Better (Too Good series)

by S. Walden

  Cadence, think about how that’ll make you look, her conscience warned.

  I’ve earned it! she shot back.

  Yes, you have, but you know it’ll make you look immature.

  Cadence tore her eyes away from the album and continued searching until she came across a Tori Amos CD.

  Better? she asked.

  Much.

  Fine, but I’m not starting it from the beginning, she replied.

  Cadence placed the CD in the player and cued up “Cornflake Girl.”

  Fuck all y’all.

  She hovered over the player for a moment listening to the sounds of her new anthem fill the room. She was no cornflake girl. She was stronger than that, so she decided to take control of the situation. She stood tall, turned on her heel, and joined everyone at the table.

  “Wine?” Portia offered.

  “Oh, no thank you,” Cadence said pleasantly. “I’m not old enough.”

  Dylan snorted.

  Mark sighed patiently. He’d noticed all the subtle signs. Hair down. Lips wiped clean. Tori Amos. Please. Did she think he was an idiot?

  “So, what’s your job?” Cadence asked Portia. She twirled her cold linguini around her fork.

  “I’m a nurse,” Portia replied, guzzling her wine. She was nearly finished her second glass. “What are you studying?”

  “Business,” Cadence said. “I wanna own my own business when I’m finished with school.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s that?” Portia asked.

  “Floral shop.” Cadence bit into the pasta she’d spent two hours carefully preparing. She didn’t want Mark’s help. She wanted to do it herself. And it was damn good, she realized. Even cold.

  “Cute,” Portia replied. The word was speckled with the tiniest bit of condescension.

  Cadence smiled sweetly. “I guess flowers can be cute.”

  “No, I just meant that I can see you owning a flower shop. You have this whole cute look that goes along with doing something like that,” Portia explained. “You kinda remind me of Meg Ryan in all those romantic comedies she used to do. You’ve Got Mail! She owned that adorable little bookstore. You know what I’m talking about?” She shook her head. “Well, it was kinda before your time.”

  “Her bookstore got bought out,” Cadence said evenly.

  “I know,” Portia replied. “Business is a tough . . . well, business.” She laughed and finished off her wine. She poured a third glass.

  “I plan to be really good at it,” Cadence said.

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that! But you’ve got some hills to climb in this economy. Most businesses go under in the first year. Just too hard with everything that’s going on,” Portia replied. She liked to talk with accompanying hand gestures, and it pissed off Cadence.

  Mark spotted Cadence in his periphery—her body reacting to the words. She was about to pounce, so he piped up.

  “So I got those tickets for that DJ sample concert,” he said. “You still wanted one, right?” He directed the question to Dylan.

  “Yeah,” Dylan replied.

  “You owe me 64 bucks.”

  “What?” Dylan said. “Jeez. No one even knows these guys.”

  “Whatever. You still owe me 64 bucks.” Mark glimpsed Cadence and put his hand on her thigh. She turned to him and smiled. It was disingenuous and annoyed him. It wasn’t his fault! He told Dylan to tell his idiot girlfriend about Cadence. He wanted to strangle Dylan. He wanted to strangle Portia. She needed to back the hell off of his girlfriend. Suddenly he felt a surge of primal protection for Cadence. Caveman style. He needed a club.

  He was unaware that the conversation had progressed while he was thinking.

  “You’ll understand in a few years,” Portia was saying. Her tone dripped with pomposity. “It’s like a whole different world when you get out of college. Like running headfirst into a brick wall. Reality. Responsibilities. I know you don’t get it now, but you will. You’ll understand eventually.”

  “Your dad bought you a car, Portia,” Mark said. “And he pays your cell phone and car insurance bills, too.”

  Portia froze, wine glass pressed to her lips.

  “And your rent, if I’m not mistaken. Cadence here knows a little about responsibilities. She pays her own bills.”

  He bit a chunk out of his bread and eyed Dylan. The message? “Don’t bring this chick around my house again.”

  Portia shot Dylan a scathing look, then cleared her throat and continued eating. Everyone followed suit. Conversation was sparse and forced after that, and Dylan and Portia decided to leave before dessert. And card playing. There’d be no card playing.

  Cadence was quiet as they cleared the table and washed dishes.

  “I told Dylan to tell her about you,” Mark said mid-clean up.

  “I know.”

  “I didn’t mean for tonight to be uncomfortable for you.”

  “I know.”

  “Tori Amos?”

  Cadence cracked a smile. “I thought it was . . . fitting.”

  “Yes. It was,” Mark replied, smirking. “And I like your hair up, down, any way you wanna wear it. I like it all.”

  “I felt stupid,” she whispered.

  “I didn’t want you to feel like that,” Mark said. “I’m so pissed at Dylan.”

  “I don’t like Portia.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “I don’t like when people talk down to me. I know it’ll be hard to own my own business. I don’t need a person who doesn’t own her own business to tell me that,” Cadence snapped.

  “I know.”

  “Avery would have called her a straight-up cunt.”

  Mark chuckled. “That would have been interesting to witness.”

  “Oh, I could see those two going at it. Avery would totally win,” Cadence said.

  “I think Avery could beat anybody,” Mark replied thoughtfully.

  “I’d appreciate it if Portia didn’t come around again,” Cadence said.

  “She won’t. Don’t worry.”

  Cadence nodded.

  “She’s the cornflake girl,” Mark said. He wrapped Cadence in a hug.

  “Tell me about it,” Cadence replied, burying her face in Mark’s chest.

  “Are we okay?” Mark asked softly.

  “Yes. And thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Sticking up for me.”

  “You’re my girl. I’ll always stick up for you. Ain’t nobody gonna talk down to my shorty.”

  Cadence burst out laughing.

  “Come on. Let’s leave all this and crack open that other bottle of wine. I think it’s a Tori Amos night.”

  Mark watched the show: his little drunk Cadence whirling around the living room belting the lyrics to his favorite songs. He cracked up at the beginning of her interpretive dance to “Baker Baker.” That was until he really watched her. Spinning on her feet and twirling her wrists above her head. Dropping her arms in defeat. Hanging her head, hair falling forward in a golden curtain. Walking in circles. Going nowhere in particular. Falling to the floor then reaching her body long. Pulling her knees in. Cradling herself and rolling over. Standing tall and looking him directly in his eyes.

  Sad face. Sad girl. Just the tiniest bit lost in this new world.

  “Did you like that?” she asked. Her hair tumbled about her flushed cheeks. Her wine-stained lips curled into an unsure smile. Her large blue eyes glossed over with uncertainty.

  “Beautiful,” he whispered. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  She grinned and asked for another glass of wine.

  “All gone,” he said apologetically.

  She crawled into his lap and nuzzled his neck. “Then take me to bed.”

  He picked her up and carried her to the bedroom, laying her gently on the comforter.

  “Covers?”

  She shook her head.

  “PJs?”

  She shook her head.

  “Me?”

  She
nodded and reached for him.

  He crawled in beside her and took her in his arms. He held her until he heard her heavy breathing. Then he kissed her temple and left to clean the kitchen.

  “Met your girlfriend today,” Dylan joked. He and Mark sat at the bar of their favorite sushi restaurant waiting for Miranda to show up. She was the fourth girl in three weeks. Dylan met her at his store when she came in to buy a record for her boyfriend.

  Mark chuckled. “Funny.”

  “Well, she’s totally the girl you’ve been telling me about,” Dylan went on. “Am I wrong?”

  “No. But she’s not my girlfriend,” Mark replied. “Aren’t you worried about this Miranda chick? She just dropped her boyfriend for you like that.” He snapped his fingers. “I’d be worried about her intentions.”

  “I’m not looking to marry her,” Dylan said. “I’m looking to score.”

  Mark rolled his eyes.

  “Now back to Miss Cadence.”

  “What about her?”

  “What about her? She’s young. She’s pretty. Great taste in music. I see the attraction, man, I do.”

  Mark ignored him and watched the game.

  “But she’s still your student.”

  “I realize that,” Mark replied.

  “I know my moral compass points in a slightly different direction than most, but it’s still there. And even I would steer clear of that. At least until she graduates.”

  “Well, I’m trying.”

  Dylan leaned in. “Try harder.”

  Mark shuddered then scowled at his involuntary reaction to Dylan’s words. He sulked throughout dinner as he watched his friend flirt with Miranda, who drank way too many martinis. How was Dylan always finding these chicks who drank like fish? It was a complete turnoff. He pushed away his spicy tuna roll and Red Stripe.

  “I’m gonna take off,” he said abruptly in the middle of laughter. “I’ve got an early morning.”

  “Okay, dude. Take it easy,” Dylan said.

  “Nice to meet you, Miranda,” Mark said.

  “You too,” she replied. “I’m sure I’ll see you again.”

  Mark smiled and left the restaurant. “I’m sure that’s not gonna happen,” he mumbled.

  He drove home to the sounds of DJ Shadow’s “Mutual Slump.” He was in one hell of a slump, though he wasn’t sure who else was. He guessed it was DJ Shadow.

  “I hear you, man,” Mark lamented, beating his steering wheel with his palms. “This blows.”

  He thought of Cadence’s pretty face, watching him in class, making him just the slightest bit nervous when she concentrated really hard on what he wrote on the whiteboard. He looked for the signs of frustration that sent his heart over the edge every time. Because she was so beautiful trapped in frustration. Furrowed brow. Teeth sinking into her lower lip. Soft sigh. Face propped in her tiny hands. That’s always when she gave up and started thinking about other things. He wanted to open her brain and make her understand. But not the things he wrote on the board. He wanted her to understand him. His intentions. His growing infatuation. His inevitable love.

  He walked into his empty apartment and stood in the middle of the living room. He looked around for signs to point him in the right direction. Everything said to pursue her. Open her brain. Make her understand. He didn’t know if he had the guts to say it out loud. He thought giving her things, showing her kindness, would speak the message plainly. He thought that maybe she understood and was trying to fight it herself. He couldn’t know that she decided that very evening to stop fighting it. That she was going to storm into his room the following day and confront him. Make him tell saher. And then hug him for the first time.

  ***

  “Cadence!” Mark called from the front door. He threw his messenger bag and coat on the floor.

  She peeked her head around the corner.

  “Yes?”

  “Come out.”

  She hesitated, then walked out of the bedroom, thinking absurdly that she was in trouble.

  “Stop right there,” he said.

  He looked her over standing at the end of the hallway. Just the right amount of distance to turn this into one hell of a fun game. Her hair was down, falling around her shoulders in tangled waves. She wore his old school Type A snowboard T and no pants. God, he loved when she wore his shirts. He already planned to fuck her before he even came home, but now that she stood there sporting his shirt and a silly grin, he decided to ravage her instead.

  “This is how it’s gonna go,” he began. “I’m gonna rip that shirt right off you. I’m gonna put my hands all over your body. I’m gonna eat your pussy ‘til you come. And then I’m gonna bend you over this chair here and fuck you so hard you see stars.”

  Cadence stood frozen at the start line, absorbing every word. They penetrated her instantly, and she thought she should dip into a runner’s lunge, position herself for an optimal launch. Because she was going to be the first to reach him. She was going to be the winner.

  His lips curled into a knowing smile.

  “Come get me.”

  She charged across the apartment and jumped on him. She wrapped her limbs around his body, clawing at his shoulders, his back. He trapped the nape of her neck in his hand and forced her lips on him, thrusting his tongue in her mouth. She surrendered her own. They played an innocent game with their tongues while a separate, dangerous game was happening with their hands. She dug her nails in his back. He slid his right hand down the back of her panties, following the line of her crack until he found that sweet spot, already warm and wet for him.

  “I wanna hear you tell me,” he said into her mouth.

  “I . . . I want you,” she replied, nuzzling his neck.

  “You want what?”

  “I want you to—” She paused, searching for her courage. She’d already run to him. Pounced on him. Clawed at him. She could say it. She could say the words and own them. Embrace them. “—fuck my pussy.”

  He plunged his finger farther inside, letting her squirm on him, her hips moving in desperate circles against his stomach.

  “Look at me when you say it.”

  Cadence lifted her face to him. Eye to eye, and she thought she’d drown in his. Stormy seas with one purpose—to sweep her up and sink her deeper and deeper into his love. She would go there, to the bottom of his ocean, stay there a lifetime as long as she could keep feeling this.

  “Say it,” he whispered.

  “I love you.”

  He smiled brightly.

  “I’m mad for you. I’ll do anything for you. I’ll take on the whole world. I’ll rescue you. Always, Cadence. You tell me, and I’ll do it.”

  She hesitated, then pressed her lips gently to his. This time there was no force or desperation. It was a quiet kiss, made to show him she understood the gravity of his words. A benediction. And a promise of her equal devotion.

  “Are you ready?” he asked when she pulled away from his face.

  She nodded.

  He walked her to the club chair and sat her down. He slipped off her panties before spreading her legs, letting them dangle over each arm.

  “How can you do that?” he breathed, staring at her.

  “I’m flexible,” she replied.

  “And I love it.”

  He dipped his face between her legs and ran his tongue over her slit. She hissed then moaned softly. He teased her open with his tongue, reveling in her gasp. She did it every time, even when she knew to expect it. Every time. Like it was her first moment experiencing his mouth on her. He wanted it to always be like this—every time they made love something strange and new. He wanted to keep rediscovering her.

  He drew back and stared at her.

  “This. This is the reason for everything. Did you know that?”

  He lifted his eyes to her face. She was flushed and shining, leaning against the chair cushion with her golden hair spread out like a veil. She lay there glowing goodness, shining like a holy shrine. Open for him.
Ready to receive his prayer, and to answer it. And he knelt before her in reverence, his head bent, hands folded in supplication. He said a silent prayer that she would always love him, always open herself to him and trust him completely.

  “I’m gonna let you heal me,” he whispered. And then he kissed her between her legs, listened to her soft cries as his mouth sucked her gently, teased her clit, licked her over and over until he sent her spiraling upwards to heaven.

  She lay there panting, radiating warmth. He pulled her off the chair and ripped her shirt off.

  “I’m sensitive,” she said.

  “Oh, I know,” he replied, tearing off his clothes. “And I won’t be gentle about it.”

  “I didn’t say you had to.”

  He hesitated for only a moment before pushing her to the floor. He lay on her and thrust—long, hard, and deep. She cried out, instinctively wrapping her legs around him.

  “Spread those legs,” he breathed, pumping her hard.

  “Nuh uh,” she said, giggling.

  “Spread those legs, you little nymph,” he demanded.

  She complied, allowing him greater movement of his hips. He took from her with no thought to her needs or desires. And she grunted from the force of it—his body stretching her, bending her, almost breaking her.

  “Harder,” she gasped.

  He obliged her, working hard until he felt the beads of sweat break out along his hairline. He pulled out suddenly and turned her over, pulling her neatly to her hands and knees.

  “There. You can put your face in that chair,” he ordered.

  She should feel offended—the way he spoke to her—but she wasn’t. She wanted him to take control of her, so she crawled over to the club chair and bent over, resting her upper body on the seat. She yelped at the feel of his fingers probing her from behind. And then it was no longer his fingers but his mouth instead. He’d never done that, and she tensed, unsure if she liked the intimacy of his face in her backside.

  “You taste like salted honey,” he said.

  Her face burned embarrassment, and she buried her head in the seat cushion.