by Shen, L. J.
Also, why weren’t we talking about the fact he wore tights?
“Brioni?” he echoed, still running in place. “Is that a designer brand?”
“Close. An Italian dish,” I deadpanned.
I felt like an asshole. No doubt I looked like one too. And for the first time in a very long time, it felt like crossing an invisible line. I’d always been sarcastic and brash, but never completely off-the-rails rude. In Ethan’s case, I couldn’t stop myself. I imagined him pressing his tights-clad crotch (seriously, were we just going to ignore the tights?) against Madison’s soft curves and kissing her, and frankly, that made me want to drink myself to death, smash the bottle of whiskey on a brick, and stab him with it.
“Chase!” Madison stomped her high heel, which, for the record, I wasn’t opposed to removing with my teeth later tonight. My cock was stirring uncomfortably in my briefs every time I caught a waft of her perfume. Pumpkin pie, coconut, and Daisy’s smell. She smelled like home. A home I categorically wasn’t invited to, but a home nonetheless. Ethan jutted his chin out at me, a glint of wildness in his eyes. It was a carnal spark that told me he knew Madison was a catch, and he wasn’t backing down.
All yours, Pedi Boy.
“I admit I’m not very knowledgeable when it comes to clothing. I’m hoping Maddie here helps me out.” He flashed her a smile and a wink. I ran my eyes along his body, assessing him.
“Sucks for you. The pot and the kettle going shopping. No retinas will be safe.”
I was now insulting both of them. Very bad form, considering she was about to help me. But they seemed wrong together, and she was so oblivious to it I couldn’t stop myself.
Mad rolled her eyes. “See what I mean about you not ever having to worry about him? He’s insufferable. I’ll see you tomorrow, Ethan.” She leaned forward, touching his chest as she kissed his cheek. Her lips lingered on his skin a moment too long, and my hands curled into fists, itching to grab her waist and physically remove her from him. “Good luck with the marathon.”
“Half marathon,” he corrected, hugging her tight.
Don’t look at his tights. If he has an erection, you might have to kill him, and your lawyer is in the Maldives on vacation.
When Mad and I stepped out of her building, my pulse returned to its regular rhythm.
“Do you smell that?” She sniffed the air theatrically.
“Smell what?”
“The urine from the pissing contest you just launched at my doorstep.”
I laughed. The 2.0 version of her was considerably more fun to hang out with, despite the constant headache she gave me. I said the thing I thought would rile her up the most, because seeing her cheeks turn pink was one of my favorite pastimes.
“I didn’t know golden showers are your jam. I am happy to accommodate this.”
“Chase!” she shrieked.
“What? It’d save water. I’m just being an environmentalist.” Somehow I thought Greta Thunberg still wouldn’t approve.
“That’s it—now I know it. The devil wears Black.”
She meant both my favorite color and my last name.
“Better the devil you know than the angel you don’t.”
“I can’t wait to get to know the angel better,” she retorted.
“I bet the angel doesn’t know how to do that thing with his tongue you like so much.”
“The angel makes me happy,” she snapped, reddening under her understated makeup. Mad was always good at that. Looking put together without resembling a Kiss band member.
“Bull. Fucking. Shit. He makes you comfortable.”
“What’s wrong with comfortable?”
“Comfortable would never set you on fire.”
“Maybe I don’t want to burn.”
“We all want to burn, Mad. It is dangerous, ergo, we want it.”
We proceeded to the subway. I decided grilling her about Grant and Layla would garner more hostility. As it was, if hate translated into electricity, Madison would detonate my ass. We took the train to the Upper West Side. Driving in Manhattan on Friday night was the equivalent of rubbing your dick across a grater: Technically possible, but why would you want to try?
When we exited the train, Mad stopped dead in her tracks, a look of horror marring her face. I turned back to her. “What is it now?”
“I forgot the banana bread.” She slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh shoot. How did you not remind me? I was so flustered when you and Ethan were doing a dance-off on my threshold I totally forgot to bring it.”
Like anyone gave a shit. Katie and Mom just wanted her to feel like they were looking forward to something other than her royal presence. Her ability to tolerate me mystified them. They weren’t actually looking forward to the banana bread. In fact, they weren’t looking forward to consuming anything that wasn’t wine or bad reality TV shows.
“It wasn’t a dance-off,” I pointed out.
“It was,” she insisted. “And you lost. Metaphorically speaking, you dance like everyone’s drunk uncle.”
“I do not dance like ev—” I closed my eyes, massaging my temples. I was not going to reduce myself to the intellect of a woman who could distinguish everyone in the Kardashian clan by name. Willingly. “They’ll manage without the banana bread.”
“But it’s dessert.”
“Hate to break it to you, but no one was counting on your banana bread. Julian and Amber probably had three catering companies and Gordon Ramsay himself working the kitchen since last night.”
“Well, I promised!”
Is it even legal to fantasize about doing things to her? I pondered at this point. She is mentally fifteen.
“They probably forgot.”
“I texted with Katie and Lori all week. They definitely haven’t.”
They were texting all week? Was that why Mom had gotten out of bed and Katie had actually showed up to work? A twinge of something ridiculous and unwarranted squeezed my chest. I ignored it, keeping my expression carefully blank.
“There’s a bakery around the corner.” I inhaled through my nostrils. “Do you want to buy a replacement, or is Martyr Maddie above tricking people?”
“A bit late to pretend I’m above that.” She waved her hand between us. Right. I’d made her tell a much bigger lie.
I realized Madison was the whole package. I should be acknowledged somehow for my stupidity. I’d thrown away a supreme fuck just because I was afraid she . . . what, exactly? Would trick me into marrying her somehow? That was never going to happen.
Tell that to the engagement ring she is wearing right now, which you gave her.
I suddenly remembered exactly why I’d stayed with Madison for longer than a week, even though I hadn’t had one serious conversation with her the entire time:
The sex was out of this world.
The baking was sinful.
She treated my family like, well . . . family.
In return, I’d cheated on her—that was what she thought, anyway—and never had met her father while he’d visited the city. Chances were, getting in her pants wasn’t in the future for me. It was best to get this over with as soon as possible.
I bought two loaves of banana bread from Levain Bakery while Mad dashed into a supermarket to get a baking tray. We met at an intersection just in front of Julian’s building. She took the banana bread from my hand, still wrapped in a brown paper bag, held the bag by the tip, and began to batter the bread against a building violently. I stared at her, as did the rest of the street.
“May I ask what in the goddamn world are you doing?” My voice came out more cordial than I thought was necessary. She was assaulting a baked good, after all. Very publicly, if I might add.
“No homemade banana bread looks as perfect as the ones from bakeries. I’m just making it look authentic,” came her swift reply, as she poured the distressed loaves into the tray she’d bought and covered them in plastic wrap. She was panting, her tits rising and falling in her tight dress.
<
br /> I looked away, not thinking about how perfect her breasts felt in my palms.
“You should put more of that effort into trying to look like you can tolerate me,” I noted sourly.
“That’s above my pay grade.”
“I don’t pay you.”
“Exactly.”
We crossed the street, glaring at each other. Another one of our unspoken staring contests.
“You know,” I started, “I could—”
“Nope. Please don’t try to bribe me with apartments and cars and golden helicopters. God, you’re predictable. I’m so glad I met Ethan.”
A man who wore tights and a PAW Patrol tie was besting me. Now was a good time to off myself.
In the elevator, I ducked my head toward her. I didn’t know why. She just looked . . . Mad-like. Sexy in a cute, retro-chic kind of way. The kind teenagers liked masturbating to. Or, you know, thirty-two-year-old tycoons too.
“Did you just sniff me?” She turned around, eyes wide.
“No.” Yes. Dammit.
“You’re like a feral animal.”
“Better than a PAW Patrol–collared Chihuahua.”
She rolled her eyes like I was a one-trick pony, took my hand, and put it over her bare collarbone. I resisted the need to gulp. Her skin was hot, silky, and perfect; there was nothing sexual about what she did when she rubbed her delicate neck with my big palm, but I was pretty sure a pearl of precome graced the crown of my cock by the time she was done.
“There.” She pushed my hand away. “That’ll give you a good portion of my smell until tomorrow morning, and you’ll smell like me when we get in there. Happy?”
“With you? Never,” I spat out.
She smiled.
I frowned.
The elevator slid open, and we both stepped out.
It was going to be a long fucking night.
Julian lived in an Upper West Side five-bedroom penthouse overlooking the city that held an uncanny resemblance to a brothel, including red-upholstered furniture, dripping chandeliers, and an extensive wet bar. The minute we entered the premises, I ushered Dad to Clementine’s room for some privacy. His cheeks were sunken. Life leaked out of him in slow motion. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, exactly. I knew there wasn’t a treatment for his level billion of cancer. Grant said putting him through chemo—if his blood tests would even allow for him to go through chemo—was a waste of time and effort and would only make him feel even sicker. At this point, it was about keeping him comfortable.
Only he wasn’t looking anywhere near comfortable to me.
“Chase.” Dad frowned. “Why are we in here?” He looked around Booger Face’s room. It was the only space in the apartment that didn’t look like you might catch an STD if you sat on a piece of furniture. All pink-hued walls and ceilings and white fixtures.
“Because you’re not taking care of yourself,” I spat out. “You need to take your meds.”
“I don’t like to feel sedated,” he countered. “I want to be present.”
“I don’t want you to suffer,” I argued.
“It’s not your decision to make.”
After a ten-minute argument, in which I badgered him to call Grant and failed to convince him, I dragged myself to the open kitchen area, joining the rest of the family. I left Dad in Clementine’s room, too angry to look him in the face. When I got to the kitchen (more chandeliers, crème-and-gold countertops, flower-patterned fucking everything, and no trace of actual food), I stopped dead in my tracks.
Booger Face was sitting on the counter, dangling her purple sneakers in the air, laughing in delight. Mad was twisting Clementine’s unruly orange hair into a french braid, blabbering about warrior princesses. Amber was side-eyeing them behind her flute of champagne, not even pretending to listen to my mother’s litany of every store in town that had run out of the sandals she was after. Julian, who stood next to his wife, gave me a death stare, his white-knuckled hold on his champagne nearly smashing the glass to dust. A stab of petty glee prickled my chest.
Madison was giving them no reason to suspect we were less than two lovebirds. Good. So good, in fact, I had to remind myself why having a girlfriend, even if it was sexy, capable Madison, wasn’t a good idea:
Girlfriends wanted to get married at some point. Most of them, anyway.
I didn’t want to get married at any point.
If I were to date Madison—which, again, would never happen—I would be suspicious and resentful. I’d make her miserable beyond belief. Losing her for the second time would be embarrassing to the point I’d have no choice but to punch my own face.
Punching myself in the face, deliberately, was very low on my to-do list.
I sauntered into the kitchen, dropping a kiss on Clementine’s crown of crazy orange hair. I wrapped my arm around Madison. “What’s good?”
“Everything!” Mom turned to me, her voice shrill. “Everything is great. The banana bread looks delicious. Thank you, Maddie.”
“Looks awfully similar to the one they sell at Levain down the road,” Amber muttered into her drink. Her short red minidress was perfect for a pelvic examination or amateur college porn.
“Been hitting the bakery often, Am?” I deliberately swept my eyes along her toned, fit frame just for shits and giggles.
She turned the color of her dress, narrowing her eyes at me. “Actually, I lost three pounds. I’m doing this new hot sculpt yoga class five times a week.”
“Your accomplishments know no bounds.”
“What about you, Maddie—do you exercise?” She turned to my fake fiancée, smiling at her sweetly.
Madison, pretending to be oblivious to her host’s passive-aggressiveness, snapped Booger Face’s braid in a thin pink elastic. “Not unless you count walking from the living room to the kitchen to fetch some ice cream while The Walking Dead is on commercial break. I really should switch to AMC Premiere, but I need the physical activity. And there are so many commercial breaks.”
I stifled a grin, delighted by Mad’s response to a paling, thoroughly annoyed Amber.
“Wow. I can’t imagine my life without working out.” Amber played with her diamond necklace.
“It’s a terrible existence,” Maddie agreed easily, “but someone’s gotta do it.”
I wanted to kiss her.
I wanted to kiss her bad.
The fact I technically could, because she was my so-called fiancée, didn’t help matters. I knew Martyr Maddie wouldn’t slap me in the face if I tried to kiss her publicly, but I couldn’t muster enough assholeness to go from rude and surly to straight-up bastard.
The meal was buffet-style. All the dishes were still in their prepacked catering containers, spread across the massive U-shaped kitchen island. As with everything Julian and his wife did, it was beautifully impersonalized.
There were honey-glazed crab cakes and artichoke bottoms stuffed with crabmeat, miso-marinated Hawaiian butterfish and cucumber bites. This time, Mad took a chance on most of the dishes. It was Clementine who sat in horror in front of her plate, her big green eyes staring at the heap of dead sea creatures.
“But Mom . . . ,” she kept saying. “Mommy. Mommy. Mom. Mommy.”
“Jesus Christ, Julian, just give her some Cheerios,” Amber finally snapped, when it was obvious she couldn’t continue telling Katie her story of how she’d been mistaken for Kate Hudson at Saks Fifth Avenue.
“But I don’t want Cheerios.” Clementine pouted, her brows diving down. “I’m tired of eating them all the time. I want Grandma’s pancakes.”
“Grandma doesn’t have that special grandma mix.” Mom dropped her utensils on her plate, her eyes softening. Clementine spent a good amount of time at my parents’ house, and Mom braved the kitchen to treat her granddaughter to the one thing she made by herself and didn’t ask the cook to fix—instant mix pancakes.
It was my understanding that Amber and Julian’s relationship was an endless string of arguments, with Julian getting kicked ou
t of the house frequently and Amber crying herself to sleep on a weekly basis. My parents tried to shield Booger Face from this reality as much as they could.
Madison watched the exchange with thinly masked alert. I could see the wheels in her brain turning. She didn’t want to overstep, but she didn’t like Amber’s treatment of Booger Face. I didn’t think anyone did. That kid lived off cereal, Pop-Tarts, and air.
“What mix do you usually use?” Madison turned to my mother, placing a hand on her wrist. “For the pancakes?”
“Quick Wheat.”
“Okay, so flour, sugar, eggs, water, milk, and salt. Hershey’s Kisses if you have them too. Where’s your pantry?” She turned to Amber, her eyes daring her host to refuse. Yet again, I found myself hard. Was there anything Madison did that didn’t give me a raging erection? I tried to think. I hadn’t been hard when she’d assaulted the banana bread publicly. Although, if I was being honest, she’d still looked fuckable. Tie-able, too, though.
Amber smiled politely. “She can eat what everyone else is eating. In our household, everyone is having the same dish or no food at all. It’s a parent thing. You wouldn’t understand.”
Right under the belt. I looked over at Madison, who kept her smile fresh and sweet.
I agreed with Amber’s sentiment, but this was a pile of bullshit in Clementine’s case. Booger Face never had what everyone else was having. Amber simply wanted to punish Clementine for warming up to Madison. Only Clementine wasn’t privy to that.
“Isn’t she sensitive to shellfish?” Dad frowned at Julian. Julian turned his gaze helplessly to his wife. Jesus Christ. Katie dragged Clementine’s plate away from her. “Mildly allergic. It gives her a rash.”
“The doctor said she will develop immunity if she eats shellfish regularly.” Amber blushed under her makeup. I almost pitied her. She wasn’t a neglectful mother, but she had the maternal instincts of a bag of Cheetos. Booger Face had private tutors, and Amber took her to ballet lessons and taught her how to swim, ride a bike, and do cartwheels. She even took her to French lessons. Julian’s involvement in his kid’s life, however, was minimal and limited to patting her head like she was a Labrador every evening when he came back home. I had a theory that Amber had lost her soul the day she’d chosen Julian Black for a husband. Of course, being the president of the I Loathe Julian hate club for the past three years, I was a little biased. At any rate, I had a feeling I could recruit Mad as our newest member, judging by her interaction with the couple.