by Angel Lawson
I shouldn’t be surprised he placed my room so close to his.
His bed is a huge, king-sized monstrosity with a headboard of solid black wood. His bedding is a cool slate gray, the walls a lighter shade. The room is unsurprisingly tidy. Pizza boxes aside, Killian had always been a neat-freak. He hated things being haphazard, too much of a control freak to tolerate the smallest glimpse of chaos.
Every piece of clothing is put in its place, shirts lined up neatly in his closet, pants below. Every item on his dresser is neatly arranged, from his keys to his day planner. I walk by the dark piece of furniture and see a photo in a frame; him as a little boy with a woman I recognize as his mother.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen this picture. Once, after we first moved in, the housekeeper mixed up our PE T-shirts. I carried it into his room and saw the picture sitting on his dresser. I was staring at her beautiful face when I heard, “What the hell are you doing in here?”
I jumped. “B-bringing your shirt.” I held it out like a shield. “It got mixed in with my laundry.”
“Stupid maid,” he muttered, striding into the room. He was seventeen and already pushing the agro-jock persona. He grabbed the shirt and scowled. “Why are you still here?”
I glanced at the photo and his eyes followed. “Is that your—”
“Don’t you fucking dare say her name. If you do, I’ll…”
I didn’t give him time to finish. I tried to find out more about Darla, Killian’s mother, but she was never mentioned, at least never around me. Aside from the photo—clean, angled just-so, clearly treated with care—it was as if she didn’t exist. I never knew what happened to her, just that any mention of her made Killian even chillier than usual—and that was saying a lot.
Much like back then, the frame is one of few personal items in the room. Everything else serves a purpose. Being here, smelling the scent of him, is making me remember being alone with him earlier in the day. The way he’d advanced on me, caged me in, the sight of his shoulder, muscles shifting beneath the fabric as his finger invaded me. The way his eyes looked, hooded and dark.
I’m not deluded enough to think he truly wants me.
No.
He’s a cold-hearted sociopath. He wants to hurt me, humiliate me, control me. Whatever he feels, it’s more about him feeling powerful than it is about me.
The urge to go through his drawers or the sleek laptop on his desk is overwhelming. He looks so different from back then. Harder. Rougher. I wonder how else he’s changed. But even though some part of me is dying to figure him out before I’m completely at his mercy, I hold back. Killian is too smart to leave something out where I can easily find it, and he’s paranoid enough to not only make it hard to find something incriminating, but to also set a trap that could get me in more trouble.
The room, his personality, everything about him makes me bristle. I leave quickly, eager to escape the specter of him that lingers there.
Turning away from my room, I head back to the staircase and climb to the next floor. There are two more rooms. I choose the one over mine. It doesn’t take me very long to realize whose room this is.
Tristian’s.
The massive black and white canvas print of himself over his bed is the only clue I need.
It’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever seen. I stand at the end of the bed and gawk at the enlarged photograph. In it, he’s shirtless, showing off his defined physique. He’s leaner than Killian, not needing the bulk for the field, but still perfectly toned. The lighting expertly emphasizes the ladder of muscle on his abdomen and the cut V under his hips. He’s strikingly attractive, always has been. The smile toying at his lips is that of a trickster. Kind, yet cruel. Sexy, but dark.
Against my will, my eyes drop the skin right above the waist of his pants. I think about that defined muscle, the texture of skin, and am struck by the startling, unwelcome awareness that I’ve been right there. I’ve had that bulge beneath his pants in my mouth. I’ve felt that skin below his belly against my forehead.
I turn away to avoid thinking about it.
The décor of the room is modern, sleek, and sterile. Despite this, it’s not coldly impersonal like Killian’s room. No, Tristian Mercer admires himself far too much for that. It’s obvious that everything in the room has been carefully curated; books arranged by spine color, a gigantic, top-of-the-line flatscreen perched on the wall, and a closet full of expensive designer clothes. There are a few personal things, though. A framed photo of a little girl bearing a familial resemblance. Knick knacks, a mug that was handmade by a child—perhaps the one in the photo. They don’t match anything else in the room. They’re not put on display for the sake of appearances. This is something he cares about more than all that.
Could Tristian actually love something?
Does he have the capacity?
It’s a curious thing, but it’s also not long before that sharp face smirking down at me begins to make my skin itch. I put a mental pin in it and quickly exit the room, closing the door behind me.
I turn to the opposite door and open it, jaw going slack at what awaits me.
This is a surprise.
Dimitri Rathbone is the quietest of the three. Back in high school, he was also an athlete—goalie on the soccer team. He was known for his ruthless aggression on the field, but otherwise was a mystery. He was always so intense and broody, even when we partnered together that year in English. He barely spoke to me at all, instead opting to send me the occasional—and very effective—withering stare. That was alright. Withering stares, I could handle.
And then, during that same class, I found out his secret.
Once I knew, the intensity of his cold looks and hard glares ratcheted up to eleven. I can still hear him whispering in my ear that night at our house, his fingers discovering my own most humiliating secrets.
His size and demeanor have always been terrifying—the kind of guy a girl would rather not have look their way at all. Not like Killian, who, if a girl could catch his attention, she’d instantly become popular. Or Tristian, who could, if he wanted, bestow her with a sexy, secretive smile and have her eating out the palm of his hand. The Rath I’d known was an observer, watching quietly, and waiting for his moment to strike.
This room? It must belong to someone else.
I step into the cluttered mess, eyes drawn to the central focus of the room. Not his bed. That’s pushed against the wall, bed sheets twisted and unkempt. No, the object dominating the room is a beautiful grand piano. Sheet music rests on the stand and I spot the leather journal he’d been writing in the day of my interview. I step forward, curious. Has he improved? What might I find inside; tales of his exploits, or just music notes, scribbles and diagrams?
I run my fingers down the soft front cover of the journal, but paranoia makes me stop short of opening it. What if the room is bugged? Maybe there are cameras. I’d put nothing past them.
I graze my fingertips over the uncovered keys instead. It’s not the only instrument visible in the room; several guitars are propped against surfaces or hanging on the wall. I recognize the cases for a violin and a trumpet sitting on a far shelf. There’s other stuff, strange equipment with dials and buttons, all hooked up to a huge, three-screen computer station. Perhaps this is for recording.
But that’s not all I discover while walking across the room. There’s a wall of shelves, cubes filled with old-school record albums. Hundreds of them. I look over and see the antique record player, an empty cover sitting on top. Ella Fitzgerald. I flip the switch and the black disk starts to spin. Carefully, I rest the needle in the groove.
The strains of music fill the room, and all of a sudden, the weight of the day—the last few months—just crashes right down on my shoulders. It could be the food in my belly, or maybe the vodka, maybe just the fact that Rath’s room is warm and cozy, far more comfortable than it has any right to be.
Whatever it is, I’m exhausted, and I sink into the leather couch next to t
he record player, kicking off my sandals. It’s early and I have no doubt the guys are at a party or something, likely to be gone all night. Picking up the sleeve of the album, I study the back and let myself relax.
I’m not sure how much time passes. There are the lilting, sweet yet powerful tones of Ella Fitzgerald, and then a slow, eventual change in the music.
That’s what ultimately rouses me.
The room is dark, save for a lamp sitting atop the huge piano, and I can’t help but sink into the sound washing over me. The record music was good, but this? The chords reverberate through the room, something slow and haunting, dark and yet alive. A little too alive.
It’s live.
I bolt upright. The musician is only a few feet away, back straight, hands roaming over the keys, inky black hair falling into his eyes.
My heart hammers wildly at the realization Rath is right there. He doesn’t look my way, seemingly enraptured in the music he’s playing. Maybe I can get out of here and get back to my room without him noticing?
I stand, the album cover sliding to the ground. I wince, but the noise is quiet, soft. I carefully bend, picking it up quickly, then placing it on the couch. Rath doesn’t turn my way, so I continue with my escape, grabbing my shoes and starting toward the door in a tip-toe.
“I feel like one of the three bears,” he says suddenly, voice carrying over the music, “coming in here and finding a girl sleeping in my room.”
Frozen, it takes me a moment to squeak out a weak, “I’m sorry.” I keep my eye on the door, inwardly calculating how long it’ll take me to reach it. “I turned on some music and must’ve fallen asleep. I won’t bother you again.”
The music stops, a tense silence falling over the room.
He turns, the soft light of the lamp casting his profile into sharp relief. “You know, in some versions of that story, the bears eat Goldilocks for invading their personal space.” There isn’t a hint of amusement on his face. “I wonder what kind of punishment is appropriate for this situation?”
The way he looks at me makes my throat twist itself into a tight knot. Rath is dangerous, but it’s maybe the worst kind of danger—the kind that isn’t obvious, isn’t known yet. I’ve never been alone with him before, and I don’t want to be right now.
Stupid.
It’s the whole reason I moved in here. I couldn’t think of three scarier people to live with. But now that I’m here, pinned under the weight of his gaze like an insect, I’m beginning to regret it.
“I didn’t know you were a musician,” I say, hoping to divert his attention. “Or that you were into music at all. You’re very good.”
He doesn’t look appeased. If anything, it just makes his expression colder. “I’m a private person, which is why it was a bit disturbing to find you in here without permission.”
“That was rude. I know.” I look around at the mess, hands wringing. “It’s just…comfortable. In here.”
He tilts his head, the light from the lamp catching on the metal piercings on either side of his lip. Snake bites. He pats the top of the piano. “Sit.”
I blink. “What?”
He sweeps a hand over the ebony top. “Come sit and listen as I play. I think that’ll be your punishment.”
My eyebrows furrow, some of my discomfort beginning to unwind. “I’m not sure that’s the negative consequence you think it is.”
He doesn’t respond, but his expression tells me not to try his patience. I leave my sandals by the door and shuffle over to the piano. I’m trying to figure out how to get up on the top when his hands clamp around my waist and he lifts me up, placing me on the smooth surface.
His scent wafts over me, like the memory of that night. He’d grabbed my waist then as well, right before he pushed his fingers between my legs. I press my thighs together and smooth out my skirt, willing my knees not to tremble. His eyes dart from my face to my hands, then he sits on the bench and begins to play.
In high school, Rath was well known for his ability to catch anything on the soccer field. Jokes about his fast fingers echoed down the hallway. As I watch him now, I think I understand. They’re long and slender, quick, and definitely skilled.
While playing, his gaze vacillates between the sheet music and my face, down to my knees, back to the music. The melody is angry, violent, but that’s not what entrances me.
It’s the way he’s looking at me while he’s playing it.
It’s impossible to read, whatever’s in his eyes. Anger, yes. Intensity, sure. Beneath it all lurks a promise, as if he’s trying to tell me something without using the words. Whatever the message is, it’s not good.
When the music slows, his fingers pause on the keys, his chest heaving.
I swallow loudly in the silence, heart banging wildly in my chest. “That—that was amazing, Rath. I didn’t know you could read music.” I watch the storm of fury build in his eyes, realizing my error a beat too late. I try futilely to scramble back. “No, I didn’t mean—!”
But he’s already bolting forward, boxing me in, two palms slamming down on the top of the piano. “You don’t know anything about me,” he hisses, nostrils flaring.
Nodding frantically, I agree, “I know, you’re right, I don’t know.”
But the thing is, I do.
That semester we spent in English together made it very clear. Rath never read aloud like the rest of us. He made me do all the worksheets. When we had to journal, he’d copy mine without even asking. When we had to read separate short stories, he’d sit there and do absolutely nothing until I read it aloud. To him. I eventually worked it out for myself.
Dimitri Rathbone, although smart and talented, wasn’t fully literate.
Scrambling for some morsel of saving grace, I blurt out, “I could help you, you know. I’m the only one who knows about it, right? I could…I’m under a non-disclosure. I can’t tell anyone. So I could teach you how to read.”
If anything, this just makes his flash hotter. “You think I can’t read? You’re wrong.” Despite the feral look in his eyes, he backs off a bit and I exhale shakily. “I can read you just fucking fine. Look at your knees.”
Without really meaning to, I do it, following his gaze down. My knees are pressed together so tightly that they’re aching.
“You’re afraid, Sweet Cherry.” The feel of his hands clamping around my knees makes me flinch. “You think you can get through this without giving up a part of yourself. Right now, you’re thinking that you’d like to pry my hands off your knees and slap me in the face.” Closer, eyes cast in shadow, he whispers, “You’re also not letting yourself think about how much you’d like it if you didn’t.”
“You’re wrong,” I answer, my voice quiet.
He chuckles, low and dark. “You should’ve run like Goldilocks.” His thumbs press twin divots into the flesh above my knees. “Because this is one of those stories where the girl is punished for breaking into the bear’s room. You know what I’m going to do, right? I’m gonna eat you up.”
That fear, that feeling of being off balance, comes rushing back in a wave of paralyzing panic. “Wait, I thought…”
“I know what you thought. You thought you’d snoop around in here and see a different side of me. The artistic, creative, perhaps gentle side? Maybe then, you’d realize that I’m really just misunderstood. That I’d feel bad for what we did to you. Isn’t that right?” His mouth curls into a slow, mean smile. “How’s my reading so far?”
I suck in an alarmed breath. “Rath…”
“That person doesn’t exist, Story. I’m still the guy from that night. The same one who felt you up and watched as you sucked Tristian off. The one who would have fucked you if your brother hadn’t stopped it.” He leans toward me, hands creeping up my thighs, and whispers in my ear. “I’m also the one who knows your secret. How hot you were for it all. How fucking wet. I think it’s my turn to learn a little about you tonight. I’m going to find out if it still does it for you.”
&nbs
p; Instinct kicks in and I thrash against him, trying to leap off the piano. It’s no use. Those quick hands secure me before I can even slide off the top. His fingers press painfully into my flesh as he forces my thighs apart. I struggle back, but I’m not strong enough.
His voice is harsh and ragged when he says, “This is what you agreed to, remember? Or do you not want to be our Lady? If you do, you’re going to let me eat your pussy.”
I still, chest heaving with the fight. “Can’t I just…do it to you?” He’s right. I agreed to this. But I’d been preparing to pleasure them, not the other way around. I won’t know what to expect, how to react. “Like with Tristian?”
He shakes his head. “I can get any girl on this campus to suck me off. That’s not what I want. I want to taste you. I want to feel you come apart on my tongue, and then I want you to go to bed thinking of how much you loved it.”
Blood, even though I don’t want it to, rushes down my body and pools into a warm heat between my legs.
“Now,” he runs his hands more gently down my outer thighs, coaxing, “you can fight me, or you can sit back and enjoy it. Either way, I’m going to get what I want.”
It’s not a threat. It’s a promise. I’ve been on the other side of it once before. I’ve seen that look in his eye and I know there’s no choice here. Numbly, I relent, unclenching my legs, giving him the barest access.
His voice emerges smooth like velvet, “Good girl.” His hands inch up my skirt until they vanish completely. He bends, breath hot on my knees. With Rath, I have no idea what to expect, but it’s certainly not the soft, warm kiss on my inner knee, or the slick feel of his tongue as it inches higher, exploring the stretch of flesh up my leg. It’s not the deep inhalation as he breathes me in, mouth parted, eyes closed. His hands run up my hips, fingers hooking over my panties. “Let’s see how well you follow instruction. Lift up,” he demands, eyebrow arched. I fight the tremor of nerves as I obey.