Tainted Love (A Totally '80s Romance 2)

by Addison Moore

  “Oh no! Oh no! Oh shit!” Our bumpers connect with a loud bang, and soon Melissa, Joel, Jennifer, and Russell himself materialize out on the lawn. “Sorry!” I shout over the radio where Stevie Nicks belts out “Edge of Seventeen” at top volume, because as fate would have it, the dial came off in my hand.

  “Crap.” I get out of the car and run to inspect the damage before rolling poor little I-Think-I-Can-Cause-An-Accident back a full foot with simply the weight of my body. The peanut gallery wastes no time in laughing at the spectacle, and I bury my head in my hands a moment.

  “Is this your new car?” Jennifer and Melissa tag team me with hugs.

  “Maybe.” I peer through my fingers at Russell as he inspects his bumper for signs of trauma.

  “It’s nothing.” He looks up with that signature crooked grin, and I melt straight down to my core.

  Whoa. I take a full step back without meaning to. No melting at the sight of Russell James allowed. Melting is something strictly relegated to Melissa and Joel. I’m Heather Knowles of the punk-slam-dancing-down-at-Dancing-Waters-soon-to-be-wielding-nitrates-like-nunchakus-down-at-Hot-Dog-on-a-Stick Heather Knowles. I don’t melt at the sight of preppy jocks. Not now, not ever.

  “Hello?” Jennifer waves her hand over my face. “Are you okay?”

  “And why are you staring at Russ that way?” Melissa looks genuinely mystified.

  Joel and Russell ask to pop my hood and inspect my engine. It sounds perfectly perverted, but, since they’ve both surmised I’ve acquired a decent piece of crap, I’d say it’s rather benign in nature. They check it out and mumble something about an alternator.

  “Come on in.” Joel extends the invite, wrapping his arm around Melissa’s waist as they head back into his game room. I love how cute they look together. Cute is one thing Slam and I never looked together. We were more like a public nuisance, what with his Mohawk and my shredded tights. Not that I cared what anyone thought about us. It was mostly the fact he was incessantly cheating on me that got under my skin and eventually into my good judgment when I stopped speaking with him last summer. Although, I do feel a tug at my heart each time my brothers say he’s asking about me, or my sisters tell me he’s called for the millionth time. It’s pleasing to me on a sadistic level to know that he’s suffering an ego-blowing fate worse than death, also known as the cold shoulder. But the word suffering puts it mildly when I think of how I felt when I learned he was stepping out on me. Slam and his group of hussies couldn’t hurt me more if they had stabbed me in the heart. I absolutely loathe a cheat—that cheat in particular.

  “Have fun, you guys.” Jennifer waves them off before pulling me in for one last hug. “Congratulations, girl. Like I really am happy for you. Nice ride. I’m totally stoked.” She pulls back and blows me a kiss before taking off in her Suzuki tucked safely across the street.

  Now it’s just Russell and me awkwardly staring one another down a moment too long.

  “So, like is this the part where we exchange insurance policies?” I tick my head to the side, hoping to appeal to his panache for dumb blondes because for one, I have no such policy of which I speak.

  He shakes his head. “This is the part where I invite you in for a Mountain Dew.”

  Who knew that Russell James’s home is keeping a palatial secret? On the outside it might pass as your average well-to-do abode, making President Reagan proud with its upper-middle class façade, but, on the inside, it’s a combination of modern technology meets House Beautiful—every last ten thousand square feet of it.

  “Wow. You really live here?” My fingers rise to my lips as if trying to stuff the words back into my mouth. It’s not an uncommon occurrence with me lately, or heck, ever.

  “Yes, I really live here.” His brows furrow in a way that makes him ten times hotter than should ever be legal, and my stomach pinches at the sight. For some reason, this irritates me with him even more. It’s as if his physical appearance alone has the ability to infuriate me with its sheer perfection. Although, do I really have a right to be angry with someone simply based on the way they look? How shallow is that? Would I really be mad at someone with a true facial deformity? Hell no. Then why is it okay to treat Russell any different just because God himself happened to kiss his face before he dropped him off on this side of the planet?

  “You have like a totally nice house.” I swallow down the lump forming in my throat. “But I’m sure you already know that.” My voice comes out raspy, quiet as a church mouse, and now it’s me I’m infuriated with for letting this walking dildo—and I mean that in the nicest way—reduce me to proverbial vermin.

  “Actually—” He leads us through the marbled halls, past a cavernous living room with furniture that looks as if it belongs in a museum, circa the Victorian era, and into a kitchen filled with enough stainless steel appliances to cater to an entire infantry of people, let alone a single family.

  I’m going to go out on a limb and say that I doubt Mrs. James spends too much time whipping up hearty meals on that eight-burner stove. It’s immaculate—beautiful—with every last pricey appliance so shiny and new. The sheer girth and width of the refrigerators—yes, plural—are enough to make me dizzy. Sadly, a pang of jealousy spears me at the thought of how much food they must house.

  We have a rather small refrigerator, singular at that, which came with our rental, nothing that hasn’t seen both the psychedelic seventies and the groovy sixties, and for sure it has never been full, at least not while my mother has had possession of it.

  He shakes his head as he glances around the room. “I’ve never thought it felt homey.”

  “What choo talkin’ ’bout, Willis?” I offer up my best Diff’rent Strokes impression.

  We laugh as he hands me a soda, and I gladly accept.

  “It’s homey enough for fifty people.” I take a seat at the bar, and he stands next to me, so close I can feel the heat emanating from that Berlin wall of a body.

  His dimples dig in as he tips his head back. His eyes hood over with a smile buried in each one. It’s a neat trick I’ve yet to see anyone pull off. A part of me wishes I had my camera to get a candid shot of him like this. Although, if that ever made it into the yearbook, we might have a serious meltdown of the female population once those glorified scrapbooks are distributed come June.

  I can see it now—panty melter page thirty-two. We girls are pretty good at remembering the good pages, such as Judy Blume’s Forever, page eighty-five. I blame Melissa for that last naughty misgiving—and I blame Judy Blume for “Forever” changing my perspective on boys named Ralph.

  Russell’s lips twitch as his eyes knife deeper into mine. Something about his gaze scalds my cheeks, and I’m forced to look away.

  “So I found myself a camera after all.” I pummel my bottom lip with my teeth. “I just need to pick up some film, and I’m good to go.”

  “Great. I think we should focus on pop culture. Take as many shots of our peers just being themselves. What do you think the theme of our pages should be?”

  “Um.” I clear my throat. Am I really in Russell James’s abnormally large home imbibing Mountain Dew and discussing yearbook layouts, or did I hit my head on the steering wheel once I imploded into the back of his car? “Yeah, I like that—candid shots of people just being themselves. We can even add a picture of a mixed tape and get all our friends to contribute to the playlist.”

  His eyes dance to each of mine as if they had the ability to smile on their own, and my panties melt in compliance.

  “Love it.” Russell doesn’t take his gaze off mine as his ring knocks steady over the counter as if keeping time. A few uncomfortable beats of silence drift by, and I suddenly regret not leaving a trail of breadcrumbs leading to the door. I’m more or less a prisoner relying solely on his kindness to get myself out of this crystal-laden Dodge. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Yes, I’ll totally leave willingly, but I might need you to jot down a roadmap on a napkin first, like you know?
” Crap. I hate that not only does he make my hormones sit up at sexual attention, but he also has the power to reduce me to that species I secretly detest, the Valley Girl.

  We share a little laugh at my inadvertent plea for parole.

  “Actually, I was wondering about something you said at the mall that day.” He winces while bringing up my quasi-criminal past.

  “Ah, yes, the infamous lip balm caper. Shoot.” I shrug, not knowing what he might spew my way.

  “You said if you were to steal, you’d steal batteries.” His forehead wrinkles as if I’ve stymied him.

  “You don’t get it?” Now it’s me who’s stymied. He shakes his head, still obviously stumped. “Typical.” I groan at the thought of how out of touch the people of Glen Heights are to the common folk like me. What red-blooded American teenager doesn’t realize the need for a fresh brick of AAs? “Now—before I give the big reveal, I feel obligated to tell you that obvious information like this would only go over the head of a blue blood such as yourself.” Now it’s me wincing. “I’m teasing, sort of.” I shake my head, shocked that he still hasn’t put the technological pieces together. “What has every teenager in the world running through batteries? A Walkman—more specifically, my Walkman. I don’t have a radio.” I shrug into the old news while his face goes white with shock. Why do I get the feeling I’m indoctrinating Russell here to some real world hard truths that I’m sure he’s relegated strictly to third-world countries? “I don’t have an infinite supply, and face it, batteries are expensive. And, believe me, I’ve tried the cheap no name brands, and they’re just a waste. I’ve spent half my paycheck keeping myself in music. Sanity doesn’t come cheap these days.”

  “Your Walkman.” He nods into the epiphany as if he were close to the answer all along, which I totally don’t buy. “So—you want a tour of the house?”

  “Sure.” I hop down and follow as he leads me through offices—multiple, a laundry room the size of my house—just the one, and a media room that I can linger in all day. And who the hell has a room strictly devoted to the viewing of movies?

  “I’ve never even heard of a media room before.” I gulp my way through it and marvel at the size of the television situated in the front. It’s as tall as I am and at least as wide as it is tall.

  “It’s not the greatest picture, but my parents don’t really care. I’ll have everyone over one day, and we’ll watch a flick.”

  “Cool. That would be awesome.” I can actually feel myself blushing at the thought of Russell ever seeing my small boxy black and white that still requires my fingers to turn the channel. Note to self: never tell Russell James where you live lest he hunt you down and demand to see your media room. Plus, I might get my first world card revoked once he finds out I actually share a bedroom with my brother.

  “You want to head upstairs and check out my room, or is that too weird?”

  “Do you share a room with your brother, too?” Shit! I slap my hand over my face as I try to funnel all of the crazy back inside. It’s all these ridiculous hormones he’s stirred up—clearly Russell James is to blame for my sudden bout of insanity. I’m nothing but a sweaty ball of nerves around him, and I hate it. Kill me now. Amanda can gag me with her silver spoon and then set my hair on fire. I’m done.

  His body relaxes with a short-lived laugh. “I don’t have a brother that I know of.”

  “Good,” I bleat through the sting of embarrassment that’s taken over my body. “Then it’s not too weird.” But apparently I am.

  We head up a rather grand staircase, grand by default of the glass wall that curves its way up to the second story. This section of the house is so modern, with its peach walls, the geometric shapes that make up the throw cushions on the sofa below. A large monochromatic print of a woman with a devilish smile and a flower tucked in her hair takes over the entire span of the second story.

  “Is that a Nagel reproduction?”

  “Nope.” He takes in a breath, and his chest expands as wide as the house itself. “That’s a Nagel original.”

  “Oh my God!” I gasp as if the staircase just erupted in flames. I simply cannot believe this shit.

  Russ leads us down a series of halls to the labyrinth of his bedroom.

  “Let me guess—this is where you sleep with virgins nightly, only to slay them in the morning?”

  He makes a face. “The Arabian Nights.”

  “You’re up on your mythology.”

  “It’s technically a classic but reads like a dark fairy tale.”

  “Wow, that is twisted.”

  He waggles his brows. “I know,” he says, opening the door to my prospective virginal doom—although, I’d technically need to be a virgin if we’re sticking to the script.

  Russell James’s bedroom is a bit of a letdown in comparison to the rest of the ritzy, expensive, expansive home. It’s of a rather normal size, boxy, painted navy blue— the exact color of his eyes, with a bed at least twice the size of mine in the middle of the room.

  “It’s a waterbed,” he says without the proper enthusiasm that such an aquatic wonder requires.

  “Waterbed?” I flick my shoes off and dive over it before he can extend the invitation.

  It occurs to me, as he plops down beside me and we indulge in a series of waves that rival any local surf competition, that a guy of Russell’s social stature might have certain expectations of a girl of my much lower social standing—especially when she’s riding the swells of his bed.

  “You’re not getting laid, James.” I say it flat like a fact, and he gives a dark laugh.

  “Neither are you, Knowles, so get your head out of the gutter.”

  “You think you’re pretty funny, don’t you?” I go to roll over and flop on top of him without meaning to. “Oh shit!” I struggle to roll back off, but the bed keeps rising up and down as if we’re caught in a storm. Russell tries to maneuver out from beneath me, and the longer we struggle, the harder we laugh, the more waves we seem to make.

  “What is all the racket in here?” A woman in a power suit comes out of the door to our left, which judging by the toilet behind her is the restroom. Another woman pops out from behind her, one far more familiar, with eyes and a face I’ve seen just about every single day of my life.

  “Heather?”

  “Mom?” I make a heroic effort to get the hell off Russell James, only to smack my lips right into his.

  Crap.

  Just crap.

  Russell

  “Whoa.” I pause a moment from the chaos around us to stare up into Heather’s honey-colored eyes. My fingers dig into her hips, holding her secure just a moment until the bed ceases to rise and fall. I know the ins and outs of this waterbed, and I also know the best time to rise up out of it is to utilize the element of surprise. If you spring up when it least suspects it, your odds of not toppling over are pretty successful.

  Heather’s brows furrow with both a deep look of concern and regret. She’s pretty, beautiful even. I’ve never met anyone like her. That’s for sure. I can’t help but shed a giant grin, and this only seems to infuriate both her and our raging mothers.

  “Now.” I say it curt, and we both spring from the bed at once, landing back on solid ground to face our not-so-happy-to-see-us moms.

  “God.” Mom buries her face in her hands a moment. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Heather mentioned she was out of batteries, and I was just about to give her these.” I scoop up a handful of AAs from off my nightstand and stuff them into her palm.

  “Thank you,” she mouths in awe of the stash I just gifted her.

  “You’re welcome,” I mouth back, the smile twitching back on my lips.

  “What the hell do you need batteries for?” Her mother grips at her temples, looking freshly mortified by the circumstances. I can see Heather’s face in hers, but just in glimpses. This is a harder version, a tougher, rougher version than even my own mom. But in her defense, my mother spends her days at the spa and h
appily puts her money where her face is, literally.

  Mom grunts. “What do you think girls like that need batteries for? Vibrators, that’s what!”

  “Mom!” I bark.

  “Excuse me?” Heather’s mother isn’t that impressed with her logic either.

  “I’m sorry.” Mom paces in a quick circle. “I’m not accustomed to finding girls in my son’s bedroom, let alone on top of him in his bed no less. I’m not myself. I apologize to the both of you.” She scowls at Heather while taking her in from head-to-toe. Her eyes snag on the shredded tights, her wild hair, her bright red lips. Unfortunately my mother is being exactly herself.

  Instinctively, I wipe down my mouth, and sure enough, there’s a stain on my hand. This time a smile springs to my face before I can stop it.

  “And you”—Mom points her finger at me, hard—“wipe that grin off your face.” She takes a quivering breath as if she’s just had a god cry before looking back at the woman standing beside her. “If you would like the job, Sheri, it’s still yours.” Her gaze drifts back to Heather with the disdain in her face growing like a blaze. “Under one condition. You keep your daughter off the premises.” She straightens, looking every bit the businesswoman. “I’m sorry, but it’s a policy I have for the housekeeping staff. I find that family issues are the number one distraction for my employees. It keeps any real work from getting done.”

  “I agree.” Her mother tosses up a hand as if she would have naturally come to this conclusion herself. “And I think it would make both my daughter and me uncomfortable.” She flits her eyes to Heather. “In fact, we should both leave now. Thank you, Priscilla, for the opportunity.” She’s quick to shake my mother’s hand. “I think the schedule we worked out is perfect for me. Thank you again for being so flexible, and I’m sorry about this little misunderstanding.” She openly glares at Heather. “I assure you it won’t happen again.”