“I left,” she says. “I waited outside and called her and she came and got me right away.”
My frustration toward Brighton subsides, but only a little. “Why didn’t you call me?”
Dev scoffs. “Are you serious right now?”
“As a heart attack.”
“Why would I call you? Look at how you’re acting right now!”
“How I’m acting? I’m acting like someone who gives a shit about you, that’s how I’m acting.”
Her arms fold across her chest and her eyes narrow as she shakes her head. She can give me attitude all she wants, it’s not going to help her cause.
“Dev, you know you can call me anytime you need anything. And especially when you’re in trouble. It’s why I got you that damn thing in the first place.” Well, partly. I also wanted to be able to track her at all times.
“You would’ve freaked out, Madden, and you know it.”
She isn’t wrong.
I take a seat in the recliner and rest my elbows on my knees. Maybe Brighton’s right. Maybe I need to give Devanie more credit. I mean, she did do the right thing. She easily could've stayed and I’d have had no idea any of this happened.
“Dev.” I exhale her name, pinching the bridge of my nose. “You did the right thing, okay?”
My sister grabs her phone but leaves the screen dark as she studies me. “I know why you’re like this.”
My gaze flicks to hers. “What are you talking about?”
“You think something’s going to happen to me.” She swallows. “Like Dallas.”
Rising, I head to the kitchen and stick her breakfast in the fridge. I’m sure Mom will eat it after she rolls out of bed this afternoon.
Heading to the door, I turn to her before I leave. “Next time, call me. Not her. You're not her problem, you’re mine.”
17
Brighton
My mother paces in her dressing room, toying with the diamond pendant hanging from her décolletage. “We need to discuss boundaries, Brighton.”
I sit on the tufted velvet bench directly beneath a thousand-crystal chandelier, bracing myself for the lecture I knew was inevitable.
I returned from taking Devanie home twenty minutes ago.
The instant my mother heard my footsteps she called for me from her bedroom door, the tone of her voice alluding to the fact that she was none too happy about waking up to a stranger in our home this morning, even if the stranger was an innocent twelve-year-old girl.
Smoothing the lapels of her pale pink robe, she turns to me. “I love that you have a big heart. And I know your intentions were in the right place. And I’m all about helping those in need. But there needs to be limits and boundaries and if this girl is in trouble, I’d prefer that you not involve yourself in that and leave that to the appropriate people.”
I try not to laugh. “It isn’t like that.”
“You picked her up in the middle of the night and brought her home. Put her in your pajamas. Fed her. Clearly she was in some sort of trouble.”
“She was at a party and someone was passing around a marijuana cigarette. She got scared and she called me.” I shrug. “I let her stay here and took her home the next morning. There was no drama or trouble. She did the right thing. End of story.”
My mom worries the inside of her lip. “Where was her mother?”
“Working.”
“So the child was home alone? On a Friday night?”
I nod. “She was afraid to call her brother. Thought he’d be upset. I was all she had."
“Still.” She glances up toward the proverbial heavens and sighs. “You’ve known her all of, what, two weeks now? I think you’ll be better off keeping a distance from her personal life and sticking to mentoring. That’s what you signed on for. Nothing else.”
I open my mouth to respond and then deem it unworthy of my time or energy. I want to tell her that part of mentoring is encouraging good decisions and the right choices, but I know my mother won’t hear any of it. There’s never any convincing her that she’s wrong about something. I gave up on that a long time ago, settling for silent stewing instead.
As far as I’m concerned, Devanie did the right thing and that’s all there is to it.
I swear my mother forgets that she, too, was once young and curious and wanting to belong and fit in.
Rising, I stride toward the exit of her dressing room.
“Where are you going?” my mother asks.
I stop in the doorway. “The conversation’s over, isn’t it?”
Her brows knit. I’ve rendered her speechless, a rare state for Temple Karrington. She’s not used to me walking away without a proper, formal dismissal on her part.
Without saying another word, I leave and head to my room to take a shower and get ready for the day. But on my way to my en suite, I pass my phone and find the screen lit with a calendar notification.
REMINDER! 1:15 PM MONDAY - MADD INKK FOLLOW UP
With all the craziness of the past week, I'd completely spaced off this upcoming appointment.
Staring at my screen, I press my palms against my belly, where a mad swarm of butterflies are flurrying about. I couldn’t stop them if I tried. Never mind the fact that he all but screamed at me this morning for leaving him in the dark about his sister. I’m probably the last person he wants to see again.
But screw it.
I’m going.
Madden Ransom does a lot of things to me—but he doesn’t scare me.
18
Madden
I draw the curtain around my station Monday afternoon as Brighton takes a seat on the client bed. She’s here for her follow-up, which if I'm being honest is a bit shocking. I figured after the way I acted Saturday morning, she’d have cancelled.
She’s definitely not the type to no-show.
That sort of thing is probably beneath her silver-spooned upbringing.
She places her bag aside and crosses her legs, resting her hands at the edge of the bed as she watches me wash my hands and slip on a pair of latex gloves.
The tension between us is thick, palpable, and I’ll admit, I’ve had a chance to cool down a bit from Saturday morning. And it did cross my mind once or twice this weekend to text her something along the lines of an apology, but something stopped me every time I tried to hit send.
I deleted every message I typed.
And I couldn’t begin to know why.
“Look,” I say, addressing the elephant in the room before we begin. “I shouldn’t have gone off on you the way I did on Saturday.”
Our eyes lock. She says nothing.
“And thanks for being a saint and all, but next time, please call me. Let me deal with her,” I say. “She told me everything—about the party and the joint. And you were right. She’s a good kid and she deserves more credit than I give her. But she’s not your problem.”
Her hands grip the side of the bed so hard her knuckles turn white, and she licks her full lips before she speaks. “I just want you to know that I care very much about your sister. I’d do anything for her. Truly. She will never be a burden or a problem to me.”
I bring my hands behind my neck and release a hard breath, chuffing. “That’s so typical of your kind.”
“My kind?” She sits straight, arms folded, gaze pointed, posture of a ballerina. “What does that mean? Exactly?”
“You know. People like you. The ones who go around thinking they can save the world when secretly they only do it because it makes them feel a little less guilty about their country club life.”
Brighton slides off the client bed, hands on her hips. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
Her voice has a bit of a tremor to it, and it makes me think she’s not used to swearing or speaking to people with such a curt snip to her tone.
“I know you drive a shiny new import that doesn’t belong in Olwine, you carry a bag that probably costs ten times what most people make in a month, and you’re dressed like
you’re about to attend a polo match at any given moment.”
Her full lips part, like she’s going to respond, and then her hardened expression fades. A second later, she’s gathering her things and dragging her hand along the sides of her cheeks, catching tears before they fall too far.
Shit.
I don’t get off on making people cry, but I'm not going to apologize for what I said. I don’t have sympathy for people like her, the ones who look down on us poor, unfortunate souls and then drive home to their McMansions in the suburbs and sleep on their luxury mattresses with their thousand thread count sheets without a care in the world keeping them up at night.
“For the record, I’m not crying because of you,” she says with a sniff, wiping her tear-stained palms on her starched, white linen shorts.
“Okay?” I have to admit, I’m curious. “Then why are you crying?”
Her golden-brown gaze finds mine and her shoulders fall. “Because you’re right.”
Was not expecting that …
Brighton grips her purse strap, secures it over her narrow shoulder, and reaches to move the curtain out of the way.
Groaning, I say, “Wait.”
She stops, turning back to me. “Why?”
“Because you can’t go out there like that,” I say.
Brighton scoffs. “You think it’ll make you look bad.”
“No. I don’t give two fucks what they think of me,” I say. “I just know those guys, and they’re going to give you shit.”
“Wow,” she says, arms folded as she steps closer to me. “You just insinuated that you couldn’t care less about my ‘kind’ and now you’re worried that a couple of your employees are going to make fun of me. So which is it? Do you resent me or are you actually not as coldhearted as you act?”
“I don’t resent you—I don’t know you.”
Her brows rise. “Really? You don’t know me? Because you sure acted like you knew everything about me a minute ago.”
Her chest rises and falls and the soft scent of her perfume fills my lungs. She moves in and the closer she gets, the harder my heart drums in my chest.
Brighton represents everything I hate in this world—entitlement, privilege, greed. But for some strange and unknown reason, all I can think about right now is crushing those rosebud lips with a kiss.
“You want to know what I think about you?” she asks.
I smirk. “No. But I’m pretty sure you’re going to tell me anyway.”
“I think you’re an asshole,” she says. “And I’ve never said that to anyone in my entire life, but I’m saying it to you because I feel like you need to hear it and you seem like the kind of guy who appreciates honesty.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“I know I’m not wrong,” she says.
“Good. Looks like we’re in agreement about pretty much everything today.”
“I’m not done.” She lifts a flat palm in front of my face.
“Yeah, you are,” I say before she can continue. And then I do the most fucked up thing of all.
I kiss her.
I mean, technically I’m shutting her up—but with a kiss.
I silence her full mouth with mine, cupping her pretty little face in my palm, my fingers slipping through her silky blonde hair.
She moans for a second, a half-assed attempt to protest, and then she exhales through her nose, her breath warm and minty on my face as her lips part and she accepts my tongue.
I don’t know what the fuck is happening or what the fuck this is, but there’s something cathartic about it. Like a release I never knew I needed.
Moving my hands lower, I slip a finger under the hem of her shirt then beneath the waistband of her linen shorts, pulling her closer, until she’s completely pressed against me. My cock throbs, hardening on the other side of my jeans.
I'd take her right here, right now if I could.
A minute later, she pulls away, lips swollen and golden eyes wild. She tugs her shirt into place and tucks a strand of hair behind one ear. “This is probably a Monday for you.”
“Are you implying that I kiss all of my clients?” I ask.
“Essentially.”
I smirk. “Only the infuriatingly sexy ones.”
Her cheeks bloom with warmth, and she looks away. Makes me wonder if anyone’s ever called her “sexy” in her life. Not that she isn’t. I just bet people in her social circles aren’t the crass and blatant types.
Brighton lifts her fingers to her puffy pout. I’m two seconds from asking if she’s okay. I mean, it sure as hell seemed like she was enjoying herself a minute ago. And she kissed me back, her tongue grazing mine and her hands resting on my hips.
But the curtain moves.
We’re no longer alone. No longer isolated from the rest of the shop. Or from reality.
Missy stands there, snapping her gum, her dead stare alternating between the two of us. “Your next appointment’s here.”
“’Kay, thanks,” I say as Brighton clears her throat and squeezes past Missy. Five seconds later, she’s gone, the bells on the front door jangling as it shuts. I glance at the small waiting area and spot one of my longtime clients flipping through a magazine. “Bud, I’m ready for you.”
I motion for him to come on back, and he follows, making himself comfortable as I prep the station. We’re finishing up a piece on his left bicep today, a black and white likeness of the 13-year-old Rottweiler he had to put down earlier this year. There’s not much room to work with—he’s what we like to call a tattoo “collector” and he’s more ink than skin these days, but I’ve never turned down a challenge or a loyal client and I’m not about to start now.
“How goes it?” he asks.
“Same old.”
“Keeping busy?”
“Always,” I say.
That’s one of the things I like about Bud. He can carry on a conversation using a fourth as many words as everyone else. And what you see is what you get with him. He wears ripped Wranglers, twenty-year-old t-shirts with screen-printed logos that he probably got for free over the years, and he hasn’t cut his goatee in at least half a decade. Braids it and everything.
Bud is real.
Nothing like Brighton, who hides behind her Park Terrace facade and family name.
I prep my station, wash up, and slap on a pair of clean gloves as Bud leans back on the client bed—and it’s then that I realize Brighton left without me so much as glancing at her tattoo.
As soon as I finish up with this appointment, I’ll shoot her a text about rebooking. I’m sure the thing’s healing nicely and I’m sure she’d be fine if she never sets foot in here ever again …
… but I kind of want to see her again.
19
Brighton
I’m reeling.
Head to toe.
I never knew it was possible to feel … sparkly … but that’s the only way I can describe it. It’s like every part of me is alive, parts I never knew existed.
That kiss.
That kiss …
It was everything.
Unexpected. Exhilarating. Infuriating. Freeing. Terrifying. Enthralling. It brought everything to the surface at once. I don’t think it lasted more than a minute, but I felt more in that one minute than I’ve ever felt in my entire life combined.
I drove home on a cloud, walked into my house practically dancing on air.
I’m quite certain Madden felt nothing. I’m sure he does that sort of thing all the time, despite the fact that he denied it. I bet women throw themselves at him all the time. With those steady hands, full lips, and that devil-may-care attitude, he’s all but impossible not to want.
Lying on my bed, I stare at the ceiling before closing my eyes and replaying that moment for the thousandth time.
His mouth crushing mine.
His hand on my cheek, fingers in my hair.
The hardness beneath his jeans when he pressed my body against his.
It was like the
slow click a rollercoaster makes as it climbs a steep hill … you know what’s coming next and you have no choice but to embrace it and let it happen. And let’s face it, you knew what you were getting into when you boarded the ride in the first place.
My heart beat so wildly I thought I was going to pass out—then I remembered that all that separated us from a half dozen other people was a thin white curtain.
So I pulled away first.
I spoke first, wanting to show him that the kiss meant just as little to me as it did to him because I was certain he’d expect the opposite.
And then his receptionist walked in and the moment was gone.
Just like that.
I left in a hurry. There was nothing more to say. But what I wouldn’t give to have just one more moment like that with him, longer and uninterrupted.
He’s with a client now. Or at least he was when I left. But still, I wonder if he’s still thinking about the kiss, wishing we would’ve had just another minute or two or three …
My phone buzzes on my nightstand, and I roll over to retrieve it, practically choking on my spit when I see it’s a text from him.
MADDEN: I never looked at your tattoo when you were here.
I bite the grin that threatens my mouth and quell the urge to type back something smart.
ME: Should I come back another time?
Three dots fill the screen before disappearing. A full minute passes before he replies.
MADDEN: I’ll leave that up to you.
ME: You’re the expert. You tell me if I need to be seen again.
MADDEN: It is proper procedure. Got to make sure it’s healing properly. I can squeeze you in at nine tonight.
I’m sure my mother’s going to throw a million questions my way if she sees me leaving the house at nine o’clock on a Monday, but if it means getting one more kiss, then so be it. I’ve got hours to come up with an excuse anyway.
Pricked Page 9
