Pricked

by Winter Renshaw

  “Brighton?” Speaking of my mother …

  I sit up on my bed, placing my phone face down beside me. “Yes?”

  She stands in my doorway. I didn’t even hear her come in. “I’m going into the city for some shopping. Thought I’d get a head start on finding something to wear for Eben’s wedding. Going to meet your father for dinner at Cristiani’s afterwards. Would love it if you’d join me.”

  “Isn’t it kind of early to be shopping for a dress for their wedding?” I ask.

  She swats a limp hand. “Nonsense. It’s never too early. And if God forbid, I buy something off the rack, I’ll need to make sure the tailor has plenty of time to get it perfect.”

  She chuckles, but I know she’s serious.

  “I think I’m going to pass. Thank you though,” I say.

  Her smile evaporates, and her jaw pulses before she clears her throat. “Brighton ...”

  “Yes?”

  My mother enters my room, taking a seat beside me on the bed. “Is everything all right?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “You just seem a little … unlike yourself lately.” She folds her hands in her lap and then twists her five-carat diamond ring. “Maybe I’m imagining it, but it just seems like you’re a bit … avoidant.”

  “Avoidant? How?”

  “To be perfectly honest, Brighton, getting you to go anywhere with me lately is like pulling teeth,” she says. “And you never used to be this way. You’ve always been my partner in crime, my little shadow. Makes it difficult for me not to take this personally.”

  “Mom ...” I exhale, sitting up. “It’s nothing personal. I’ve just been staying busy. And I’ve got a lot on my mind lately.”

  “A lot on your mind? Do we need to get you in with Dr. Greenberg again?” Her palm splays across her chest.

  I haven’t seen Dr. Greenberg in years, and I’d be perfectly fine never seeing her again. That chapter in my life—after my grandparents were brutally murdered while I was asleep in the attic bedroom—is one that I’d prefer not to be reminded of.

  “If you’re feeling overwhelmed, Brighton, perhaps you should scale back on some of your extracurriculars,” she says. I know exactly what she's referring to.

  “I couldn’t do that to Devanie.”

  For years after the incident that took my grandparents’ lives, my parents treated me as though I were more delicate than flowers, more fragile than china. They waited with bated breath, thinking I was going to wake up one morning a shadow of the girl I was before I woke up and found the bloody remains of the two people who loved me more than anything in the world.

  They were my favorite people.

  By far.

  And then they were gone.

  Taken in the night while I slept on a different floor, dreaming and blissfully unaware of the madness happening two floors below.

  “All right. Well. I suppose you know what’s best for yourself.” She doesn’t mean it. It’s her passive-aggressive way of guilt-tripping me. “I’ll browse the young woman’s section while I’m there. Maybe I can find you something to wear to the wedding as well?”

  “I’d prefer to shop for myself this time,” I say. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  Her crestfallen expression is one that I fully expected. I just didn’t expect it to make me feel so awful.

  For twenty-two years, she’s had me under her thumb, like a willing and able spoiled little house pet. This is a lot for her to take in—this new side of me—which is why I’m doing it little by little. Baby steps. If it’s gradual, perhaps it’ll be easier on all of us.

  “All right. I’ll go,” I say. “But I need to be home by eight.”

  Her eyes light. “Are you sure you’re feeling up to it?”

  No.

  I nod. “Of course.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll call for the car. We’ll leave in an hour.” With that, she leaves, and while she didn’t ask me about my plans for tonight, I’m one hundred percent sure she will as soon as we’re in the car with the Chicago skyline in view, when it’s too late for me to change my mind. I’m still not sure what I’m going to tell her. Maybe I’ll say I'm hanging out with Honor again.

  As soon as she’s gone, I check my phone, finding a single text from Madden comprised of two question marks.

  ME: I’LL BE THERE.

  I arrive at Madd Inkk fifteen minutes to nine. Earliness has been instilled in me from a young age and I couldn’t change that if I tried. My father always said, “Ten minutes early is five minutes late.”

  There’s a different person working the front desk. A man with cool blue eyes, an unbuttoned chambray shirt cuffed at the sleeves, and a full body armor of tattoos. I think he’s the one who chimed in the first time I met Madden, when I asked him why he didn’t have any tattoos.

  “Hi,” I say. “Here to see Madden.”

  “Madden,” he bellows, though his eyes are on me. “You got someone.”

  I take a seat, cross my legs, and grab a nearby magazine, aimlessly paging through as I wait. And a minute later, Madden appears from behind a white curtain, his gaze laser-focused on me.

  The threat of heat creeps up my neck and my throat begins to tighten, making it slightly more difficult to breathe.

  It’s as if he makes me nervous now, which is silly. It was just a kiss. We’re both adults. I don’t even like him like that—I just find him insanely attractive. Nothing more, nothing less.

  “Come on back,” he says.

  I follow him to his station and he pulls the privacy curtain until we’re isolated from the rest of the shop.

  It’s quiet out there. I only spotted one other customer, and he was with someone in the piercing room. I suppose Monday nights aren’t all that crazy in a place like this.

  “Going to need you to lie back and lift your shirt,” he says. I don’t know why he’s being so professional now. Earlier I could’ve sworn he was trying to flirt with me via text.

  Maybe I was reading too hard between the lines.

  Wishful thinking and all that.

  Now I feel silly.

  I lie back on the bed and lift the hem of my shirt, keeping my eyes focused on the ceiling tiles and fluorescent lighting above as he washes his hands.

  Cold, gloved fingers trace my skin next, circling the butterfly wings on my rib. For some reason, I feel the need to avoid eye contact. Or maybe it’s my way of swallowing my pride and thinking that if I came here again, he’d flirt with me, he’d want to kiss me again.

  “It’s healing nicely,” he says, snapping off his gloves a few seconds later. “You’ve taken good care of it.”

  He tosses the gloves in the trash and I sit up, adjusting my shirt back into place before hopping down.

  “That’s all?” I ask.

  He turns to me, a dark brow lifted. “Is that not how you imagined this would go?”

  I smirk. “I mean … I could’ve sent you a picture or something.”

  “I offered you the option of skipping this,” he says. “You might want to refer back to our text messages from earlier today.”

  Rolling my eyes, I swipe my bag off a nearby chair and sling it over my shoulder. “You’re something, Madden. You know that? You’re really something.”

  He leans against the counter by the sink, hands cupping the orange Formica top. “You seem upset about something.”

  “What would I possibly have to be upset about?” I bat my lashes, knowing full well that he’s right. If I really think about it though, I’m actually mad at myself—he just happens to be getting the brunt of that.

  Madden’s arms fold across his chest. “You just seem … mad. Or something.”

  “I … it’s nothing.” I exhale, eyeing the curtain.

  “You thought if you came here tonight, I’d kiss you again.”

  My cheeks flush. Immediately. Bright hot. I try to tell myself that it was just a lucky guess, that he’s just trying to get a reaction from me, but there’s a chanc
e he read me like a book the second I walked through his doors.

  A man like Madden sees all kinds of people, day in and day out. He has the kind of world experience you can’t get in the immaculate bubble that is Park Terrace. He hasn’t spent his life on a leash, secluded from whomever his parents deem unfit to socialize with their son.

  “I would,” he says, breaking the silence that lingers between us.

  My gaze lifts to his. I’m almost positive he’s messing with me.

  “But not here,” he says. “I shouldn’t have kissed you like that earlier today.”

  I lift a single shoulder, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

  “It wasn’t cool. It was unprofessional of me,” Madden adds. “And for that, I’m sorry.”

  Clearing my throat, I offer a simple, “Thank you.” Though I’m not sure I should be accepting an apology for a kiss that I willed into existence. The whole time we were standing there bickering, I could feel the tension between us simmering, growing hotter with each returned serve until it reached a boiling point—which was when he went in for the kill.

  At first I thought I was dreaming.

  And then it was over. Just like that.

  In a way, I feel cheated.

  If it was going to happen, it should’ve been bigger than that. Hotter. Longer. More intense, if that’s even possible.

  “What are you doing after this?” he asks.

  I pause at first. It’s a Monday night. It’s not like I can pretend to have something exciting going on …

  “Going home,” I say. It is what it is.

  “You’re my last appointment of the day. Pierce is locking up the shop in fifteen minutes. You want to come upstairs and have a beer?” he asks.

  I drank beer once, at a frat party. I didn’t love it.

  “There’s a shop on the corner that sells wine,” he says, cocking his head as he examines me. Once again, he’s reading me like a book.

  “Beer’s fine,” I say, checking the time on my phone. I don’t want to seem more high maintenance than he already believes me to be.

  He chuckles under his breath. “All right then. Let’s head up.”

  I follow him to the back, where he punches in a keycode on a door that leads to a hallway with a couple of mailboxes built into a wall and a set of stairs that lead up to the second level. A minute later he’s unlocking his apartment door and my heart is beating so fast, I feel the slightest bit faint.

  Maybe it’s the anticipation of the unexpected, the excitement of being somewhere new and fresh and different and completely out of my element, but my head is filling with a thousand scenarios, all of which end with our clothes on the floor and his mouth on mine—amongst other places.

  But I’m probably getting ahead of myself. Probably reading into things again.

  I do that. I project my hopes and reveries onto other people.

  Madden flicks on a light and tosses his keys on his kitchen counter. The place is wide open, like a studio, but much bigger. We’re standing in a small kitchen, and I remove my shoes at the door while he dives headfirst into a magnet-covered refrigerator, retrieving two brown bottles of beer. Uncapping the first one, he hands it to me.

  “Thank you.” I take a swig, but I don’t taste a thing. My senses are on overdrive, taking in everything at once.

  The place smells of masculine soap combined with laundry from the basket of clean clothes sitting on his kitchen table, and then the smallest hint of stale pizza sitting in a cardboard box on top of his stove.

  Straight ahead is an unmade queen-sized bed and a nightstand covered in miscellaneous items. From here I spot a lighter, a lava lamp, a beer can, and a couple of magazines.

  Across from the bed is a small living room setup—a loveseat, cluttered coffee table, mid-century modern chair the color of olives, and a flat screen TV mounted on the wall, situated between two sizable art pieces, though in the dimly lit kitchen, I can’t make out exactly what they are or what kind of medium was used.

  A brilliant blue electric guitar stands in the corner, next to a brown amplifier, and resting on top of that is a sketch pad and a box of opened pens.

  “You done judging the place yet?” he asks, taking a swig of his beer. “Can we go sit down?”

  “I wasn’t judging.”

  “You’ve been staring at my place the way people stare at car crashes or couples who fight in public.” He treks across the room, taking a seat in his olive-green chair, elbows resting on his knees. Madden points to the loveseat beside him. “All yours.”

  I take a seat as well, knees together like a lady, trying not to stare. The truth is, I think his place is actually pretty cool. It’s curated. And personal. Filled with personality. Exactly the kind of place I’d imagine a man like Madden would live. An interior decorator hasn't so much as set foot in here, and I love that.

  “Good talk.” Madden slaps his thigh before getting up. Taking his phone from his pocket, he moves to his nightstand and docks it on some speaker before pulling up a music app and adjusting the volume.

  Radiohead plays in the background. High and Dry, I believe it is.

  “I feel like Radiohead is what guys play when they’re trying to impress a girl,” I tease, taking another drink. I can taste it this time, the bitterness settling on my tongue, but I keep a straight face.

  “Who told you that?” He returns to his chair, leaning back, legs spread, eyes on me.

  “No one,” I say. “It's just an observation I've made over the years.”

  “From all the guys who’ve tried to impress you,” he says, not asking.

  “Yep.” I take another drink.

  “They all play Radiohead.” Again, he isn’t asking.

  “Most. Yes.”

  He scratches the side of his nose before resting his hand along his jaw, his index finger covering his upper lip. “And were you impressed?”

  I squint. I haven’t the slightest idea where he’s going with this. “Not particularly. No.”

  “What does it take to impress you, then?” he asks. “Inquiring minds want to know.”

  “A lot more than Radiohead, I can tell you that.”

  “Okay, so what’s your weakness? Fancy car? Rich dad? Trust fund? Chateau in France?”

  I have half a mind to dump this beer over this asshole’s head, but I maintain my composure …

  … for half a second.

  “Smug bastard,” I mutter into the mouth of my beer bottle before taking a generous drink.

  “I’m sorry, could you say that louder? Didn’t quite catch that over all this highly impressive Radiohead.”

  Rolling my eyes, I sit the beer on the coffee table and stand. “I’m leaving.”

  “Brighton.” He stands, hands out as if he’s trying to reason with me. “I was just fucking with you. If you haven’t noticed, it’s kind of what I do.”

  “There’s a difference between messing with people and being cruel. I suggest you study up on that when you have the time.” Marching across the room, I slide my left foot into one of my shoes.

  Before I have a chance to slip into the other shoe, the warmth of his hand hooking into the bend of my elbow captures my attention, and before I realize what’s going on, he’s turned me to face him and my back is pressed against his door.

  “You going to try to kiss me again?” I ask, eyes holding his. Or maybe his are holding mine. All I know is I can’t look away. I couldn't if I tried.

  “Is that what you want?”

  I swallow the swell in my throat, but it returns. His hands are pressed against the door on either side of me, caging me in.

  “You tell me.” I decide to beat him at his own game, now that I’m familiarizing myself with his strategy. “You suggested that I come in for a follow-up tonight. You invited me up for a beer. You’re trying to convince me to stay. I think it’s time we call a spade a spade, Madden. You want to kiss me.”

  “Busted.” He smirks in the seconds before his mouth moves to mine. Only
he takes his sweet time. The wait is slow—painfully slow, and I find myself sick with anticipation, air swelling my lungs until I remember to breathe.

  The warmth of his lips grazes mine.

  And then they’re gone.

  “I'm going to be completely honest with you here, Brighton,” he says. “I want to kiss you. I want to kiss the fuck out of you. And hell, I’d do a lot more than that if given the chance. But don’t—and I repeat—don’t … try to take the upper hand from me because I’ll always get it back.”

  I lick my speechless lips.

  I’m pretty sure he just implied that he wanted to have sex with me and now my body is firing on all cylinders … the heat between my thighs, the hardening of my nipples, the ache dancing on my lips that only this infuriating asshole could kiss away.

  “You think I’m crass,” he says.

  I nod.

  “You can’t decide if you want me or if you can't stand me,” he adds.

  I nod.

  “Feeling’s mutual,” he says. “For the record.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Also, for the record, I think you’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  I’m inclined to believe he’s messing with me again. Raising me up, just so he can drop me.

  “I mean it,” he says. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  Shaking my head, I say, “I don’t. But it doesn’t matter. Flattery doesn't work on me.”

  “Not trying to flatter you, the same way I wasn't trying to impress you earlier.”

  “Just like you didn’t invite me up here just to put the moves on me.” My tone is laced in sarcasm.

  “Put the moves on you? What year is this?” He laughs. I see now that he has dimples. Two perfectly placed dimples. How I missed them before is a mystery. And why I’m focusing on how much hotter they make Madden instead of getting up the courage to slap his ridiculously attractive face for being such a jerk, I’ll never know.

  “What are we doing?” I ask with a sigh. “What is this?”

  His arms fall to his sides but he doesn’t move. We’re still so close I can feel his body heat radiating onto mine. The playful glint in his eyes withers and all hint of a smirk has vanished from his perfect mouth.