  Quietude hangs between us like a crystal chandelier.

  “What about yours?” I ask, before I catch myself. He doesn’t have parents. Plural. He has a parent. Singular. My cheeks burn hot in the dark. There’s no fixing it now.

  His gaze narrows. “My father would have his second coronary, that’s for sure. He’d probably disown me. At the very least, disinherit me. And my mother, well, not really sure what she’d say since she isn’t here to say anything … and I think we both know why.”

  I cover my heart with a palm. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Are you always so apologetic?” He leans on the footboard of his bed, hands gripping the wood until the veins of his forearms bulge. “All you’ve done since you barged into my life is apologize for every little thing.”

  “Just trying to be polite,” I say. “And you give me the impression that I’m bothersome to you. Or maybe you just make me nervous. I don’t know. You have a very distinct … vibe about you.”

  He squints. “And what kind of … vibe … would that be?”

  I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Lord help me if I unintentionally insult him again.

  “Look,” I say. “I shouldn’t have gone for a swim the other night. It was wrong. I’ve never done anything like that before. You see, our AC broke last week and you know we’re in the middle of this heat wave, and the public pool has been closed for maintenance all week and—”

  He lifts a hand to silence me. “Please don’t insult me with trying to justify what you did.”

  “Well, I’d apologize but you don’t seem to like apologies, so …”

  “I don’t like weak people. If you’re going to be an asshole, own it.”

  “I’m not an asshole.” I fold my arms across my chest, head cocked. “Kind of think it’s the opposite of being a weak asshole when you’re strong enough to admit when you’re in the wrong.”

  He smirks. “Agree to disagree.”

  His attention skims past my shoulder as he checks on the party below.

  “We should probably get back out there,” I say. “I’m sure they’re missing you.”

  He chuffs. “Doubtful.”

  Pushing himself away from the bed, he makes his way to a small cabinet in the corner of the room, which I quickly realize is some kind of fancy mini fridge disguised to look like a furniture piece. When he returns, he hands me an icy glass bottle with a skull on the label. Misfit Meredith IPA. I recognize the brand as the local brewery in town.

  “Have a beer with me first,” he says.

  He doesn’t want to go downstairs.

  He wants to stay here, in this dark room, and drink with me.

  I don’t understand …

  Digging his keys from his pocket, he produces a small bottle opener to pop our tops.

  “Drink up, Rose girl,” he says. “The night is young.”

  Out of politeness, I take a sip. It’s bitter on my tongue and smells like a more expensive version of the canned beer my father drinks after a weekend overtime shift.

  “You sure you don’t want to go back downstairs?” I ask.

  He takes a sip. “Positive.”

  “Everyone’s here to see you, you know.”

  He rolls his steel-gray eyes. “They’re not here to see me. They’re here because they want to know what it’s like to be me … if only for a night.”

  “Really?” I tease. “All of them? Every last person downstairs is here because they want to be you, August?”

  “Yes. Even if they’re too stupid to realize it.” He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t miss a beat. Doesn’t seem the least bit amused. “On the surface, they want free beer and some pictures they can post that makes them look cooler than they are. But deep down, they’re curious. Maybe a little jealous. Completely unaware that they’re in the midst of hitting their peak.”

  “That’s no way to talk about your friends.” I take a sip, letting the bubbles play on my tongue.

  “Friends? I wouldn’t know. Never had any.” He tosses back a mouthful of beer, holding my gaze captive.

  I roll my eyes. “Whatever. Weren’t you, like, prom king at your school or something a couple years back? You can’t tell me you don’t have friends.”

  “They’re void-fillers. Nothing more, nothing less.” He captures my wrist in his hand, gentle. And his thumb circles my pulse, forcing it to quicken in response.

  I pull away.r />
  “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? Poor little rich guy? Is that your schtick? Is that how you get ass?” I keep my words soft and light, but I very much mean every last one of them.

  “Last thing I need is your sympathy. And I’m definitely not poor—or little. I don’t have a … schtick and even if I did, I wouldn’t need to use it to get ass.”

  Without warning, he cups the side of my cheek. A tender move for someone so dark. I rake my teeth over my bottom lip—a protective move because I’m quite certain he’s seconds from attempting to devour me.

  I don’t have a chance to tell him no though, because the second he leans in, the bedroom door flings open and Adriana appears in the doorway.

  “Oh, my god. I’ve been looking all over for you,” she says, oblivious to what this looks like. “I thought you left or something.”’

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  August takes a step back, raking his hand through his hair and exhaling.

  “That Isaac guy is a douche. I want to leave.” She pulls out her phone, the screen lighting her face in the dim room. “My cousin is on her way to get us. She’ll be here in twenty. You ready?”

  August and I lock eyes, and I swear there’s a silent plea for me to stay. But even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. I came here with Adriana. I’m leaving with Adriana. But more important than that, I would never so much as think about staying for a Monreaux.

  “She’ll meet you out front in a second,” August tells her, though he’s looking at me.

  Adri’s dark brows rise, as if she’s finally realizing we were up here along together, separated by mere inches before she barged in.

  “Oh,” she says. “Oh. Um, okay …”

  “I’ll be down in a sec,” I promise her. “It’s fine.”

  Adriana disappears, closing the door behind her.

  “You’re not actually leaving, are you?” he asks.

  “Of course I am …”

  “I can get you a ride home.” He takes a sip of his beer.

  “It’s not about that.”

  He releases a hard breath, his stare narrowing and his full mouth pressing flat.

  “Well, that’s too bad,” he says. The moonlight from the window behind me paints soft shadows on his face. In this light, he doesn’t look so intimidating. “Was hoping I could get to know you a little more.”

  “Really? You wanted to get to know me?” I laugh, using air quotes and rolling my eyes. “Because something tells me you were looking to score,” I continue. “And you and I both know that’ll never happen in a million years.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re you and I’m me. I don’t think I need to elaborate.” I place the barely-touched beer bottle on top of a nightstand and head for the door. “It’s nothing personal.”

  “Don’t insult my intelligence, Rose girl.”

  “I’m just stating the facts. We can’t help the family we’re born into. We have no control over what our parents did or didn’t do.”

  “So why should we suffer the consequences?” he asks.

  He has a good question. I pause for a second. “Because we love our parents. And we respect their wishes.”

  I reach for the door knob when he comes closer.

  “Must be hell,” he says.

  “What?” I stop in my tracks.

  “Living by other people’s rules all the time. Never doing what you want. What a fucking waste.” He takes a drink, letting his tongue caress the bottle mouth for a split second.

  “Adriana’s waiting.”

  “Give me your phone.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Give me your phone, Rose girl.” He holds out his palm.

  “I’m sorry, but no. I have no need for your number. I have no reason to ever text you. I’m flattered by your confidence and your drive to defy authority or whatever you’re going for with this, but this is me kindly passing,” I say.

  “For the shirt,” he says, his words staccato’d. “If you could text me when it’s ready, I’ll arrange to pick it up.”

  Oh. Right.

  “It’s a four hundred dollar Baccarin,” he adds. I can’t help but feel it’s his bruised ego’s way of making me feel like an expensive shirt matters more to him than seeing me again. “And I’d like it back.”

  Without another protest, I dig my phone from my bag and hand it over. When he returns it, I discover he’s programmed his name as ENEMY DEAREST.

  “There,” he says. “Now your parents will never know.”

  My stomach somersaults—this isn’t about the damn shirt.

  But my resolve hardens to steel.

  I can’t get caught up in flattery. I can’t lose myself in the temptation of the forbidden. I can’t sacrifice my loyalty in the name of curiosity or cheap rebellion.

  “I’ll get you your shirt back,” I say. And then I leave, navigating the dark hallways and shiny staircase and floating toward the sound of the party until I’m bathed in fresh, humid night air.

  A minute later, I find Adriana waiting by the gate.

  “Everything okay?” she asks.

  “I should ask you the same thing,” I change the subject.

  Her cousin’s silver Honda rolls up and we climb in. And for the rest of the ride home, she tells me how Isaac was only using her to make his ex-girlfriend jealous, how the second she showed up, Adri became chopped liver. And then her cousin drove us around town for a solid hour, blasting music as she chain smoked Pall Malls with all four windows down.

  But I couldn’t even appreciate the distraction—because all I could think about … was August—a forbidden enigma of a man with a penchant for defiance and unapologetic honesty.

  He’s different.

  And I can’t stop wondering what might have happened had Adriana not busted into the room at that precise moment.

  Would he have kissed me?

  Would I have enjoyed it?

  And then what?

  I shake the thoughts from my head and focus on the sappy breakup music blaring from the tinny speakers behind me. Entertaining these curiosities is frivolous and reckless. No good can come from playing the “what if” game.

  No good will ever come from a Rose and a Monreaux in the same room together. We were born into two opposing forces. Sharp against soft. Dark against light. Love against fear. We were raised in completely different worlds, with differing priorities and a distinct belief system instilled into us from day one.

  It won’t happen again—the two of us alone together. Drinking. Flirting. Getting caught up.

  I won’t do that to my parents, to my family’s tragic history, or to my heart.

  I have too much to lose.

  Chapter Five

  August

  * * *

  I’ve planted myself near the grotto, vision fading as I finish yet another beer. Two girls make out, tongues and all, but I can’t even appreciate it because all I can think about is Sheridan.

  I’d consider tonight a disappointment, but I’d hardly call it a failure.

  She has my number.

  And my shirt.

  I’ll see her again … soon.

  “Hey, you doing all right?” One of my so-called friends, Trey, gives my shoulder a squeeze, pulling me out of my drunken trance. “Feel like I haven’t seen you all night.”

  “Get these people out of here.” My words are thick in my mouth. I need to down a glass of water, pop some Advil, and go to bed. “Party’s over.”

  I push myself up and stumble toward the house, my body numb. Though it’s nothing new. I don’t tend to feel much of anything—sober or not.

  “But it’s still early,” Trey calls after me.

  I wave my hand, trekking inside.

  Trey’s an old pro at this, clearing out crowds, knowing when I’m done.

  By the time I get to my room, the music has been killed. The stadium-quality security lights have come on, and muffled voices grow more distant by the minute.

&
nbsp; Wrestling my phone from my pocket, I toss it on the bed before peeling off my clothes and landing in a heap on top of the covers. With heavy eyes, I fight drowsiness and wake my screen. I tap in my code and pull up every last social media account I own, running up searches of my elusive Rose girl.

  Much to my surprise, nothing is private … though she’s not exactly active. Only a handful of photos display across three apps, hardly any of them from the past year.

  Sigh.

  I drop my phone on the pillow beside me and close my eyes. If tonight was any indication of what I’m dealing with, I’m going to have my work cut out for me.

  But God damn, will she be worth it.

  A smirk claims my lips when I think about the look on my father’s face if he were to know I’d had Rich’s daughter on our property—and worse—in my room. I imagine him screaming, red-faced, about what a liability that would be for us. But this isn’t about defying orders. This isn’t some rebellious itch I need to scratch.

  This is about making things fair.

  Once upon a time, my beautiful mother was alive and well and my father was a model family man with a stellar reputation. Rich Rose took that from us. He destroyed the man my father should have been, and he robbed every last shred of happiness from our family the day he killed my mother.

  Sheridan is nothing more than a pretty little pawn.

  A means to an end.

  A heart I intend to shatter into a million jagged pieces.

  I won’t hurt her physically. Frankly, that isn’t my style.

  But I will ruin her.

  I’ll ruin her for any other man.

  And when she runs home to daddy to dry her tears, I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that this time, a Monreaux broke a Rose.

  Chapter Six

  Sheridan

  * * *

  “Well, there she is!” My father calls from the kitchen Saturday morning when I get home from Adriana’s. I thought I could sneak in through the back door—thought wrong. “Wondered if you were going to make it in time for breakfast. You hungry?”

  The scent of his famous once-a-weekend fare—scrambled eggs, maple bacon, and cinnamon chip pancakes—fills the air.