by Laura Wright
Her mouth falls open. “You can’t even remember?”
I wag my finger at her. “You’re deflecting, puddin’.”
“I am not.”
“We were talking your lack of confidence, remember?”
“Not funny,” she says.
I lean against the wall. “No. You’re right. Actually, this is pretty serious.” I squint like I’m thinking real hard. “You’re confident in your hotness, then you’re not. What happened? Or who?”
She sees right where I’m headed and cuts me off at the pass. “Don’t blame this on Buttons.”
“His name is Kevin,” I return with fake-ass disgust.
She gasps. Kinda looks mortified. At herself, methinks. Then with an indignant sniff, she pulls her gaze from mine and stalks past me, heading for the living room. “You’re just fucking with my head.”
I follow. Christ, I want to put ink on that back. “At least I’m getting in somewhere.”
“Ha! You’re never—” She stops near the couch that’s holding up all my bags. She stares at them a sec, then whirls around. Her eyes are all over me—my clothes, my face. “You got your hair cut.”
I run a hand over the clip and style job I ordered. Miss the ‘hawk already. “Just a trim.”
Her lips parted, she comes up to me, stopping when she’s an inch away. She smells fucking fantastic. Something fruity. Juicy. I can feel the heat off her body and my dick is begging for a sniff of her too.
She reaches up and puts her hand on my cheek. “And a shave?”
I flinch. “What are you doin’?”
Her eyes just keep on roaming. “And you took out your earrings and…your eyebrow rings.” She runs her thumb over my brow, then her eyes lift to mine. “Why?”
I’m not all that good with people touching me these days. I step back. “Maybe I wanna be Kevin for the night.”
She sorta does this laugh/sniff thing. “No.”
“He’d have a much better time. Would fit right in too, amirite?”
She’s staring at me. Maybe a little confused about my clean-up. Maybe a lot confused about why I backed up when she touched me. “I don’t want you to be Kevin, Vincent.”
Good to know. “No?”
She shakes her head.
“You like me just the way I am, Blondie?”
Her lips twitch cuz she knows I’m hitting the humor now. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Come on,” I push. “Admit it.”
She cocks her head and really looks at me. “Okay.” Then she adjusts her towel. Again.
My grin and playful shit I was laying on her recedes. I’m waiting for it, you know? The bite back. The punchline. Any second now, yo. Blondie’s got a million of them when it comes to me. I like you just the way you are, Vincent. A total asshole whore who lives in another state. Ouch. Oh yeah. Hurts so good.
But she doesn’t go there. Not even a little. All she says is, “You know, it’s getting late. I’m going to finish getting ready.”
My brows drop and I stare after her. Sorta flinch again when her door closes. Okay. Maybe I need to rethink some shit here. No ink on that smooth, soft back. No cleaning schmutz off her ear. And the hard dick? Right Hand will take care of it in the shower.
My eyes lift again to that closed door.
I’m being a thoughtful dick. Flirting and coveting that hot ass. But what if Blondie does like me? Like, really. That’d be the worst. Some chicks are just cool with fucking and walking away. Those are my kind of chicks. And not only is Lisa not that chick anymore—maybe she never was. I mean, she did turn down my perfectly awesome proposal last year. She’s getting married in four days.
I may be an asshole. But I’m not a total slime. And this girl is cool. Helped me out today when I was drowning. Leading her or pushing her or whatever I was doing just now is fucked up. I’m gonna nip this in the bud, and make sure Mrs. Buttons gets to the church on time.
No detours. Onto my face. Or into my bed.
No matter how much I’m fucking aching for it.
The dress I picked is a stunner. I knew it would be. Elegant and sexy, perfectly fitted, it’s strapless, mid-thigh and ice blue to match my eyes. And the shoes…dear baby Jesus, the shoes. Silver, crystal-beaded Manolos. Dies. Dad’s going to flip when he gets the bill, and wonder what I was doing in Minnesota, but that won’t be until after the wedding. So whatevs. Party now, pay later.
The old Lisa is back, bitches!
With one last look in the mirror to check my makeup, which is subtle and slightly smoky, and my hair, which is pulled off my face in a sexy low bun style, I leave the bathroom. I’m a little nervous to see Vincent. Or have him see me. I can’t believe I care about impressing him. He’s such an ass, and will probably make some comment about this dress not giving me enough titty cleavage. I laugh as I head into the living room. Can’t help it. That sick bastard’s got me crushing something fierce.
But he’s not there. My heart flips over. He’s probably ironing his Clit Tease University Graduate shirt, so find something to occupy yourself, and your raging hormones, while he does. I grab my purse and go over to the table in the foyer, start transferring the contents of the old into the new one I bought today. It’s small and sleek and just basically holds the essentials. Lipstick, mints, powder, condoms—kidding! I’m nearly done when I hear a low whistling sound.
I glance up.
And flip the fuck out.
Only on the inside, of course. I’m not a total tween. On the outside, I’m rocking the cool-as-ice vibe.
Well, melting ice is more like it, actually…
But seriously, the guy is—
“Wow,” I say on an exhale of absolute appreciation. He grins and walks toward me. When I say this is a Vincent I’ve never seen before, I mean it. One hundred percent. This is…businessman Vincent. Fifth Avenue Vincent. It’s tailored black suit on long, lean, ride-you-all-night body. And silver tie and crisp white shirt against ink. It’s just a hint of ink—on his neck and hands. It’s fucking perfection, and I just want to attack the shit out of him.
“That’s what I say,” he tells me. “Wow.” His eyes run over me.
Totes wolf eyes. I’m drowning.
“You look smokin’, Lis.”
Make that exploding. From pleasure. It’s exactly the reaction I was praying for. “Thank you.”
He kinda moves around me. Wolf stalking prey. “You’re so…perfect. I want to mess you up.” His eyes lift. “Can I mess you up?”
Yes! “No, you may not.”
He laughs. White teeth, black eyes. Good god, he’s hot. Private confession moment: I’ve never wanted to kneel down in front of a guy and just…I don’t know, go to town. Unzip and do things I’ve only read about or watched on that spankavision channel my first college boyfriend had in his dorm room. But with Vincent, I do. My mouth is watering.
“You’re staring at me like I have two heads,” he remarks, straightening his tie.
No, not two. I was just thinking of the one. A shiver goes through me. Shouldn’t be thinking of it, but there it is. “So. Where’s the mustache shirt we talked about?”
His lips twitch. I stare at them. “They were out.”
“Bummer.”
He nods. “I won’t stop my search, though.”
“I’d be disappointed if you did. I’ll keep on the lookout myself.”
He comes up behind me then. I can smell him. He smells so good. “Find it for me, Blondie, and you get the first ride.”
I try to stifle the gasp, but it comes out sounding like a cough. “Giddy up.”
He laughs. “Should we call Uber or what? Get this freak show on the road.”
“Actually,” I grab my purse and turn around to face him. My freak. For tonight, anyway. “I got us a car.”
His metal-free brows lift. “Well, don’t I feel like fucking CinderINKella.”
I laugh as I grab the key to the room and hand it to him. “Now, if only you had a glass loafer to los
e at midnight.”
“Oh, Blondie, we’ll be out of that house way sooner than midnight.” He opens the door. “Now off we go.”
After my dad died and my mom married her financial advisor, Garrett Birch, we started having these dinner parties at the house. I think for my mom it was her way of getting back into life, or solidifying her new relationship, or some shit like that. But for me it was a big fat bummer. I usually stayed in my room and cranked the tunes or played video games until it was all over. Lotta pizza in those days. Anyway, the parties got so fucking popular that people were coming to the house nearly every weekend. It was a complete bitch and a half. Until my mom started making me go. Then it was ten fucking bitches. Talking to strangers, rich assholes who were pretty much plastered and desperate to tell a fourteen-year-old kid all about the hot piece of ass they had waiting for them after they ditched their wives. Yeah, fucktard, you’re a super stud. Keep downing that Viagra. If I could manage it, I escaped to the pool house. Hung out. Read. Drank. Hell, I was fourteen. Until one night when the Step-Fuck came looking for me.
Not to drag me back to the party like you’d think.
And not to help out my mom either.
“Working in a tattoo parlor,” the woman standing in front of me is saying. “That must be very interesting.”
“Pays the bills,” I answer distractedly. Where is Blondie? She was with me a second ago, and then Kelly came over and wanted to show her my baby book. My fucking baby book. Do they still have that? My mom didn’t burn it or some shit? Kelly must’ve saved it from the flames.
Before talking with my former nanny, Lisa had given me one huge smile, rubbed her hands together and said, “So many blackmail possibilities.”
I laughed. Cuz for that one second I forgot where I was. No. That ain’t right. I forgot what had gone down here. I glance around. The woman who had been chatting me up about my job is gone now. Sorry, ma’am. I’m not fit for company. The house looks…well, fuck, like it always looks. Perfect. Dripping bling. Ice sculptures and cater waiters, shining chandies overhead, and four bars five-guests deep. Let’s celebrate, ya’ll.
I spot Lisa and my chest chills out a little. Not sure how she does it, but she makes the air inside this house breathable for me. I stare as she walks toward me. I mean, who wouldn’t, right? That dress is criminal. She looks like a fucking angel. No. Strike that. Reverse it. She looks like an angel I want to fuck. Bad V. Very bad V. Not two hours ago, I was telling myself I wasn’t going to screw with that. I really am an asshole. But fuuuck me, I’m taken with her, you know? I mean, how do you just turn that off?
Halfway to me, she gets waylaid by three old chicks who are all over her shoes. Granted, they are fucking badass. Three inches of do-me-now. And if I was going to forget all the shit I said about not pursuing the future Mrs. Buttons, I’d oblige those shoes. And make sure she kept them on while I spread her out on my bed and ate her right—
“Charles Vincent.” The voice is female and unfamiliar, and I want to call her a fucking pain in the ass for interrupting my fantasy moment regarding all things Lisa. “You came home,” she continues.
I finally look her way. She’s about my age, skinny, petite, dark blond hair and huge tits. Yawn. Her eyes move over me. “And looking like that. Well, aren’t you brave.”
I’m gonna try real hard not to be a dick. “Do I know you?”
She pretends to pout. “Minnie O’Neil.”
I shake my head. “Sorry.”
She moves in closer, brushes those tits against my chest and whispers, “The art room. Last day of senior year at Tally Day Prep.”
Oh yeah. Mutual handjob on Mr. Davis’s chair. “Right. Minnie. With the mouse.” Aka her clit.
She beams. Jesus. “You remember?”
“You made me call it that.” Come on, how long does a discussion about shoes last? I need my Blondie over here. It’s been way longer than fifteen minutes and I’m pretty sure I’m turning into a pumpkin.
I make the mistake of looking up then. Near the stairs. And everything on me goes rigid. It’s the couple of the evening. They’re moving through the crowd like royalty. The respectable Birches. My mom looks put-together, but pale. And her eyes are kinda dull even when she smiles at her friends. I feel a twinge of something in my chest. She’s sick. Maybe a year, if she’s lucky. It’s the reason for all the calls and the texts. Why she really wanted my tatted ass back home. Knew she wasn’t getting me here for anything else except maybe her funeral. After all that’s gone down between us, I really want to not give a shit. Kinda like she didn’t give a shit. But I’m here, ain’t I?
My eyes shift left. I’m hoping for nothing but dead air as I stare at him. But I’m not that lucky. Or that skilled. My skin is getting tight around my bones—like it’s fucking anticipating being touched. And I have this frantic urge to run.
They’re coming at me now. Hand in hand. The couple of the night. A solid marriage that nothing—and I mean nothing—can tear apart.
“Well, Charles,” my mother says when they reach me.
“Mother.”
“Look how tall he is, Garrett. Didn’t I tell you?”
“You told me, Bunny.” That voice. It’s the fucking one of nightmares. Freddy Kruger and Jason and that chick from “The Ring” all rolled into one.
“And so handsome,” my mother continues. “Now if only he hadn’t done that to his skin.”
Garrett’s watery green eyes catch me and hold. My gut dive bombs into my groin. “You do look like something on the side of one of those abandoned buildings over in Briar Creek, son.”
My head is pounding. Son. Jesus Fucking Christ I might puke…
“Charles?” My mother sounds annoyed. Probably because I’m not talking. But I can’t breathe. For fucking real.
I look over and see Lisa. Still surrounded by those three women, she’s staring at me. Instantly, she notices whatever the hell is plastered on my face. Shock. Fear. Panic. She mouths, What’s wrong? But I got nothing for her.
Panic is filling me up like ocean water and I rip my gaze away. Fuck. Not you. I don’t want her anywhere near this. I shouldn’t have brought her.
My heart is slamming hard and fast inside my chest. All I hear is a buzzing sound. I shake my head to get rid of it.
“Charles, you’re being very rude,” my mother is saying. But I’m barely listening. I have to get the fuck out of here.
I’m going down.
Shit.
I make a split-second decision. And it’s a bad one. I know it. But that doesn’t stop me. I’m the king of bad decisions. I grab the hand of the chick I was talking to when Mom and Step-Ass came up—Minnie and her Mouse—and I lead her out of the room.
We’re in the library. It’s dark except for the light of the full moon coming in through the windows behind me. I’m breathless with anticipation, and the top of my dress is pulled down around my waist. He did that to me. The second we got in here.
But that’s all he did. Bizarre.
Now he’s across the room, leaning against a shelf of books and looking at me like I’m an alien. He, on the other hand, looks like dessert. Normally I wouldn’t pursue someone with tattoos. It just screams bottom of the pickle tub, if you know what I mean. I’m not keen on contracting one of those diseases people who use needles have. But I know where Charles comes from.
And what he’ll inherit.
“What’s wrong, Charlie?” I coo. Is he playing hard to get? Is he a voyeur? Should I start?
He doesn’t say anything. Just stares at me. No. Through me.
I moan and grab my breasts, start massaging them. I’ve got small tits, but they’re perfect. I’ve been told that more than once. In fact, everything on me is perfect. I’ve been told that too.
“Oh, yes,” I say with little, breathy moans. “This feels so good.” I give each nipple a pinch and gasp. Men love this. Watching women get themselves off. Or at least start the process.
Well, most men.
; What is happening? I pout, and try the little girl routine. “Minnie Mouse wants to come out and play, Charlie. Is that tongue of yours pierced? Because I know she would just love—”
His foul curse cuts me off. He pushes away from the bookcase and stalks over to me. There we go. I grin and release my breasts, raise my hands above my head. Baby voice is always a guaranteed winner. Men.
But he doesn’t go for it. He…what the fuck is he doing? “W-wait,” I stutter. “What—” He’s pulling my dress up. He doesn’t want any of this. He doesn’t want me?
Not possible.
“Go,” he says, backing off again.
I stare at him, my cheeks burning. “You’ve got to be kidding. You’re a fucking Dorothy from Kansas, aren’t you?”
He turns and faces the bookshelf. Gives me his back.
“Screw this,” I say and head for the door. “You’re an asshole.”
“Yeah,” I hear him utter as I walk out in a disgusted huff.
I want to hate him. Actually I want to leave and pretend these past two days never happened. Starting with Addy’s abduction. But I can’t. This guy has sorta become my friend, and there’s just something about this situation that doesn’t compute. That look on his face while he was talking to his mother and her husband—right before he grabbed the girl’s hand and dragged her away. I’ve seen that look before. On him, in fact. During the shaking episode outside the house this morning.
The door where the girl just came out is ajar. Vincent’s still inside. I know this because I’ve been standing here since they went in. Did they do something? Did he fuck her? I don’t know. I didn’t hear anything, and it’s barely been ten minutes, but what does that prove? Clearly he didn’t take her in there to show her his first edition King James Bible.
“Shit,” I utter as I break with self-preservation, not to mention pride, and walk into the room.
Even in the dim light, I spot him instantly. He’s sitting in a leather club chair, his back to the windows. It’s just too dark and I head for a floor lamp and click it on. Warm yellow light spills into the room, and his head snaps in my direction.