Rebel Ink

by Laura Wright

  She starts to get out of the car, but I stop her. “Wait.”

  Shit, I stop her. I must be dire.

  She turns back, glares at me with her raccoon eyes. “What?”

  That’s right, douchebag. What are you going to say? What do you want? I mean, she’s set to go, so let her go. You don’t need her. This will all go to shit whether she’s here or not, so… “You look like a good hooker.”

  Her head draws back. “What?”

  I shrug. “Like the friendly, straight-up high-class escort type. The kind Tiger Woods would have on speed-dial—”

  “Going now.”

  “Wait.” I reach out and grab her hand. Fucking me. Vincent. V. The Asshole. Needs No One. Nada. Jesus.

  She stares down at my hand. Wrapped around her hand. Soft, warm skin brushes my palm.

  “You should stay,” I say.

  Her eyes flip up to meet mine. In this light, this bright, chipper Minnesota light, they’re summer-sky blue. And her hair, though sticking out all over the place, shines like the motherfucking sun. She’s a mess. Kicked out of bed and walking home at eight a.m. kinda mess—though I can’t imagine anybody kicking her out of bed. Blondie screams cuddle time. Then fuck-me-again time. Then shower-with-me time.

  I continue, though my boxers are feeling a little tight. “Like, at least until after breakfast. And a shower.” I shrug again, try to play it off as nothing more than basic consideration. “Every legit sex worker deserves a shower.”

  That last comment earns me a glare, but there’s not a ton of heat or hate behind it. She’s tempted, yet she’s weirded out by this whole thing. Which I totally get. I’m weirded out too. No idea what’s waiting for me on the other side of that hand-carved-in-Peru front door.

  “So?” I push. “You’ll stay? For a hot minute?” I flash her an attempt at a charming smile.

  Her eyes are working me over now, probing me. And not in the good way. “You want me there as a diversion, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “You don’t want to go in there. You’re fighting it hard. Clearly, you have issues with your family or—and probably more likely—they have issues with you. So you want to use me.” She sort of half laughs. “As if my barf breath, raccoon eyes and hair issues are going to distract from the tats and the piercings, and the hair and the clothes.”

  I frown. “Fine. You’re right.”

  “Course I’m right.”

  “Get outta here, then. Off with you, slut.”

  She smirks. “I do need a shower.”

  I slide my gaze her way.

  “And a shoe,” she continues.

  I nod. “Yeah, that would be hard to explain to the TSA.”

  “I just don’t get it, you know? Where did it go?”

  “What?”

  “My shoe! I looked in every crevice in that plane. I wish I could remember. This is all so humiliating.”

  “You have no idea, Blondie.” I grab the handle on the car door—the trigger—and pull. “No idea at all.”

  Oh, hypocrisy, thy name is Vincent.

  As I step into the foyer of the main house, in my rags and one shoe, and take in its classic-lined vastness and gold-plated splendor, I remember all the quips and digs the guy standing beside me once lobbed my way. Back in Santa Barbara nearly a year ago for my graduation. He was wearing a shirt with something super inappropriate on the front, jeans that made his ass look mouthwatering—Hey! Don’t veer off course here, Lis—and all he wanted to talk about was getting Kevin some ink. On his white-bread skin. He didn’t actually say that last part, but it was implied. I mean, he was all about making fun of the blue blood.

  And lookie here. He’s one himself!

  Mr. Vincent. I say it in my head with an English accent and an exaggerated bow.

  Before I can get too carried away, a woman appears. Not like she beamed herself into the middle of the room or anything, but she came in so quietly I’m not sure where she emerged from. Anyway, she’s dressed in a perfectly pressed gray uniform. My mother would approve.

  “Would you like to wait in the library?” she asks us.

  “No,” Vincent says.

  I elbow him and whisper, “Rude.” Then I smile broadly at the woman. “Thank you. We’re fine here.”

  “Where’s my mother?” Vincent asks.

  “She’ll be down in a few minutes.” She looks at me. “Can I get you something while you wait.”

  A shower? Clothes for the sunlit hours?

  “We’re fine,” Vincent says, though it’s practically a growl. And when the woman leaves—ah, I see, down a hallway to the left—I cut him a look.

  “Can you chill out a little?”

  “What?” His eyes bark at mine. They’re really black, and pissed. And, if I’m not mistaken, nervous.

  “I’m here,” calls a voice from the top of the stairs.

  Vincent stiffens, and I feel his hand brush against mine. I look up at him. He’s staring at the staircase, his strong jaw tight. “You okay?” I whisper.

  “Fucking brilliant.”

  For some strange reason I take his hand and squeeze. But he jerks it away.

  Fine. Just trying to help.

  “I’m so sorry to keep you both waiting.” The woman who is descending the staircase is probably around fifty or so, but she looks older. She’s tall, thin—very thin, the kind of thin my mother covets—and perfectly put together. Dark blond hair cut short and stylish, clothes off the runways in New York. And shoes…I sigh…shoes to drool for.

  When she hits the bottom step, her eyes cut to Vincent and she smiles. But it’s not a loving, my-little-boy-is-home smile. It’s wary and cool.

  “Charles.” She looks him over. “It’s good to see you.”

  First of all, I don’t think it is. And second, Charles? I look up at him. His skin is pale under all that ink. I stifle the urge to grab his hand again. I need to chill out too. I’m sure whatever is happening here is just the same thing I deal with from my parents. Disappointment in how one’s offspring turned out.

  “You look well,” she continues. “Though it is a little hard to see you under all that…paint.”

  “Ink,” he says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “This is ink, not paint. It’s in my skin, not on it.”

  She nods, her gaze resuming its inspection. Granted, she hasn’t even acknowledged my presence. Not that I blame her. My mom would probably toss a sheet over me right now and pretend I’m winter furniture.

  “Are you taller?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “I think you are.” She smiles, and this one actually seems to reach her eyes. “You’ve grown at least two more inches. Wait until your father sees you.”

  “My father’s dead.”

  I gasp. I couldn’t help it. Jeez. Talk about cold. I swear in all the times I’ve heard Vincent—or is it Charles?—get pissy or go off on people, I’ve never heard actual venom come out of his mouth. It startled me. And from the look of it, his mother too.

  Her nostrils flare. “Your stepfather, I mean.”

  Vincent says nothing.

  Finally, she turns to face me. She has that blank, false, serene expression I’ve seen a thousand times on all my parents’ friends’ faces when they could care less about who you are but manners and propriety dictate that they have to ask. She extends her hand. “Emily Birch.”

  I accept it and shake it gently. Despite her tough-as-nails attitude, she seems frail. “Lisa Whalen. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Yes,” she says as if she agrees. “I was only expecting my son, but it’s lovely that you both came to celebrate with us.”

  “We didn’t come here,” Vincent says in a bitter tone. “We were brought here, like prisoners of war.”

  Emily laughs. “Oh, Charles.” She says to me, “My son doesn’t visit very often. He’s busy.”

  Vincent sniffs. “Right.”

  “So I must insist,” she continues. “You raise them to lea
ve the nest, but when they do, it’s difficult.”

  “Sure,” Vincent says. “Must’ve been difficult for Kelly.”

  Mrs. Birch pales.

  “Toldja you wouldn’t want me back here, Mother.”

  Oh dear… This whole thing is crazy uncomfortable. And combined with the headache, hunger, and a desperate desire for a toothbrush, I’m looking for exits. Where did that maid beam off to again? I wish I understood what the deal was with Vincent and his family. Knowing him as I do, this could easily be some bullshit thing where he didn’t get what he wanted back in the day, flew off the handle and ran.

  But my gut tells me it’s something deeper.

  Something darker.

  “Well,” Mrs. Birch says in a strained singsong voice. “I’m sure you’d like to freshen up. I have rooms made up for the both of you. They have private baths, of course.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Vincent says.

  “Or, I suppose, you can stay together, in the same room if that’s—”

  “No,” I start. But Vincent cuts me off.

  “We’re not staying here at all.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  A maid who is coming down the stairs stops, assesses the situation and quickly turns around and heads back the way she came. Take me with you!

  “Where are you going to stay?” she continues. “We’re sixty miles from town.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  Her chin lifts. “Charles.”

  It’s like a tennis match. And the name. His real name. Seriously? Nope. I can’t get used to it.

  Clearly, neither can he. “It’s Vincent,” he hisses.

  She ignores him. “If you don’t want to stay in the house, that’s fine. You and your…friend—”

  Ouch. Just say it, Mrs. B. HOOKER.

  “Lisa,” he says with another shot of venom. “She told you her name. Don’t pretend you don’t remember it.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, taking a step back. I’d really like to go. Shower and eat elsewhere. “Really.”

  “It’s not fine,” Vincent says. “She’s being a condescending snob.”

  “Charles,” the woman warns.

  “I know what’s going through her mind.” He turns to me and grins. It’s a black, pain-laced grin. “If she only knew, right?”

  I seriously can’t believe I’m here right now. In Vincent’s family house. It’s crazy. I should be in Vegas with Addy—or better yet, Napa with Addy. You say yes to hanging out, drinking a little, and look where that gets you.

  Mrs. Birch has decided to continue as though Vincent hasn’t said a thing. “You and Lisa can stay in one of the guest houses. Take the one farthest away if it’ll make you feel more at ease. I’ll have clothes”—her eyes dip to my feet—“and shoes brought over.”

  I shrug. Nicely played.

  “Not necessary,” Vincent says, pulling out his cell.

  “I think it is. The young lady—”

  “For fuck’s sake, Mother, it’s Lisa!”

  Mrs. Birch gasps. “Language, Charles.”

  It isn’t until just that second that I realize Vincent hasn’t said one crude thing since his mom came down. He’s been plenty rude—no doubt—but he hasn’t cursed. Clearly, he’s got some modicum of respect left in him for her.

  He punches something into his iPhone, then stuffs it back in his pocket. “What time is the party?”

  “Eight o’clock,” she tells him. She looks flushed and upset. I hate this whole thing.

  “We’ll be back at eight.” He turns to go. “And we’ll be gone by eight fifteen.”

  I’m sorry, what? We? Party? Tonight? I look from him to her and back again. Damn him—damn them. Damn my love of tequila. I’m not supposed to be here. ‘Hanging’ with Vincent. Or Charles. Or Sir. I’m supposed to be in Napa getting a salt scrub.

  Even though Vincent is already out the door, I nod at Mrs. Birch. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  She grants me a tepid smile. “And you. Lisa.”

  For one brief second I toss around the idea of telling her I’m not a hooker, that I’m really the prodigal daughter of a prominent Santa Barbara family, but whatever. Why do I give a shit what she thinks of me? I hurry after Vincent. Out into the cool Minnesota air. I’m expecting the door to the town car to be open and waiting, but there’s no car. And Vincent? He’s halfway down the circular driveway.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  I hobble after him. Cursing with each sharp pebble I encounter.

  “Stop!” I call.

  And to my surprise, he does. Though he looks like he really doesn’t want to. Well, too damn bad. We need to hatch a plan here. And find a ride. And shoes…

  I’m about to call him Charlie as I reach him, about to tease him regarding the gold-plated life he’s clearly kept from everyone, and maybe joke about rich parents and their stuck-up, demanding ways—because I’ve got plenty of experience when it comes to that. Anything to sort of lighten the mood and get us talking about what we do from here on out.

  But I don’t do any of that. Because Vincent is…well, he’s shaking. As he stares out at the driveway, Vincent, the hardest of all hardasses, is actually shaking.

  What the hell? I glance back at the house. The boy’s got fear and anxiety, and maybe some anger going on? Not totally sure, but oh, yeah, this is about more than just a teenage Vincent being an asshole and leaving the home of two older assholes.

  I turn back, scrub my hand over my mouth as I decide what to do. What to say. This is the guy who pulled his hand away from mine when I tried to comfort him. Who says crude, thoughtless shit at the drop of a hat. But then again, this is the guy who stripped away his usual thick and slick armor to ask me to go into his house with him. So…shit.

  I come to stand beside him, but don’t touch him. I stare out at what he’s staring at, and say, “Let’s get out of here. Okay?”

  “Fuck.” That’s it. That’s all he says. But I kinda know what it means, so I whip out my phone. Hit the Uber app.

  “What’s the address here?” I ask.

  “16 Forestberry Lane.”

  I get to typing, making the arrangements. We’ll hit the city, scoop up a decent hotel room and figure things out.

  “That’s going to cost some serious green, Blondie,” he says. “And I don’t have my wallet.”

  For some reason this makes me smile. “No wallet. No shoe. Smelling like the inside of a dumpster. We’re quite a pair.” I drop the phone back in my purse. “Hot messes, baby.”

  He turns to me, trains those dark, intense eyes on mine. “I’m serious. Don’t have anything to give.” He looks tired, but still unbearably sexy. How does he manage that? Maybe it’s the being just a little bit vulnerable.

  “I know,” I say. “I got this.” I lift a brow. “Okay?”

  He stares at me for a second. The shaking’s not as obvious—maybe because it’s just below the surface of his skin now. I can’t even imagine what’s going on behind those obsidian eyes. In his brain. His heart. I want to ask. I want to know what drove him out of that house besides the cold mother. But I don’t.

  “Okay,” he says finally.

  And after a minute or two, we walk to the end of the driveway and wait for the pick-up.

  I follow Lisa into the suite at Minneapolis’s Garrison & Fifth Hotel. She’s picked the largest, most expensive digs in the place, with two bedrooms, two baths, a movie room and a wet bar. But I barely notice. Barely care. I’m fucking tired. Wrecked, as the kids say. And instead of giving her shit for setting us up in style, I head straight for the corner of the room where it’s darkest and plant my ass on the floor.

  It’s a crazy move, like a mopey toddler or something. But sitting on anything else, going anywhere else, feels like I’m connecting to the world or something. And I’m so not connected. I’m seriously unplugged.

  I’m hoping Lisa walks right on past me to one of the bedrooms, closes the door and gives me an hour or two to screw my hea
d back on. But she doesn’t. In fact, she’s still over by the entryway. Watching me, yet pretending she’s not. I fucking hate that she’s here. No. That’s not exactly right. I hate that she had to see that bullshit with my mother. I don’t give a fuck that she knows my blood’s as blue as hers—probably more so—because I’m not that world anymore. I walked away from it and didn’t look back. Until the world started calling and texting, and guilting the shit out of me.

  “You hungry?”

  I’m tucked into the corner of the suite’s living area, the floor-to-ceiling windows to my right. I want to shut down. I want her to stop looking at me, talking to me. And I really want her to quit the pitying me. That’s probably the worst part of this whole deal. The one chick who’s always disgusted by me, maybe a little bit afraid of me—and maybe a lot turned on by me—feels sorry for me.

  It takes everything I got to look up, look at her, give her a grade-A douchenozzle grin and let fly, “I could eat, baby.” I let my gaze drop to her tits and I force an ogle. “Get that dirty dress off and that fine pussy over here and feed me.”

  For a moment, she’s taken aback and I sense victory. Or at least peace. That’s right, Blondie. Same ol’ V. So walk right on by, take your shower, buy some shoes.

  Go home.

  But again, she doesn’t. Just exhales.

  “You hear me?” I say, an edge to my voice now. “It’s play or get lost.”

  “No,” she says.

  My gut twists up again. “No what?”

  “No, we’re not doing that today.” She drops her purse on the marble table in the foyer, kicks off her remaining shoe and heads my way.

  Motherfucker, she’s a pain in the ass. I should call Rush. Make him…oh, shit—what? Fly out here with my crap? Buy me a plane ticket back? Hold my hand?

  Lisa’s hanging out at the minibar now. So maybe she’s gonna grab herself a drink and head for the room or the shower. Nothing like a cocktail while you wash. But of course she’s not. That would mean she’s cool and chill and not desperate to be all up in my business. As I watch, she takes everything—and I mean every fucking thing—out of that stocked minibar and fills her arms with it. Then she brings it over to me and dumps the entire lot—candy, little bottles of booze, chips—into my lap.