Sinful Ever After (Romance Collection)

by Vivian Wood

  Chapter Twelve

  Rachel

  I sit bolt upright in bed. My brain is as fuzzy as my teeth feel. It’s still dark out, before even the most industrious would rise.

  Buzz buzz buzz. Buzz buzz buzz.

  I grab my phone and look at the screen. Mom is calling me, ignoring the fact that I’m two whole timezones earlier than her. She’s upset that I’m still in Washington, if I had to bet. Gritting my teeth, I swipe my finger across the screen and answer the call.

  “Mother, it’s the middle of the night here.”

  It’s not really. The sun is definitely already up, but it feels good to grumble at someone. It feels doubly good for that someone to be the negative voice in my head, criticizing me when she’s not even around.

  She doesn’t sound repentant, though.

  “Well, that’s your mistake. Why are you on the opposite coast when you know you should be right here with me.” I can almost feel my mother smirking at me, doing that smiling and talking through her teeth thing she does when she is very, very angry.

  My mother isn’t ever mad because as she says, it’s not ladylike. I roll my eyes. Inside though, I feel small. Talking to my mother always makes me feel like some dumb child with rose colored glasses.

  My mom is just cruel enough to consider it her duty to make sure I see clearly.

  “Well, that will have to wait. The west coast is charming and I plan on spending the whole summer out here.” I stifle a yawn.

  “Oh, I just bet it is wonderful.” She sounds clenched even through the phone.

  “It is. I’m even getting to see old friends while I’m out here. Grayson Sellwood is going to show me around this summer.”

  I mean it as a barb, to taunt my mom a little. She detests Grayson.

  As soon as I’ve said it though my brow furrows. I’m exhausted and I didn’t mean for that to come out. If there is anyone who disapproved of me dating Grayson, it was my mother.

  There is a moment of silence before she answers. “Isn’t that the boy you dated in college? The one who, if I remember correctly, made you sob helplessly into your pillow for three months when he up and disappeared?”

  My face heats. Of course she remembers. She was the one who helped me pick myself up and taught me to guard my heart with a thick shield of money, power, and privilege. I clear my throat.

  “He’s turned up, I guess.”

  A resounding statement if ever there was one.

  “Rachel, dear…” My mother sighs dramatically. “It sounds to me as if you are out there on your own, working toward getting your little heart trampled all over again. I have to tell you, I couldn’t approve any less.”

  I feel a little bit of that old teen rebellion rising inside me. So what if my mommy doesn’t approve! I do what I want!

  I don't say that though. Instead I just suck in a breath. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

  My mother huffs out a laugh. “Okay then, Rachel. Well, there are several ways that this phone conversation could have gone, but… so be it.”

  I grind my teeth and say nothing. Which is perfect, because my mom is only winding up.

  “Here is a little advice, from woman to woman. Spend the summer chasing your old boyfriend. Sow your wild oats. Fall in love for all I care.” She pauses. “But as soon as the leaves start to turn, you get on a plane to New York. Come back here. Marry Clay or marry some other Wall Street boy. Settle down and get pregnant. Because if you don't…”

  She trails off, meaning for me to fill in the blanks. But I’ve never been one to color inside the lines where my mom is concerned.

  “Then what?” I say, disbelieving. “You’ll cut me off?”

  “Oh, Rachel.” She laughs. “That is only the beginning of what you’ll bring down onto your own head if you continue to push me.”

  Without really meaning to, I hit END on the call. I stare at the screen afterward for several seconds, unable to swallow everything my mother laid out for me.

  What the hell just happened? Did my mom really just threaten me with excommunication from my own family?

  I almost don’t believe it. But then again, it’s my mother. She doesn’t bluff. She doesn’t need to.

  I grind my teeth. Even if I wanted to leave, after that call I wouldn’t dare. If I bend to my mother’s whims again, she will gain the upper hand. And I can’t let that happen, not now that I’m an adult. Otherwise she will make my life a living hell, forever demanding something.

  I carry the conversation with me into the morning. It hangs around over my head as I go into my final day at Whiskey Bend base camp.

  Grayson is nowhere to be found in the morning, savoring his last moments alone I guess. I eat and then pack most of my camping backpack, jamming it full of changes of clothes and makeup. Then I look at the mound of things on the bed, still waiting their turn to be packed.

  I have way too much stuff.

  Pulling everything out of my backpack I start again. The sample taking equipment is a no-brainer. That has to go. And the bag of makeup essentials is also easy to pack. But when I get down to choosing which clothing stays and which goes, it is much harder. Slowly but surely, I whittle the pile down until it is the bare minimum. It’s still way more stuff than I think technically should go in the bag, but I think I can squish it down and make it fit.

  There is a knock on my cabin door. I step over the mess I’ve made and drag the door open. There I find Grayson, who has his arms full of camping stuff. He seems to be uncertain, like he’s not sure what sort of mood I will be in today.

  As if there is any way that I am just okay after this week. He shifts the load of stuff in his arms.

  “I come in peace. I wanted to make sure you had everything—” He stops talking midsentence, looking at my backpack. “That isn’t going to fly. You have at least twice as much stuff as you need there.”

  That isn’t what I wanted to hear. Screwing up my mouth, I twist around and look at the backpack.

  “I was thinking I could make it fit if I just stuff it down.”

  Grayson gives me an exasperated expression. “First of all, you need to fit all this stuff I’m holding in there. And second, you have to be able to actually carry it.”

  I step back, pulling a face. “I know.”

  He enters my tiny cabin, crowding me, and sets down the stuff he’s carrying on top of the pile on my bed. “Have you even tried to lift it yet?”

  My face heats. “No.”

  It’s strange, but I feel the same about Grayson just now that I do whenever I talk to my mother. Small and stupid, for a start.

  And oh so very weak.

  “Okay.” He looks at me and then casually leans over the bag, catching the whole thing in his big hands and dumping it out in one smooth motion.

  “Hey!” I protest. “I am still figuring out what goes in, okay?”

  He is unruffled by my annoyed words. He’s already picking through the pile he’s created on the floor. “God, you have so many clothes. You need like half the amount of clothing that is here.”

  I cross my arms and cock my hip. It’s hard to bite my tongue, but I can’t argue about the amount of clothes that I have. It is a ridiculous amount, especially considering the fact that I have three times as many brand-new camping outfits that I didn’t stuff into my backpack. I cast my gaze over the items on the bed as Grayson sorts things into piles.

  As I stand and watch, I can’t help but watch his body flex as he moves around. His arms bunch when he lifts my backpack. When he leans down to pick something up off of the floor, I get a tantalizing glimpse of his muscular back.

  He was a work of art back when I knew him. But now, his muscles are honed, all trace of fat whittled away until there is nothing left but a gorgeous male specimen.

  I look on, biting my lower lip.

  At the top of the new pile are the things that Grayson brought. A first aid kit. Matches. A length of rope. A spade. A long heavy duty flashlight. A jar of peanut butter. A map
and a compass. And a rolled up thing, sort of like a yoga mat but thicker.

  “What is this?” I ask.

  He glances over his shoulder. “A sleeping pad.”

  I purse my lips. “Why the jar of peanut butter? And the first aid kit… aren’t you going to be carrying one?”

  He shoots me an irritated look. “First of all, I’m your guide. I’m not your Sherpa. It isn’t my job to carry things around for you. And second of all—” He pauses, standing up and looking imperious. “What if we get separated? If you are stuck somewhere with nothing else to eat or you’re alone and wounded, you will be glad.”

  “Oh.” I look at the rest of the stuff. “What is the spade for? Am I going to be digging a hole to sleep in or something?”

  He crooks and eyebrow. “You know that composting toilet that we have here in camp?”

  “Ugh. The one that smells sooooo bad? Yeah, I’m familiar.”

  He smiles. “That toilet is a luxury. A lot of places we are going won’t have one. You’ll just have to go in the ground. And burying it is considered polite.”

  Horror snakes its way through my veins. I honestly hadn’t considered that. “Oh my god. Ewww.”

  Grayson just shakes his head. “It’s not too late to back out now and cancel the trip.”

  “No way!” I exclaim.

  “Fine.” He grits his teeth. “Let’s get you packed, then. Everything in this pile goes with us. Everything over there stays here.”

  I see that my toiletries bag has been discarded. “Um, I need that.”

  “I looked inside. It’s like three quarters full of makeup.” He rolls his eyes. “You need your toothbrush, your deodorant, and maybe a comb.”

  “I can’t leave all of my makeup here,” I whine. I hear my own tone of voice and wince. “I might need some mascara or something. There might be an emergency—”

  “What kind of emergency requires makeup?” he asks pointedly.

  “I don’t know. Wouldn’t you rather not find out, though?”

  He ignores my question. “Also, I think you won’t need any of those three pairs of shoes. Maybe the Teva sandals if you insist, but—”

  “Get OUT!” I demand, pointing at the doorway. “Get out right now before I throw you out!”

  He straightens his spine, his jaw tensing. “I’m just trying to help.”

  “You’ve done enough,” I say. Pushing against his arm, I begin to lean against him, not even being subtle about the fact that I want him gone.

  “Okay, okay,” he grouses, ducking down and letting me push him out of the tiny cabin. “You have to pack all the things I brought, though—”

  “Goodbye.” I slam the cabin door in his face. Fighting the stupid urge to cry, I sink down onto the floor and take a few deep breaths.

  I knew this summer was going to be hard. Part of the reason why I am here is because wanted to get away from New York, to get away from myself. But giving up my makeup and most of my clothes will be hard. I’ve spent the last few years shielding myself from the world with a thick layer of Gucci and lipgloss.

  Now I have the prospect of peeing outside and ground rough enough to require a sleeping pad to look forward to. I bite my lip.

  At the beginning of all of this, I was so looking forward to a summer of freedom. As it becomes increasingly apparent that I have no real idea what I am in for though, I’m less sure.

  But the alternative is to give up and fly home to Manhattan.

  Somehow, that strengthens my resolve.

  I took all the pain and devastation I felt when Grayson left and turned it into a kind of posh armor. Taking my mother as my example, I dulled the pain I felt, dulled all my feelings to such an extreme that I thought that nothing could ever make me unhappy ever again.

  Until I walked in on Clay and all my carefully constructed walls started to crumble.

  Still, giving all of my glamorous armor up, even just temporarily, is a struggle.

  After some more cleansing breaths, I paw through my toiletries again. I take out the foundation and the two eyeshadow palettes. The primer, the highlighters, the powder. The false eyelashes have to go too. It’ll be too hard to put them on when I’m out in the woods anyway.

  I already sort of knew that I wouldn’t be able to do what I’ve done for the last five years. This is just cementing those facts.

  Finally I’m left with a mirrored compact of blush and a tube of mascara. I find a tiny pocket on the outside of my backpack and secret them away, then slowly proceed with repacking the rest of my bag. Tying my rolled up sleeping bag and the mattress pad to the top, I lever the whole thing up and get it on my back.

  Holy crap, it’s heavy. Did I really sign myself up for carrying this thing around for three months?

  Sighing, I slide the backpack to the ground once more. I spend the next few hours checking things on my phone for a final time. I’ll be turning it off and leaving it here. That should be the biggest point of contention for me.

  Instead, I feel next to nothing as I scroll through the latest round of messages. Clay is now threatening legal action over being forced to move out of my apartment. My father is complaining that my trip is going to mess with his plans for my future career, whatever that means. And my mother is sending me snarky pictures of my friends laughing and having fun at the latest gala.

  This could be you if you made better decisions, she texts.

  I roll my eyes and shut my phone off, feeling a little of the weight lift off of my shoulders. Venturing out of my cabin for the last hot lunch I’m going to have for a while, I sit in the mess hall with a plate of roasted chicken and sweet potatoes before me.

  I barely notice when two women my age sit down at the table with me. They are already engaged in conversation so I don't bother them. One of them sighs and looks across the mess hall toward the door.

  The other one doesn’t even look up from her plate. “You should just go over to him. He’s leaving tomorrow. Just offer him a little company for the night.”

  The blonde turns red as a beet. “I doubt that Grayson is lacking for company. I mean… look at him. He’s so… ughhhh.”

  I almost choke on the piece of sweet potato in my mouth. For a second, my mind is boggled. They are talking about Grayson? My Grayson?

  Well, not mine. Just the Grayson that I know.

  The other two women don’t seem to notice my distress. The redheaded one clucks her tongue.

  “If you don't ask him, I might. Or maybe you can ask him and I’ll cozy up to that new guy, Aiden. I’ve heard anyone pretty can spend a night in his bed. They are both just waiting for the right girls to ask them out.” She gives the blonde a devilish look. “We could be those girls.”

  The blonde glances behind herself. “Shhh, here they come.”

  Grayson and Aiden walk by our table, paying less than zero attention to us. I eye them both, seeing what is obvious to all: Grayson and Aiden are hot as sin.

  I can admit it to myself. As I look at them, my heartbeat starts hammering loudly in my head. A part of me wonders: is Grayson still an amazing kisser?

  Would he cup my jaw, bend me back, and ravish me with that perfect mouth of his?

  I clear my throat and straighten my posture. It’s just too bad that both of their personalities suck.

  Disgruntled, I pick up my tray and dump half my food out. I have had quite enough of the mess hall today.

  Tomorrow, a new adventure begins.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rachel

  Ten years earlier

  I hurt myself.

  It’s hot outside, the sun rising high above us, baking the entire state of New York into a solid brick of heat. I am walking off the tennis court at my father’s country club, holding a tennis racket. White reigns here; I’m wearing a white polo, a short white skirt, white tennis shoes. The tape on my grip is white. Everyone I see is white.

  I’m pondering the whiteness of everything, how bleached it all is, as the tennis pro picks up towels
and balls. This is the country club lifestyle. Everything is curated and manicured, carefully selected to avoid upsetting anyone.

  God, I want more than anything to just drop my racket, set off in a run, and never look back. I want it so badly I’m nearly shaking with it.

  I crave excitement and adventure, risk taking and being out on my own. I need something more than bottle blondes talking about where they get their nails done or ladies in their tennis whites dishing about who is up for the boards of the charities that they run.

  But that’s not who I am. My family runs this city; the Blacks don’t run from their problems.

  So caught up in these thoughts, I’m not watching where I am going.

  Earlier, I flung a towel onto the court. Now I trip over it and tumble to the ground, landing awkwardly on my racket. My knees burn and my cheeks flame red.

  “Are you alright?” asks Jared, the tennis pro.

  God, please don’t let Jared come over to help.

  I have a little crush on him, enough though I play dumb in his lessons and don’t try very hard. I don’t want him to see my gangly fifteen-year-old body all sweaty, so I just put as little effort into it as possible.

  “I’m fine!” I call. Jared raises a brow but after a second he goes back to picking up balls.

  Sighing, I pick myself up. Blood wells up from my right knee, the scarlet of it making me feel weak. It drips onto my perfectly white tennis shoe as I close my eyes.

  Mother is going to have a fit when she sees me. I don’t know if she will be more upset because I cut myself, because I bled on my outfit, or because I might scar.

  “Hey, you should go to the pro shop,” Jared says. I open my eyes, careful not to look. I can still feel the trickle of blood, though. My knee is on fire and throbbing. He nods to my knee. “Get someone there to clean you up. I would, but I have a lesson in five.”

  I swallow and nod. “Okay.”

  He vanishes toward the back of the courts with his arms full of towels and balls. I grab my racket off the ground and head toward the pro shop. I can still feel the slow bleed from my knee but I try not to worry about it. The pro shop is a little one-room white brick building right down the carefully curated path, like everything is at this place. I push the door open, looking at the bright display of brand-new tennis gear that dominates the walls.