A Smile as Sweet as Poison

by Helena Maeve

  “Wow.” Rhonda tipped back in her seat. “Do they, uh, know about each other?”

  “Yeah, they live together.”

  If Rhonda could’ve widened her eyes any more, she would be in danger of having them pop out of her head. “That’s so California,” she gushed. “Are they…you know?”

  “Gay?”

  Rhonda nodded, a pink flush spreading down her cleavage.

  “They seem pretty interested in me, so I suppose not.”

  “Why would you—I mean, it must get exhausting. I only have Buddy and—God help me, because I love your brother, Hazel, but sometimes I want to wring his thick neck.”

  Hazel laughed. “Can’t say I blame you.” She didn’t have an easy answer, either. “I guess it’s still early days. Honeymoon period, you know…”

  “Right, I’ll ask you in a year.”

  If we’re still together in a year. Hazel returned Rhonda’s smile, albeit a little tepidly. “You don’t seem weirded out,” she remarked, clumsily striving to shift the focus away from herself.

  “Like your mom, you mean?”

  “Yeah.” Their morning spat had solidified into an uneasy truce—Mrs. Whitley wasn’t one to let her dirty laundry spoil a family event. She’d give Hazel the cold shoulder until she apologized, then lord the incident over her head for all future arguments to come, but in the meantime she would be civil. She hoarded evidence of Hazel’s bad behavior like a magpie.

  “She worries about you,” Rhonda said, cleaving neatly through Hazel’s thoughts.

  “You mean she worries I’ll do something to embarrass the family.” As though being involved with two men, miles and miles away, had anything to do with Mrs. Whitley or anyone else. “We wouldn’t want the townsfolk to know I’m a polygamist now, would we?” Hazel mugged, standing to attend to the whistling kettle before Bea’s tiny grimaces became a full-blown crying fit.

  “There’s that, too… But she’s also worried about how you’re coping all alone in LA. When I was planning the baby shower, she kept asking if I’d invited you.”

  “That so?” It didn’t gel with the mother Hazel had always known, but if Mrs. Whitley stooped to micromanage her life, why not Rhonda’s? “She’s all about appearances.”

  “She really wanted you here.”

  “You’re giving her too much credit,” Hazel said, filling two cups with hot water and plonking a teabag in each. The ritual gave her something to do with her hands while her mind galloped restlessly. “If she wanted me here, she could’ve said so herself.”

  “You know what she’s like—”

  “Intransigent and mean?”

  Rhonda pursed her lips. “She was devastated when you left for LA, you know. She felt like she’d lost you.”

  “She did.”

  “She doesn’t know why. Maybe if you told her…”

  Hazel slid her chair back. “Nothing to tell. College wasn’t my thing.” That was the excuse she’d trotted out to friends and family after she drove down from St. Louis in the middle of the night. It was a variation of what she had said to Dylan when he’d asked.

  Ward knew a little bit more and Hazel’s pulse sped unpleasantly at the thought. He could always pass on her secrets.

  “Thanks to Malcolm Pryce?” Rhonda offered.

  “Yeah, we dated—”

  “I know. I was there.”

  Hazel swallowed hard. If Ward had some vague, anecdotal trivia about the events that led to Hazel packing her bags and calling it a day, then Rhonda had the context. Both she and Sadie had been on campus at the time. Both had seen Hazel strutting around with bangs in her eyes and leather cuffs around her wrists.

  “I, uh, I remember you used to hang out with the east coast rich kids—”

  “They weren’t all rich,” Hazel scoffed, trying to laugh her way into a change of topic.

  Rhonda wouldn’t let her. “Most of them were loaded. The ones who weren’t—like you and Penelope—we could tell you apart by all the paraphernalia you wore.” Her gaze sought Hazel’s and held.

  Wristlets and collars, garters and spiked heels, all to the limit of decency and campus dress codes, designed to stand out. Hazel remembered the ones who went under the needle and tattooed the names of their boyfriends or girlfriends—mostly boyfriends, truth be told—on hips and inner arms, like a property brand. Her stomach churned at the memory.

  The patch of skin on her hip still stung, a year after the ink had been burned away.

  “I used to watch you with them,” Rhonda went on. “How…passive you were. It didn’t seem right, you know? But I didn’t want to say anything, figured it was none of my business.” She sucked her lip between her teeth, releasing it with a pop half a breath later. “I should have, shouldn’t I? You weren’t—the things they were doing to you weren’t right.”

  Hazel reached across the table, white paint peeling under her palm, and took Rhonda’s hand in hers. “It’s okay.”

  Rhonda shook her head, eyes swimming with tears. “I knew. I should’ve—I should have done something. I could’ve helped you, Hazel!”

  “Shh.” Tea forgotten, Hazel rounded the table and put her arms around Rhonda just as the first sob spilled from her throat. “It’s okay. It’s—I wouldn’t have listened. You know how stubborn I am. Like my loggerhead brother!”

  As Rhonda clutched at her one-handed, Hazel clutched back, blinking away hot tears.

  Would she have done anything differently if Rhonda had split from her preppy group and held out a helping hand? Hazel couldn’t say. But standing in Rhonda’s kitchen now, knowing someone else had noticed what was going on—that someone else cared—did change the score. The perfume of ginger tea and the sugary-cheesy blend of formula and baby powder soothed her fraying nerves.

  Between them, Bea made a soft, objecting noise, jostled in all the excitement.

  Hazel pulled away, awkwardly swiping at the corners of her eyes. “Oh, I think someone doesn’t like sharing…”

  “Nah, that’s just your niece agreeing. We’re very protective of each other in this family,” Rhonda said, sniffling. She squeezed Hazel’s hand as if to drive home the point.

  “Sounds ominous.” Hazel tried to laugh it off.

  Rhonda smiled at her daughter. “It should be.”

  She was the picture of the perfect mother, as at home in a renaissance mural as she would’ve been on a billboard ad for powdered milk or diapers. But she was also a Whitley, if only by marriage, and like called to like.

  * * * *

  It was already dark by the time Hazel finally tore herself away from Rhonda’s hospitality. She’d been unsure about visiting, wary of being forced to make nice with Rhonda, but those few hours spent in companionable chitchat, talking about this and that, and nothing all that important, made Hazel wish she could dial back the clock and jump at the chance to visit sooner.

  Perhaps that was why she found herself reaching for her cell as she turned the corner of the playground where she and Buddy had once chased each other.

  Dylan picked up on the second ring. “Speak of the Devil…”

  “You come up with the sweetest pet names,” Hazel drawled, slowing her steps.

  “Gotta work with what I got. Can’t let Ward get all the girls.”

  Muffled, Ward’s voice echoed down the line.

  A muscle constricted in Hazel’s chest. “What’s he saying?”

  “Something filthy, as usual,” Dylan’s tone was light and carefree.

  He could feign forgiveness better than any man Hazel had ever known. “Put me on speaker?” she asked after a moment’s thought.

  A few clicks and taps later, Dylan said, “Go ahead.”

  They were in the car, she realized—probably the BMW, if Dylan was the one handling the phone. Suddenly the urge to fly back and prostrate herself at their feet shot through her, almost more than Hazel could resist. But her ticket wasn’t for another three days. Ward had thought to offer her enough time to make the home trip count.
>
  He couldn’t have known the trouble he was stirring by sending her back in the first place.

  “I’m sorry,” Hazel said.

  “We know,” Dylan replied, quick to absolve her.

  Hazel pushed on, undaunted. “I was a bitch before I left. You didn’t deserve that. Either one of you.”

  The silence on the other end of the line was interrupted only when Dylan murmured in a stage whisper, “She means you, dude.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Ward huffed. “Can’t let me enjoy the groveling in peace.”

  Hazel bit the inside of her cheek to keep a smile at bay. “Wait a few days and you can enjoy it in the flesh,” she teased, struggling to match Ward’s tone. He had a way of teasing her that made her doubt she knew where jokes ended and earnestness began. It should’ve been unsettling, with her history—and his. It wasn’t.

  “Why wait?” Ward quipped.

  She laughed. “Duh. I’m in Missouri, you’re in California… I’m not filming myself so you two can jerk off.” You know why.

  Miles away, Ward gunned the BMW. The engine roared. “We could fly down.”

  Hazel stopped dead in her tracks, her parents’ house coming into view between poplar trees halfway up the street. “Don’t you have, like, jobs?” Lives? They couldn’t just drop everything to come see her. It wouldn’t be right to ask them.

  “What’s the point of being CEO at thirty-three if you can’t enjoy the perks?”

  “I have a few days’ paid leave I haven’t used,” Dylan added. “It’s pretty quiet around here, anyway. But we don’t want to intrude,” he put in, before Ward’s audible inhale could become another jokey change of plans. “How are things with your family?”

  “Oh. Great. No one’s strangled anyone yet, so…” Evasion did not a lie make.

  “There’s still time!” Ward announced cheerfully. He trailed off on a yelp, possibly because Dylan had nudged him in the ribs.

  “Don’t come here,” Hazel said. “It’s boring and dead and I’d rather not subject you to my parents if I can help it.”

  “Totally understandable,” Dylan hurried to say.

  “But you could come to St. Louis.”

  Neither of them spoke for a long beat. “Okay,” Ward started slowly. “I’ll bite. What’s in St. Louis?”

  Hazel pictured him tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel as he drove, Dylan tense and waiting beside him, trying to navigate the fine line between Ward’s ego and Hazel’s recalcitrance. She plucked a leaf off the poisonous berry bush that separated the Rileys’ property from the sidewalk. “My college reunion. Five years too soon, yes, and it’s probably going to be a bust for a lot of reasons, but… I’m kind of thinking of going.”

  Sadie would be there, with Frank. Maybe Rhonda and Buddy, too.

  Maybe even Malcolm.

  She dug her toes into the cement through the ballet flats, pressing into soil that had seen her through skinned knees and rollerblades, prom dresses and rubber-soled combat boots. “I’d like it if you guys could come.”

  “Both of us,” Dylan clarified.

  “Ideally.”

  “Won’t that be…complicated?”

  Hazel flung the shiny leaf into the shadows. “Well, technically I’m not supposed to be there at all seeing as I didn’t graduate, so…”

  “We’ll be there,” Ward said, deciding for them both.

  “Yeah?”

  He made a vague, acquiescing noise. “What do you wear to a college reunion, anyway?”

  A wave of tenderness filled Hazel’s ribcage, radiating into her limbs like liquid heat.

  “A suit? I’m sure whatever you pick will look fine.” She bit her tongue against pointing out that he—and Dylan—looked good no matter what they put on. Pretty people didn’t have to try hard to make a good impression.

  “You say that now, but when I show up in a pink sequined jacket and Elvis wig, you’ll be singing a different tune.”

  “Do you even own a pink jacket?” Hazel wondered. The Elvis wig she could believe.

  Ward hummed a note of acquiescence. “Among many strange and exciting costumes… All part of my exciting sex life.”

  “Right. Sure. Try not to dress up in a French maid outfit?”

  Ward laughed, a rich, warm sound. “I make no promises.”

  “I’ll keep him in line,” Dylan promised, dropping his voice an octave. “Are you sure about this, Hazel?”

  She thought of two more days of her parents’ silent disapproval, of Rhonda and Buddy trying to navigate her visit without rocking the boat. “Yeah… I’m sure.”

  “Okay.” Dylan stayed on the line for a beat longer, then wished her a good night. Ward echoed the sentiment.

  California was two hours behind, the sun probably just creeping down over the palm trees and square cement towers, splashing long shadows onto the traffic-jammed streets. The combined heat of so many running engines would have the road ahead shimmering wetly, a mirage sure to disappear on approach.

  Hazel had never yearned for LA. Her expectations of life in a star-studded town were few and far between. It had taken a five hour flight to discover how much she missed it and the people she’d left behind.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she told the boys before hanging up. Not a goodbye, but a see you later. She just had to make it through the next couple of days.

  With a deep breath, Hazel slid her phone back into her shoulder bag and started up the street, homeward bound.

  She didn’t notice the parked sedan on the curb until she was nearly level. The door swung open with a flourish. Hazel jumped, heart lurching into her throat.

  “Jesus!”

  “No, sweetheart. Just me.” Malcolm leaned against the hood of the car, eyes gleaming in the low light like a pair of marbles. “Thought you and I should catch up.”

  “Why the hell would I want to do that?” Hazel forced out through gritted, suddenly chattering teeth.

  After all these years, his narrowed gaze still had the power to kindle remorse in her bloodstream. “Seems you’ve forgotten the way this works. Get in the car, Hazel. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

  Or there will be consequences.

  The white-painted front door of her parents’ house opened before Hazel could speak.

  “Hazel? Oh, Malcolm!” Mrs. Whitley drew in a startled breath. “I didn’t see you there.”

  You weren’t supposed to. “Mal was just leaving, Ma.”

  “So soon?” Malcolm pouted at her. When he rounded on Mrs. Whitley, it was with a groveling, dimpled smile, the kind he’d once used to charm the registrar into getting Hazel out of classes he didn’t approve of.

  She knew the persuasive potential of that look. The first time they’d met, Hazel had been waiting tables at the campus coffee shop when Malcolm came in just before closing time and calmly told her that he would leave without paying. She remembered the flush of heat in her face, the flames scorching down her esophagus. And she remembered nodding, stunned, because even though Malcolm had money to throw around, she couldn’t make herself object.

  “I thought I’d take Hazel out for dinner… we could catch up.”

  “I’m tired,” Hazel said, making to brush past him.

  He caught her wrist, grip so lax that Hazel could’ve pulled away if she put her mind to it. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Hazel didn’t doubt for a minute that he meant it. If Penelope’s word was to be believed, he wasn’t having much luck moving on.

  “You can come in, too, Malcolm,” Hazel’s mom offered. “I’ll have Inès serve you something light in the den.”

  Hazel’s throat threatened to close up. “He really can’t stay—”

  “Oh, it’s no problem.” He shifted out of the way of the open car door and nudged it shut. “I’d love that, ma’am. Hazel?”

  Trapped between a rock and the proverbial hard place, his gaze licking the back of her neck and heat radiating from his body to hers, to the crisp, blossom-scente
d air around them, Hazel clamped her mouth shut. Lack of protest always equaled consent, in Malcolm’s book.

  He trailed her into the house.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Glasses of lemonade and plates of cold cuts and fresh summer vegetables arranged between them, Hazel and Malcolm sat on wicker armchairs in the den. The cresting moon and the lamps from the living room bathed them in a faint, discreet glow. Neither spoke until Inès had finished laying out the picnic spread.

  “What do you want?” Hazel volleyed once they were alone. She barely resisted the urge to bolt out of her seat. The door was still open. She could make a run for it—and after that? All escape routes ended with her having to face her parents. With having to explain.

  Malcolm took a sip of lemonade and smacked his full, handsome lips. “To catch up. I must say, when I heard you ran off to LA, I was so wounded. You’re not the west coast bimbo type—”

  “The fact that you think you know what type of woman I am is hilarious,” Hazel snorted. Except she wasn’t laughing. She’d never been able to deride Malcolm like Sadie did her Dominants—the good and the bad ones alike. His aura of authority frightened her. His presence had always quelled her flippancy. One look and she was cowed, ready to bow and scrape until he forgave her.

  More often than not, he’d handed out his pardons by having her do something particularly awful to Penelope. Or the other way around. It had worked every single time.

  “Of course I know,” he scoffed. “I made you.”

  His cool self-assurance reminded Hazel of Dylan on those few occasions when they butted heads. Perhaps if she hadn’t met Dylan, if she hadn’t taken him up on his offer, she wouldn’t have known the difference between strength and ego.

  “How’s that?” Hazel wondered aloud. “You think I wouldn’t have discovered that I get off on a paddle or a whip without you?”

  Malcolm bit into a slice of cheese, as nonchalantly as if they were talking about the weather. “You, with all those Missouri Princess Pageant medals? Please. You’d be married to some all-American white-bread imitation of daddy dearest, pregnant and barefoot in the kitchen.”