by Brooke May
Zoey, my little sister, was thrown into a lifestyle much like my mother was. She was to become a polished trophy wife to cater to her husband’s needs, provide him with a silent, beautiful wife and children, and look the other way of his indiscretions. Whatever Zoey wanted, she got it. She was the definition of spoiled, whereas I donated my allowance to charities.
We never got along. She was tall and stick thin, just like my mother, with chestnut hair and the dark eyes of my father. I was tall, but not nearly as thin, which she and Mother delighted in picking on me about. And my coloring was the complete opposite of hers. I was light with my blond hair and ice blue eyes, something I received from my paternal grandmother.
And then there was Timothy McGarth the Third. His father and mine had been friends for ages, so when I was born the year after he was, I was intended to be his wife someday. At a young age, I was thrust into every public function with him; at his side, I had to force a smile in support of whatever idiotic thing would come out of his mouth.
I really had no friends my own age; everyone assumed I was a spoiled rich girl like my sister. So I chose to spend my time alone or visiting with our chef, Fiona. I also spent time at one of the local rec centers, teaching little girls to dance. My mother hated it but turned the other cheek when my father told her how well it would look for voters not only for him but also for myself someday.
Teaching dance, as well as some college classes I was taking in secret, allowed me to be myself. Even if it was for only a few short hours a day, I craved the freedom. I never thought my freedom would come in the form of a giant, muscle-bound, tattooed fighter …
Looking around the room at all the little girls I’ve managed to draw to my class makes me smile. Ballet has always been something I’ve enjoyed, and being able to share it with these little ones warms my heart. In these early morning classes, I get to enjoy my time with girls not yet old enough to go to school full time. It is a perfect opportunity for their parents to get a break and run errands while the girls learn and enjoy something new. Some of them have a natural talent and soon will move up to the evening class I teach for more advanced dancers.
I love watching them learn the moves I do so easily and help them through the struggles. As long as everyone is nice and having fun, it makes my ‘job’ easier. The girls, including myself, come in all sizes and different backgrounds, but when we are all together, it fades away, and the movements and music are all that exist. I think it helps some of the girls that their teacher isn’t one of those stick-thin ballerinas they tend to see. I even have to bind my chest whenever I get dressed to dance, which I dislike. It makes it difficult to breathe, but it saves me from getting hurt.
“Okay, girls, give me ten more pliès, and then we will be done for the day.” My smile grows as they pad and scurry to their positions along the barre in the back of the room. As the girls finish up and I put the music back in my bag, the parents start to shuffle in to collect their daughters. Some stay around for the full hour and watch them dance and have fun. It makes some of them nervous, but they quickly grow used to it.
A couple of parents and girls stay behind to visit with me about any future opportunities they could get with a teacher with more experience. My parents may not approve of it, but I have been working with several of my former ballet instructors. I want to put together a grant to allow some of the girls who hold a real passion to go forth and become great dancers when they might not otherwise ever get an opportunity like this. Some in my class have the makings already. If I can help just a couple of girls make their dreams come true, I will be happy.
After the last person is gone, I still have twenty minutes to get everything picked up before the next dance instructor comes in and another hour before I’m required to be at home for teatime. I wander over to the small stereo system in the corner of the room and turn on “Star” by Bryan Adams. Releasing myself into a dance, I ease away the concerns that wait for me as soon as I get home.
When I dance, I feel free even if it is only for a few minutes at a time from the pressures of my parents. I’m swallowed whole and lose myself a little more at a time. I have never been able to understand why they won’t let me be my own person or why I’m not free to choose my own path.
But when I dance, I can be myself and do something I truly enjoy. Now that I am entering adulthood, it is time to put my foot down with my parents. I don’t want the same life that they have. I need to stand strong like Fiona tells me to do, and maybe then, they will see I’m not the person they think or want me to be.
I couldn’t care less for the teatime, the campaigns, or the functions we have to attend with other upper-class families. The only thing I do like are the charity functions. I love being able to give back to people and help the less fortunate, even if others are just doing it to flash their money around rather than actually caring.
I started volunteering here when I was fifteen and slowly started to piece who I was together. I’ve met a few people here who I think I can call friends. I’ve even been out on a date with a fellow volunteer. Since graduating high school, I have started to form a plan for my own life, and now, I just need to tell my parents. I did manage to convince them to let me take a year off before they sent me off to start my education in their career choosing.
When I do finally have my talk with them, I will reveal that I am taking classes for what I want to do and tell them no more nonsense with Timothy. He is a whole different issue.
Timothy may look like the perfect man on the outside, but he is anything but. I’m glad I don’t bruise easily because whenever we are out together, and I do something he disapproves of, he yanks me away by my arm and scolds me. He reminds me too much of my father. He is far better suited to being with my sister.
Once the song ends, I make quick work to pack up my things and take off to the women’s locker room. I am alone in the locker room, so I put my stuff on a bench and head to one of the private showers to quickly rinse off the sweat from my workout and dance class. I could get away with not showering, but no matter how much I cover up the scent of my morning activities, my mother would still know that I was sweaty underneath my dress.
Shucking my clothes off and unbinding my chest, I step into the lukewarm stream. The shower feels lovely, heavenly, and eases the entire ache of my body whenever I work out and then dance. But I love this life.
When I’m out of the shower and dried off, I release my hair from the tight bun on top of my head and let the light waves float down my back.
I pull my dress out of the dress bag and slide it on after slipping into my panties and bra. My black knit sheath dress slides on with ease, and as I zip it up, it forms to my curves stylishly and beautifully. My mother may not approve, but I feel confident in this dress.
I stare into the mirror and like who I see. I can’t figure out why someone else wouldn’t be happy with a healthy body like mine. I don’t over eat fatty foods, and I exercise regularly. So why is it that my parents - mainly, my mother - enforce strict guidelines for me to follow when it comes to my body.
“A man wants his woman to be fit and look beautiful. Not like a whore.”
She views any woman who has even the slightest curve to her sides like that. I don’t understand her line of thinking. I have a slight curve, and I’m still a virgin. I despise her for her judgment.
I quickly pull on my white leggings and warm black boots before securing my black pea coat. It is the end of January here in Boston and freezing.
Grabbing my bags, I head out of the locker room quickly while putting on my ChapStick. I’m not running late or anything, but I like to be early. My mother is less inclined to get angry with me if I do so. I’m rushing past the weight room, not paying any attention to anyone around me or watching where I’m going, when a door opens in front of me halting me in my steps and causing my ChapStick to land with the sticky end sticking on the floor.
“Great. Just great,” I mutter to myself as I bend over to pick it up
.
This was my last one.
I don’t have any time to run and get another one. I don’t normally wear much makeup, even when my mother nags me about it. Aside from my handy ChapStick, I wear eyeliner and mascara. Whereas most can’t live without their cell phones, I can’t live without my ChapStick.
Maybe if I run it under hot wat…
I halt mid-thought as I’m crouching down when a low whistle rings from behind me.
Great.
I stand up quickly and turn my head to see who would whistling at me. With a glare, I intend to dare him to make a comment about me, but I’m immobilized. He’s so handsome, in a rugged kind of way. His thick arms are bare and veined out as they hang at his sides; his hands clench into fists, one tightly around a water bottle and the other with a towel. Tattoos cover one arm, mostly black ink with little splashes of color. His arms are massive and sculpted from hours in the gym and could probably be considered lethal.
His chest is expansive and hairless under his barely there tank top, looking like it was carved from some sort of hard stone. His shirt is loose around his middle, but I’m sure there is at least a six-pack under it that leads down to a narrow waist before it dives into his loose shorts. Even his legs are muscular, far more than any other I have seen.
Nothing is soft about this man’s looks. I should be scared, frightened by this powerful man, but I’m not. I’m intrigued and fascinated.
He has to be at least six or seven inches taller than my five-foot-seven. His hair is dark blond and cut short to his head, but it’s his eyes that get me. His piercing blue eyes make me feel like I’m in the middle of the ocean, floating away. They are the most breathtaking color I have ever seen. My body reacts in a way I’ve never experienced as his eyes take on a predatory gaze and slowly move down my body before coming back up to my wide ones.
Deep inside me warms, creating a yearning I’ve never felt before. Not even on the few dates I’ve been on. My lower muscles clench with excitement, and my breasts start to tingle the longer I look at him and he at me.
Oh, my.
His body is glistening, covered with a light layer of sweat to indicate he either is getting back to a workout or is finished. All the muscles he is flexing in front of me are evidence enough that he works out a lot. They tighten and loosen like a strobe light trying to entice me.
Oh, please.
Inwardly, I roll my eyes while the rest of my body tingles with excitement. He must realize the effect he has on women. That thought causes me to shake out of my stupor and harden my glare. I won’t fall for a man like that.
He silently watches me; his eyes roam my body again all while creating a burning path as his eyes reach mine once more. A slow, half grin pulls on his lips as his eyes darken.
“Well, hey there, baby.” He takes a step closer to me, a measured one to test if I’m going to run. I want to, but his voice, a Bostonian timbre, thick and deep, causes me to squirm in my boots and keeps me locked in place.
He enters my space, causing a mixture of faint cologne and sweat to invade my senses and make my head a little light.
Wow.
Casting the haze away, I back up a fraction to breathe again. “Can I help you?” I raise a brow, proud that my voice doesn’t crack at all.
Stay strong, K.C.
“She speaks.” His grin grows; making the yearning come back just a little. “And she has a sexy voice to go with her sexy little body.” He steps closer to me again. “Got a name, sexy?” He picks up a piece of my hair and twirls it on his finger.
My body is buzzing.
It feels like I’m being electrocuted.
I don’t know how to handle this feeling or this sort of attention.
I’ll give it to this guy; he is a smooth talker. That alone repulses me, but at the same time, it almost doesn’t. This man fascinates me. Men who are only interested in a woman’s looks aren’t worth the wasted breath. I’m forced to deal with that with Timothy already. I’m stuck for the moment.
But this feels different somehow.
“Come on, panda. What’s your name?” he coos and steps closer, if it is possible. I control my breathing because if I take a deep breath, my chest will rub against his.
“Panda?” I squeak, and I instantly scold myself.
Darn it! Control yourself, K.C.
“Yeah.” His grin turns into a full watt smile. His teeth aren’t perfectly white, but close. “You’re in black, white, and you’re sexy all over.” His head tilts to one side and then to the other, assessing me with each color. “Gotta say, babe, it looks good on you.” He winks, and a blush starts to burn like wildfire across my face. “Almost as good as I would.”
I snort, covering how much his words turn me on with disgust. In the matter of a minute, he has called me four different pet names. I’ve heard them all before, except for panda - that one throws me.
Just as I’m about to tell him off, the door, now behind me, opens wider, knocking me forward and into the guy’s chest.
Great!
I’m overwhelmed with his scent, stronger now that my nose presses against him. Frantically, I wave my hands around, trying to find my balance and recover slowly. His massive hands wrap around my biceps, making them look like a child’s arms rather than a grown woman’s.
Looking up, I find his blue eyes are wide, staring at me with his mouth opened slightly. He seems almost in a state of shock. Like the one I was just in.
Realizing my hands are on his biceps, I push away, feeling my blush grow a deeper shade and not just on my face now, but all over my body. My nipples are pert and tingling, and my lower abdominals pull tight with the rest of my lower half. Just a brief touch and I feel burned.
He recovers quickly, and the full smile returns to his handsome face, but it seems different this time. He’s about to say something when a large hand comes down on my shoulder freaking me out even more than I currently am.
My self-defense takes over. I grab the hand, lean back, and use the weight of the person to throw him - because the hand belongs to a man - over my shoulder while holding his hand and wrist in both of mine, breathing rapidly.
What is it with my luck today?
“Hoo-ly shit!” I look up, blowing some of my hair out of my face, to the guy who was just flirting with me and find his mouth hanging open. “Dude, you just got taken down by a girl.” He laughs at the man on his back between us. “Maybe I need a new sparring partner.” He laughs again, at who I’m assuming is his friend.
“Fuckin’ hell, Chamberlain!” The guy tries to shake me from his wrist and hand as he starts to get up. I quickly let go and step back, mortified at what I just did. “I come to see what’s taking you so fucking long and this happens. Fuck!” The muscle man, now known as Chamberlain, doubles over laughing.
Once more, my body clenches.
What is wrong with me?
I need to get out of here before I lose my mind. The other guy turns to me. He’s just as big as this Chamberlain guy is but not nearly as attractive from my point of view. His hair is a little too long, and his green eyes seem too pale.
“I … I’m sorry.” I duck my head. I hate when people glare at me, and it happens too often. “I’ll just be going.” I turn on my heel and walk as fast as my dress and boots will allow me, thankful for a chance to escape the uncomfortable situation.
“No, wait!” Chamberlain calls after me, but I don’t stop. “I didn’t get your name.”
“Let it go, C. She looks too young.” That makes me boil a little, but I still don’t stop.
“What the fuck, Scott! You always get in the way!” I hear them break into an argument as I leave over the sounds of “Crazy Train” by Ozzy Osbourne.
I quickly make my way to the car as the wind picks up, blowing snow all over my face and making my hair whirl up like a tornado. In hurried motions, I unlock the door and fall back against my seat as I start my car and wait for it to warm up. I lay my head back, my mind still reeling.
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The first man to ever get a reaction out of me and he’s a player.
Why me?
What a day it’s been already. I haven’t been that clumsy since I was little. I’m nineteen years old now, and most days, I can manage to be graceful, but apparently, today isn’t one of them.
Pulling down my visor, I look at my reflection and want to cry. Mother is going to have a fit! I look like a wreck. My hair looks like a makeshift tornado, whirled and twisted up from the wind. I run my wipers and put my car into drive before taking off through the snow to head home.
Chapter Two
ON THE DRIVE to Cunningham Manor - Mother insists on calling our home that - I think about that Chamberlain guy. I’m not completely sure why the encounter with him has me rattled as much as it does. I’m used to guys coming onto me like that maybe not as forward as he was but still. Could it be his sheer size that did this to me? I’ve been around big men, but none as built as he is.
Zoey gets the same attention when they can’t get a reaction out of me. She eats it up. I would much rather have someone interested in the same things as I am and like me for my personality rather than my looks. But with Chamberlain, it’s different. He got a reaction out of me.
My life has always been about outward appearances. As early as I can remember, my mother has chosen how I dress and how my hair looks all the way down to the nail polish I wear. I prefer the days I don’t leave my room or when I go for a run or workout, and I can wear sweats and have my hair up in a messy bun. I swear someday, when I have a daughter, I will never force anything on her. She will be free to do what she wants as she gets older. Have a freedom that I may never have the freedom to choose.
I’m a political gain for Timothy and his family, nothing more. And the fact that, apparently, I don’t look bad on his arm is great as well.