A Gorgeous Villain

by Saffron A Kent

  I liked that she was trying to hurt me.

  After everything, she has all the right.

  “Well, trying to at least. She isn’t making it easy,” I continue.

  Pete chuckles too. “Giving you a hard time, huh?”

  “She dumped her drink in my lap,” I tell him and he hoots with laughter. “I didn’t have extra pants, all right? It was fucking embarrassing.”

  That kills him.

  That completely kills him and he’s wiping tears by the end of his laughter. “Remember what I told you? Back when she stole your car. She sounds like my Mimi. She put me through hell.”

  “She put you through hell because you’re an asshole too.”

  Grinning, he points his bottle at me. “You’re gonna have your hands full, boy.”

  “Yeah, I’m not trying to put my hands anywhere near her, so.”

  “Good luck trying to keep that promise,” Pete tells me.

  “Fuck you.”

  Don’t get me wrong, I’d like to put my hands on her. In fact, I’d like that very, very much. I’m a guy, aren’t I? And an asshole at that.

  She does it for me. She always has. Her tight ballerina body and those big blue eyes and that good girl braid.

  And now with her feistiness she’s fucking irresistible.

  But I won’t.

  Because it’s better that way.

  I’ve fucked up her life enough already. My father has fucked up her life enough. She didn’t deserve to get caught up in the war between my father and me.

  She didn’t deserve to be used by the both of us and become collateral damage.

  That’s why I stayed away from Bardstown for the past two years. That’s why despite my sister’s constant nagging, I never talked about her, asked about her, showed any interest in her.

  Because for all my hatred for my father, I’m no better than him.

  That’s why I’d promised myself that I’d never see her again.

  I broke that promise though. Another promise I’ve broken when it comes to her.

  But I’m not putting my hands on her.

  Once this audition video is done, I’ll be gone. It’s not much, what I’m doing, but this is all I can do.

  And then it will be just my father and I, and this war. And I swear to God, I’ll find a way to beat him, to get out of his clutches.

  To win once and for all.

  But for now, she’s caged because of me, isn’t she? So I’m caged with her too.

  Every Thursday at midnight, he waits for me by the side of the road.

  He drives me to the Blue Madonna and helps me practice. He helps me with my stretches and warm-ups. With my lifts and turns.

  He watches me dance like he did two years ago.

  With bright, intense eyes. With an eager, excited body that turns every time I do, that spins when I spin to keep me in sight.

  But I don’t dance for him.

  I don’t.

  I promised myself that I wouldn’t. And so I don’t.

  I’m only letting him drive me to my studio and help me with my routine because it’s smart.

  In the sense that my routine really sucked and the deadline to submit the audition video is approaching fast. And I need all the help that I can get. I’m not jeopardizing my dream because of him again.

  If he wants to help me — for whatever reason — I’ll take it.

  Although it’s surreal.

  So freaking surreal that he’s back in my life.

  And I see him every week.

  But I’m trying not to dwell on those things. I’m trying not to dwell on the fact that what I thought to be true for two years, turned out to be a lie.

  It turned out that he saved me. From his father, no less.

  I’m trying not to think about it, about what he must’ve done to make that happen.

  Because he’s right.

  I’m not really free, am I?

  I’m still caged. I’m still sneaking out. My dream is still hanging in the balance.

  It’s difficult though. To not wonder about things.

  Especially when one day, I get an email from my old ballet teacher, and I mention it to Reed while he drives me to the studio that very night.

  “So,” I say, glancing over at him. “I got a very interesting email today. Would you like to hear about it, Reed?”

  “Do I have a choice, Fae?” he asks mockingly, without looking away from the road.

  I narrow my eyes at him and I know he can’t see it but his lips twitch in amusement anyway.

  “It was from my old ballet teacher,” I tell him and his fingers tighten on the wheel. “Apparently, she’s super guilty about kicking me out. She apologized about it. And in order to make up for her mistake, she will give me a recommendation letter. Not only that, she also put me in touch with one of the faculty members at Juilliard who also happens to be on the admissions committee. Juilliard, Reed. My dream school. Out of the blue, Miss Petrova decides to help me out because she thinks it might help me with my application. Out of the blue. Two years later. Can you believe that? How interesting, isn’t it?”

  Reed shrugs all casually. “It is interesting.”

  “Right?”

  “Yeah, it’s interesting how you find completely uninteresting things, interesting.”

  I fist my hands in my lap. “You did this.”

  “Did what?”

  “You made her do this, didn’t you? You forced her to send that email.”

  “I wouldn’t call it force,” he replies, still keeping his eyes on the road.

  I turn toward him then. “Oh my God, you did. Did you blackmail her, Reed?”

  At this, he glances over at me, his wolf eyes all cool and pretty. “What do you think I am, Fae? A villain.”

  “Yes. And you do that. You blackmail people. You lie to them. You use them. That’s what you do.”

  His jaw clenches for a long second before he says, “I didn’t blackmail. I didn’t have to. I asked her nicely and she agreed.”

  “But you —”

  “Look, she had no right to kick you out, understand? What you do on your time is your fucking business. And besides, it was her loss. She lost the best ballerina she ever had or will ever have. So I just showed her the light.”

  And then I have to grit my teeth and curl my toes.

  I have to keep sitting in his Mustang, all still, as if nothing happened, as if he didn’t pay me a compliment and as if my stupid heart isn’t spinning in my chest.

  But then the next week he comes to pick me up, things get even worse.

  Because there’s something waiting for me in his Mustang.

  A pale pink box with a pink satin ribbon around it.

  I don’t have to open the box to know what’s inside of it.

  I stare at it with my throat tight, holding on to the open door of his car. “I don’t eat those.”

  From the corner of my eye, I see his chest move sharply. “Why’s that?”

  I swallow, glancing at him. “Because I don’t. Because I’m a dancer and I need to watch my weight.”

  His own hand on the door flexes. “I can still carry you with one hand. So I think you’re fine.”

  He can.

  He can carry me with one hand and I try not to shift my gaze over to his arms. His sculpted biceps. His strong, graceful fingers.

  He was built before, when he was the soccer god of Bardstown High, the Wild Mustang. But he’s something else now. He’s strength itself. It drips off his body like a thick syrup. It wafts off his body like a delicious scent.

  “Do they still call you that?” I ask, because I can’t stop myself. “The Wild Mustang.”

  “What?”

  “At your college. Do your soccer groupies still call you that? By your nickname.”

  His gorgeous face is blank, inscrutable as he watches me. “Yes.”

  It shouldn’t bother me.
/>   It should not bother me at all.

  He was always popular and a player. Why wouldn’t he still be the same now?

  Still though something contracts in my chest and I can’t help but say, “You must be very popular then. Not that there was any doubt whatsoever. I mean, everyone knew you were going to go pro, be all famous and whatnot and —”

  “Yeah, I’m a regular stud,” he says, bites out almost, cutting me off. “Are you going to get in the car or not?”

  “I’m not going to eat the cupcakes,” I tell him again.

  And he asks me, again, “Why?”

  “Because I just told you. Because I’m watching my weight and because it was…”

  Because it was our thing.

  Because it was something that he brought me. And even though every time he did that, I told him not to bother because I was getting fat and yet, I waited for him to do just that.

  To bring me Peanut Butter Blossoms.

  I don’t say that though. And I don’t have to.

  Because he gets it.

  Because for some reason, he remembers everything about our time together. Even though it was inconsequential and insignificant to him.

  Or rather, significant only in the sense that he used me to win against my brother.

  With sharp features turned even sharper, he says, “Because I brought you cupcakes two years ago. To fool you. And you did get fooled. So now you’re punishing yourself for falling into my trap. Because that’s what you do, don’t you?”

  “I don’t…” I trail off because I’m lying.

  Of course I do that.

  I punish myself so I can remember to never make the same mistakes again and I hate that he knows this about me.

  “You do,” he says, his wolf eyes narrowed. “You lied to your brothers about coming to my party that one time and you walked on eggshells around them for the rest of the week after that.”

  I did.

  I did walk on eggshells after lying about going to his party, the one that started everything. Because I felt so guilty.

  That for days after that, I tried to make up for it in a hundred different ways. By never being late coming back from school; by doing Ledger’s laundry without him having to pester me about it; by cooking Con’s favorite things and so on.

  I purse my lips. “Yeah, I did. Because I hate lying. Especially to my brothers.”

  He watches me for a few moments, the muscle on his cheek pulsing before saying, “It was me. I fucked you over. I broke my promise to you. Deliberately. Because I wanted to win. I picked soccer over you. And then broke your heart. I’m the asshole here, understand? So if you want to punish someone, punish the villain in your story. Not yourself.” His eyes rove over my face. “Being gullible is not a crime. Seeing good in people is not a crime either. Taking advantage of it is.”

  I watch him then.

  Speechless.

  I never thought of it that way. I never thought that I see good in people. I mean, I do, but I never made that connection. I never thought that that’s what I was doing with Reed.

  I was though, right?

  I did see the good in him and he took advantage of that.

  I trusted him and he broke my trust. And maybe he’s right.

  Maybe trusting people is not a crime, breaking that trust is.

  He’s the criminal. And I’m the crime he committed.

  “Are you going to eat the fucking cupcake or not?” he pushes out when all I do is stare at him.

  At this beautiful criminal, this gorgeous villain.

  “Apologize,” I blurt out and as soon as I say it, my spine goes up.

  My resolve strengthens.

  “What?”

  “Apologize to me,” I tell him. “Because you’re right. I have been punishing myself. For the crimes that you committed. You’re the asshole here, the villain. And so apologize. Say you were an asshole. To use me like that. To abuse my trust. To break my heart like that. I apologized for stealing your car even though you deserved it and now it’s your turn. And apologize not because your sister wants you to but because you should.”

  His nostrils flare and I raise my chin.

  I’m not budging from this spot until he apologizes to me.

  His jaw tics for a few seconds and his grip on the door tightens before he loosens it and says, “I’m the asshole here. I used you, abused your trust and broke your heart. I shouldn’t have done that. So yeah, I fucking apologize.”

  It wasn’t exactly the heartfelt apology I was looking for but it’s fine.

  It’s Reed.

  He’s rude and insensitive and an asshole like he just said. So I’ll take it like I’m taking his help.

  "Thank you.”

  “So am I forgiven then?”

  I look at him for a few seconds before I shake my head. “No. Not really. I don’t think anything you can do will ever make me forgive you.”

  He looks back at me for a few seconds too. “Good.”

  I feel a twinge in my heart and I swallow. “Fine.”

  “Now, are you going to get inside the fucking car or not?”

  “I will.” I throw him a regal nod. “And I will eat those cupcakes too. In your Mustang. Because I don’t care about your stupid rule of not eating inside your car.”

  He does have that rule.

  He told me that once and all the time we were together, I never broke it. But I’m going to break it now and he can’t stop me.

  “Fine.” He throws me a short nod of his own. “You can eat your fucking cupcake in my car.”

  So I finally get inside his car and open the box of cupcakes. When he closes the door, I hear him mutter, That rule was never for you anyway.

  Again, I try not to dwell on those nearly silent words. I try not to let any warmth invade my chest.

  But as I said, on nights like this, it becomes hard.

  It becomes hard to ignore that for all his asshole ways, he did get me off the hook and he did apologize to me.

  And one Thursday, a week later, it becomes almost impossible to ignore.

  Because first, he comes to pick me up at midnight, wearing a suit.

  A legit suit with a tie.

  His jacket is off, but he’s wearing a dress shirt that stretches really nicely over his chest, and a loosened tie.

  For a few seconds I can only watch him with wide eyes. Because he looks so… dashing. So freaking handsome and gorgeous and worldly.

  Like the rich, arrogant boy he is.

  A man actually.

  And the second thing happens when I get inside his Mustang and my eyes fall on some papers and files scattered on his backseat. It’s not the files themselves that trip me up, it’s the black logo on them, Jackson Builders.

  His dad’s company.

  The company that Reed has sworn never to work at even though that’s what his dad has always wanted for him.

  That’s what pushes me over the edge.

  That file and his suit.

  That’s what makes me break the pact. The pact that I’d made with Tempest of no brothers and no seeking out information about Reed.

  About the last two years.

  About what really happened and what he did to get me free.

  ***

  He’s waiting for me by his car.

  Like he always does.

  Leaning against it, his arms crossed over his chest, his ankles crossed as well.

  I can see him through the woods, his tall form, his dark jeans.

  Tonight there’s no light in him, no softness. Nothing to sand down the beautiful, reckless edges.

  Because tonight he’s forgone his hoodie that he usually wears. He doesn’t have his suit on either, which I only saw for the first time last Thursday, which made him look all old and mature and so experienced.

  Tonight, he has that leather jacket on.

  The one that I hate because he wore it when he broke my
heart, looking so gorgeous while doing it.

  I watch him in that without making my presence known.

  I watch and notice and analyze him.

  His hair is grown out even more in the past month. If he didn’t need a haircut before, he definitely needs one now.

  I look at his body.

  His big shoulders, broad and strong. His lean, cut torso.

  Then I move down to his thighs.

  They bulge under his jeans when he shifts on his feet, showing me how powerful they are. His thighs, his calves.

  I have to admit that I’ve always been so fascinated by them, by his legs. By his footwork.

  I’m a ballerina, right?

  I see footwork in my dreams. I’ve seen his footwork in my dreams too.

  I’ve seen him stealing the ball, dribbling it across the field, sending it flying across the field so many, many times. Both in real life and in dreams.

  I also have to admit that when I decided to never seek out any information about him, cut all the ties, I was sad that I’d never see him play.

  I was sad that I’d never get to witness his breathtaking footwork, his majestic skills on the field.

  I was sad.

  I am sad tonight too.

  Sad and miserable and so melancholic. So blue and gray.

  As gray as the smoke coming out of his mouth. Because he’s got a cigarette clenched between his teeth.

  He hardly ever smokes, this villain. The one who blackmails and locks me up in closets and chases after me when I run. But if he’s smoking tonight, then that means he’s cold.

  Even though the October weather isn’t all that chilly. Not yet.

  But I know him.

  I know that he gets cold easily. That’s why I made him that sweater. The night before everything happened.

  The night he kissed me.

  I wonder what he did with it. I wonder if he threw it away.

  I don’t have the courage to ask him though.

  Besides, I’m going to need my courage for other things tonight.

  So I walk toward him, coming out of my hiding place. My feet crunch on the leaves and the gravel, alerting him to my presence, and he looks up.

  His gaze homing in on me as always.

  His gaze roving all over me as always.

  Like he has every right to do that. He has every right to watch me, take me in, take me apart, turn me inside out and cast me aside when he’s done. And tonight, his wolf eyes are even hungrier.