No Perfect Princess

by Angel Payne

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Greetings, beloved offspring.”

  I shook my head and rolled my eyes. Had I actually wondered why Margaux’s sarcasm was so appealing? “What’s up?”

  “My question exactly. I expected you here a few hours ago.”

  I exhaled, our unwritten version of an apology. “I had a quick side trip to take first.” Then the nonstop trouser wood to deal with because of it. “I just passed Oasis Farms. And before you ask, they’re closed. No camel milk chocolate for you tonight.” She loved that stuff!

  Her chuckle warmed the line. “I stocked up last week. Oh, and I learned both the farm’s calves got sold.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “No comment.”

  “A couple of camels would’ve been fun to have around!”

  “No comment.”

  She capitulated with a playfully huffed, “Fine. Just get your ass here safely. Good to know you’re close. Dinner’s almost ready.”

  “Yesssss.” I could practically smell her fried chicken and homemade apple sauce through the line. It was my favorite meal, always served the first night I came home to help with the yearly paperwork.

  “See you soon, then.”

  “Mom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Have I mentioned how much I love you?”

  She laughed again, this time adding a little psshh. “That’s your stomach talking, baby bear, but I’ll take it while I can get it.”

  I hung up without saying goodbye, with the full knowledge of fueling her laughter more. I’d hated “baby bear” even when I was one, but it’d remained her private way of ribbing me through the years. I grinned and cranked up the radio. Nothing like a little Simon and Garfunkel to add a touch of hipster-approved perfection to the moment.

  Home, where my thought’s escaping; home, where my music’s playing…

  The steering wheel turned into my drum. Felt a lot better than a punching bag. I let down the window, inviting air that added a brisk snare to my drum, pine and oak and the smoky undertones unique to nighttime in the mountains. Shock of shocks, I managed a full breath that wasn’t mostly stress. And even a few more.

  Left clicker on, along with the headlights, as afternoon blended to twilight. I swung the truck through the still-open gate, its two halves splitting up one word welded into the wrought iron:

  PEAR ----- SON’S

  Just beyond the gates was the farm’s first grove, many branches dipped low by brave off-season apples. Thirty feet in, a directional sign told stores and restaurants to veer right for bulk deliveries. Fifty feet later, another guided the public to the left for apple picking, hay rides, and the petting zoo. Just beyond that, I passed the darkened gift shop before turning down a smaller road through the groves, toward the house I grew up in.

  Another deep breath. As slowly, surely, I began to feel normal again.

  What was that famous expression, about conclusions belonging to the stupid? There wasn’t one? Damn time someone changed that. They could use me as the world’s first and best justification.

  A grunt and growl combo’ed their way through my teeth as I slammed on the brakes. The asshole in the middle of the road didn’t offer many more options. He didn’t flinch as the truck screeched, continuing to scroll messages on his phone.

  I shifted into park, shoved open the door, and slammed my left boot to the step, swinging upward. With one elbow braced to the roof and the other atop the open door, I gave myself a silent command.

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  Was I really doing just that, calmly and normally, a minute ago?

  Calm wasn’t a remote option now.

  Calm and Declan Pearson would never belong in the same thought for me. Ever.

  He lifted his head, showing threads of gray through his trend-conscious hair and well-trimmed beard. I was almost surprised he’d decided to go natural, until realizing he’d likely figured a way to get traction out of the “distinguished guy” vibe. Declan didn’t make a move in his life without it serving one higher purpose. Himself.

  “Welcome home, Michael.” A quick sweep of his stare took in what he could see of me. “San Diego certainly suits you. Looking well, son.”

  “I’m not your son.”

  I gave myself an inward fist bump for straining the emotion from it. Probably could’ve performed brain surgery with less difficulty.

  The little clicks off his tongue presented a different challenge. My senses went Pavlovian, heartrate spiking and stomach clenching as if I were twelve again, face down on my bed after I’d threatened to call the cops on his ass if he didn’t stop backhanding Mom—and he prepared to punish me double for it. Those tongue clicks. Then his deadly pacing. Then the thwack of the belt as he pulled it from the loops—

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  No pacing. Only crickets. The wind through the groves. A car passing up on the highway.

  “Now, now. Is that any way to say hello to your one and only uncle? I thought your mother did better than that. Maybe I should’ve come around more to help.”

  “Hmmm. Yeah. Too bad about that. Restraining orders can be such fuckers.”

  Bulls-eye. His gaze tightened enough to confirm my hit. “Your welfare was always my primary concern, my boy.”

  I’m not your goddamn boy, either. Nothing of mine is yours, you depraved bastard. “Since this conversation is already a waste of my time, let’s just cut to the chase. What the fuck do you want, Dec?”

  He spread his arms, going for the saint-on-stained-glass pose. I thought of telling him that shit didn’t work when you were Lucifer incarnate, but why spoil the laugh? “Only what’s best for you and Diana.”

  “Leave Mom out of this.” You’re in dangerous territory now, fucker.

  “Then leave your little girl emotions out, too.” He squared his shoulders and bounded forward. My grunt, shocking even me when it burst like a defensive elephant, stopped him short. “Talk some sense into her. You read the papers, listen to the news. The whole state is in a damn drought, and—”

  “I told you to leave her out of this.” The words sliced at myself as much as him. I should’ve seen through him like crystal a full minute ago.

  “So you think you’re being a ‘good son’, letting her have her way about this? Being her sweet golden boy by letting her keep the river a little secret from everyone?”

  “If it was ‘little’, I doubt you—or your oil company buddies—would still be jizzing in your rompers about it.” Calculated glare. “A river on pristine private property, fed by a boundless underground spring—the perfect source to help out with the off-shore fracking they want to start down here. How convenient.”

  A heavy breath whooshed from him. Fuck, I hoped he really hadn’t done the jizzing in his pants thing. Yech. Could’ve lived without that visual. “Instead of phrasing it like we’re about to rape puppies, why not think of it as keeping your mother financially comfortable for the rest of her life?”

  “She’s comfortable the way she is.”

  “Really, now? Hmmm. If you say so, then. Who would I be to tell a man he doesn’t know the needs of his own mother?”

  His tone, morning lake calm, was an insinuation of the opposite. I swore not to nibble his bait—but shit, I already had. The new knot in my gut said as much.

  Was that instinct wrong? Who was I to claim what Mom really wanted now? She’d married into this life. Fallen head over heels for Dad when their paths collided at the base in San Diego, he freshly returned from the Middle East, she a civilian contractor. The second he got out, they were married and moved up here. A couple of years later, I came along.

  She’d known nothing but this farm for a very long time.

  Did she want to?

  The blank space my mind gave as answer only sharpened my angry retort. “Fuck off, Declan.”

  He chuckled. Smug ass wart. “Glad we had this chat, Michael.” He stashed his phon
e and cocked his head. “By the way, a little birdie tells me you’re planning on staying longer than a few days this time. I’ll be around, too. Give a holler if you want to shoot the shit about…things.”

  A holler. Right. I’d get right on that—especially if he guaranteed the meeting would conclude with his hacked-off dick in his filthy mouth.

  The fantasy kept me company while I swung back into the truck and jammed it back into Drive. Once more ramming my tension into my pedal foot, I gunned the engine enough to create a lovely spray of dirt and leaves in my wake. Tonguing dust out of his teeth ought to keep the bastard uncomfortable for a while.

  Uncomfortable?

  I wanted the dildo to suffer. Badly. Especially now, as another moment of clarity hit—like laying in a pile of glass after falling through a window.

  I’d worked hard. Left the farm. Made it big in the city. But in less than five minutes, Declan Pearson could turn me back into that trembling kid, taking my blows as Mom watched from the corner, covered in her own bruises.

  We’d both covered our scars with tattoos.

  But they were still scars.

  No wonder I couldn’t think about getting intimate with a woman unless raunch and dirt were involved. Maybe that was simply who I was now.

  Maybe part of that fucker’s depravity really had rubbed off on me.

  Maybe that was why I excelled at the friend zone—and nothing more.

  Maybe this was a really good time to remind myself of that—no matter how goddamn hard it got, even sixty miles from the woman I still couldn’t stop thinking about.

  “It’ll get easier.” I repeated it beneath my breath. Once. Twice. A third time. Eventually, I had to believe it—or drive myself insane trying to. Either was a better option than living with the day in, day out torment of dreaming about Margaux Asher—and the agony of knowing none of it would ever come true.

  Chapter Three

  Margaux

  I knew I should’ve sent a text to Michael before I went out for New Year’s Eve. The drunk text message carnage on my phone the next morning was both endearing and mortifying. I would pay the next time we spoke, that much was obvious.

  :: Happy New Year, blondie. ::

  :: Same! OMG soooo dam dunk! Wish you were here to kiss me! ::

  :: So do I—especially now that I see your dam dunk side. ::

  :: You funning at me? ::

  :: Probably. ::

  :: Good. I like it when you’re fun. ::

  :: No driving like that, by the way. ::

  :: Nope. Neber. Andre taking Taylor and me home. ::

  :: Taylor? ::

  :: Taylor GIRL not Taylor BOY, k? She works with me. ::

  :: Oh. Well, okay. I guess I like Taylor, then. ::

  :: I have to pee. Brb ::

  :: You’ve been gone awhile, you OK? :: :: Margaux? Answer, please. ::

  :: Yep, yep. Fine, Daddy. Just texting Andre. Sorry. ::

  Those weren’t even the worst of it. The ones from after Taylor and I got back to my place…well, shit. He was never going to let me live those down.

  :: Captain A! You still up? Oh, wait. You’re always UP lol ::

  :: Still being naughty, I see. ::

  :: You like me naughty… :: :: Still here? ::

  :: Yeah. I’m just glad you’re okay. I was waiting to hear you made it home. ::

  :: Such a gentleman. ::

  :: Not always. ::

  :: Just when it counts. Ttyt k? So tried. ::

  :: You mean so drunk? ::

  :: Yeah, that too. Sleep well. XO ::

  :: Better if you were here. Stop torturing me and say you’ll come see me. ::

  :: zzzzz zzzzzz ::

  :: Brat. ::

  Chapter Four

  Michael

  I’d been waiting for her text all day.

  :: Yo, Captain America ::

  :: Yes, beautiful? ::

  :: Mack Daddy Teddy Bear has arrived safe and sound. Thought you’d want to know. ::

  :: What the hell are you talking about? ::

  :: Shut UP. This has YOU written all over it, Pearson. All eight fucking FEET of it. ::

  :: All eight feet of what? ::

  :: Fine. I’ll just blame it on the cute guy at Starbuck’s who keeps comp’ing my latte. I’m sure he’d love to take credit for an eight-foot-tall teddy bear who came bearing six dozen black and red tulips. ::

  :: The hell? ::

  :: Thought you’d see it my way. ::

  :: You win, sugar. You win. ::

  :: Of course I do. ::

  :: You do have your ways. ::

  :: So can I ask a question? ::

  :: Of course. ::

  :: How’d you know black and red are my favorite colors? ::

  :: I have MY ways too, beautiful. Now can I ask you a question? ::

  :: Only seems fair. ::

  :: Will you be my valentine? ::

  :: Does the hideous bear have to stay at my house or yours? ::

  :: Yours, of course. ::

  :: Then I won’t be your valentine. ::

  :: Dammit. ::

  Chapter Five

  Margaux

  In like a lion, out like a lamb—or some dumb shit poetry like that. Spring pulled into San Diego in all its glorious fashion, but my heart felt frozen in place. Not such a new feeling, really, but my self-imposed dry spell wasn’t helping one damn bit.

  Working day and night helped dull the pain but even Killian started to notice—especially when I politely turned down a dinner invitation from his buddies, Fletcher Ford and Drake Newland, during their visit to SoCal for the year-end board meeting. Kil had gaped like I’d dyed my hair into a rainbow then let the colors sink into my brain. I’d almost agreed with him. More than a few times, I’d confessed about pining for that matched set of hotness and their idea of dinner, a special package deal that redefined the words “best buddies share everything”. Imagining the possibilities usually got me wet and tingly in all the right ways. The fantasy ranked high on my personal bucket list. But I couldn’t muster the enthusiasm even to have drinks with the boys.

  What the hell?

  I’d gotten home that night and checked my temperature, convinced I was coming down with some virus that caused irrational behavior. Sadly, everything checked in as normal, confirming my ailment couldn’t be written off as a physical issue.

  The real—and worse—diagnosis?

  I had it bad for Michael Pearson.

  And had no damn idea if he felt remotely the same way.

  That wasn’t true. There was that kiss before he’d left—and since then, a lot of those teasing, semi-steamy texts. Okay, he’d also tried calling, all of two times—but on both, I’d been at the office on deadlines, meaning conversations didn’t delve much deeper than the weather, Montgomery/Stone wedding updates, and a few attempts at cutesy on his part, always starting the same way. Was I staying out of trouble? And if I wasn’t, was I at least being safe?

  Ugh. It was as comfortable as Charlie Brown and his cute little redheaded girl—only he didn’t have a dancing dog for his comedy relief, and I wasn’t sure “cute” and I shared the same universe. I vowed to give him hell about paying five cents for Lucy the Shrink the next time we talked.

  Like I knew when the hell that would be.

  Which laid the breadcrumbs back to our huge damn problem.

  Would there be a “next time to talk”?

  He’d said a month’s absence. It was now closing in on three. And his begging invitations for me to join him in Podunk—err, I mean Julian—had almost stopped. Everything was still friendly between us but it stopped right there, no more and no less. I had no right to pry, so I never did. I also had no right to expect calls and texts on a regular basis, so I never asked. We really were locked in a Peanuts world. Pleasant, pretty, sometimes funny—and flat, flat, flat.

  Exactly where I’d pressed my love life.

  Good grief.

  It fit the holding pattern I hated
more with each day. Shit. This was uncharacteristic if not a total anomaly, and it needed to stop. If I didn’t get some game soon, the lady parts were going to start looking like one of those abandoned amusement parks in horror movies. Scary clowns would be next.

  Not going there.

  It was so time to round up my girls and head for some for some Happy Hour troublemaking.

  Cue the Snoopy snickers again. Who the hell was I kidding? I didn’t have “girls” to round up. I was the type of woman other women hated, much less wanted to go out “troublemaking” with. Sure, Taylor from the sales department had invited me to that New Year’s Eve thing, but we’d ended the night on my big sofa, snoring and drooling on each other, still in our party dresses and makeup. No shock at all that we hadn’t been out again since.

  Maybe it was time to change things.

  I phoned Taylor, Claire, and two other girls from sales, talking them into hitting one of the gastropubs in the Gaslamp District. I so needed this. I wasn’t the one who’d gone hermit crab in Sweet Apple Acres, and it was damn time to remind myself of that. I intended to live tonight, starting with a cosmo down my throat, and—chemistry and karma willing—ending with a cock between my legs. I was done pining for a guy who’d dumped me before even knowing he wanted me.

  I gave myself another once-over in the bathroom mirrors. Everything worked. I’d gone for minimal but classy accessories over a pewter-colored V-neck with tiny stiches of silver, falling over buttery black leather pants that fit in all the right places. Killer Alexander McQueen cage booties added four inches of style and at least a few hours of attitude.

  After one more check on the outfit, I leaned in to coat my lips in my favorite berry-colored stain. This stuff was better than war paint, perfect for a night of drinking and debauchery. I teased my hair higher at the roots and approved of what stared back at me. Aha. There she was—the man eater I once knew. She’d been MIA for too long, lost to a calmer, tamer, and—gasp—nicer young thing. Gawd. And gag. Claire was rubbing off on me in all the wrong ways. Time to sharpen the pretty minx claws and drag an equally pretty, wholly unsuspecting piece of masculinity back here. I had needs, and for tonight, none of them involved the name Michael Pearson.