Pricked

by Winter Renshaw

  Yet.

  Even if I did like her, I’d never admit it to anyone.

  Not her.

  Not even myself.

  23

  Brighton

  I’m surprised he’s letting me lay in the crook of his shoulder. We’re technically cuddling, but I don’t dare point it out. I wouldn’t want to spook him. God forbid he actually accepts the fact that he likes this.

  Madden’s fingertips graze the bare skin of my arm as we bask in our respective afterglows.

  Sometimes he looks at me a certain way or says a certain thing that makes me think he’s not as cold and callous as he claims to be. There’s a softer side to him, it’s just buried beneath years of emotional armor and battle scars.

  His hand moves lower, just beneath my arm, and the pad of his thumb grazes my tattoo.

  It’s funny to me that there’s going to be a piece of him with me … on me … for all eternity. After this, whatever happens—good or bad—I’m going to think of Madden every time I look at it.

  Rolling to my stomach, I rest my chin and hand on top of his chest. His heart is still beating hard and he’s still breathless.

  His dark eyes are fixed to the ceiling, and I’d give anything to know what he’s thinking about right now.

  Maybe he’s thinking about a sandwich. Or a shower. Or maybe he’s thinking about what I said at the party earlier tonight, about the exclusivity thing.

  “What are you thinking about?” I ask, biting my lip.

  He smirks. “You don’t want to know.”

  “If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t be asking ...”

  Madden glances down his nose at me, reaching down to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Just thinking about that move you did … with your hand and your tongue ...”

  I laugh through my nose and roll my eyes. I might have read a few articles on Cosmopolitan’s website before tonight, specifically one on this oral sex technique called The Screw. It never hurts to be prepared and after three times that first night, I knew I’d need to bring my A game for round two.

  “Completely unexpected,” he says.

  “Glad you liked it.” I roll over and grab my phone off the nightstand. It’s only ten-thirty, but I should get going. I was completely transparent earlier today, telling my mother I was going to hang out with some friends at a party, that I would only have one drink, and that I’d be home by midnight.

  I could see the hesitation in her eyes, but she simply nodded and thanked me for keeping her informed, and I got the hell out of there before she changed her mind.

  I’m sure after that slew of threats she made the other day, she realized that kicking me out of the house is the last thing she wants, but I’m not in a position to call her bluff just yet.

  My car is in my parents’ names. They pay my cell phone and insurance. They’re even on my checking account so they can transfer money as needed.

  Everything I have … is theirs.

  Which means I have nothing.

  I’ve yet to tell them that I’m not going to medical school this fall. I was hoping to find a job first.

  A real job.

  With benefits.

  And a salary that would allow me to live on my own, to be completely independent.

  Until that happens, I’m stuck living under their roof and respecting their rules, however asinine and archaic they may be.

  Lifting myself off Madden’s taut torso, I slink out of bed and search the dark apartment for my dress, panties, and bra.

  “Where you running off to?” he asks, sitting up on his elbows.

  “Home.” I glance at him for a second, long enough for me to spot the disappointment that registers on his face by way of a frown and furrowed brows.

  He checks his phone. “It’s ten thirty-four.”

  “I know.” I shimmy into my panties, almost immediately regretting the decision because the gusset is still slightly damp from before.

  While he whisked me away from the party and we sped through the streetlamp lit streets of Olwine to his apartment, the man couldn’t keep his hands off me.

  The roar of his GTO’s engine, the vibration of the seats, and his hand down the front of my panties as I leaned into him, tasting his skin and breathing in his intoxicating cologne—I’d never been so turned on in my life.

  The anticipation heightened everything tenfold, and by the time we got to his apartment door we were both half-naked and in the midst of stumbling backward into his bed.

  “You can stay,” he says, “if you want, I mean.”

  “I know.” I give him a knowing smile.

  “Got big plans for tomorrow?” he asks, his tone casual enough to make me think he doesn’t care all that much when I know he does.

  “Nope.” I trek to the kitchen table, locating my bag right where I dropped it when we barged in here like wild animals in heat.

  “O … okay.” He sits up, tosses the covers off his legs, and climbs out of bed to slip on a pair of navy boxers. “Is everything okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” I slip my purse over my shoulder after locating my keys.

  “It’s just … last time you stayed and we ...” He stops talking and studies me instead.

  If I knew him a little better, I might give him the full rundown on everything, but honestly, I doubt he’d care. I’m just some girl he likes to screw and he’s just disappointed that we won't be beating our high score tonight.

  “All right.” He walks me to the door. “You want to do this again sometime?”

  “Do what?” I ask, playing coy. “Have sex?”

  “Obviously. That’s kind of what we do ...”

  “Have you given any more thought to what I said earlier? About the exclusivity thing?”

  His hands rest at his hips and his chest rises and falls, slow and deep. “I thought we were on the same page with the whole not-dating thing.”

  “We are,” I say. “I don’t want to date you. I’m not here, with you, doing this, because I expect anything magical to come of this. But I refuse to be told that I’m not free to sleep with someone else, that I’m confined to the moral and ethical restraints of a relationship … without actually being in one. You see how that’s not fair, yes?”

  His lips move to one side. “Yeah, but ...”

  “So that’s where I stand.” I smooth the wrinkles from the front of my dress.

  That was another thing—he tried to tell me what to wear tonight, so I showed up in a dress to spite him; a pale pink number with a fitted bodice that accented my breasts while nipping my waist and showing off just enough leg to draw the eye.

  If he’s smart, he’ll never tell me what to wear again.

  “So it’s the label you’re wanting?” he asks, scratching the side of his nose. “Because I don’t understand the difference between what you’re asking for and two adults agreeing to be monogamous fuck buddies.”

  “There is a difference.” All screwing around aside, I need to come clean with him. “My mother found out I lied to her the night I stayed with you.” I lift a hand because he looks like he’s going to cut me off and I want to finish. “And I know what you’re thinking … I'm twenty-two. I’m a grown woman. It shouldn’t matter what my parents think or say. But my family is a bit more complicated and this is how it is for reasons I’ve never really gotten into with you. Anyway, my point is … if we’re going to keep doing this, if I’m going to keep spending time here. With you. My parents are going to want to meet you. I'm going to have to tell them we’re dating.”

  “So you want me to be your fake boyfriend, in front of your parents, so I can keep fucking you.”

  “I know how it seems—”

  “—okay,” he interrupts me.

  I’m speechless for a second. “Really? That’s it? Okay? You’re in?”

  “Yes,” he says. “But I have a couple of conditions. First … don’t ask me to change. Don’t ask me to put on a polo shirt or fucking boat shoes. Don’t ask me to pret
end to be anything that I’m not.”

  I draw in a breath. He’s not exactly parent-charming material and far from the kind of boyfriend my parents likely had in mind for me, but this might be good for them.

  “And the second?” I ask.

  “Don’t fall in love with me.” He keeps a straight face, though I’m positive he’s joking.

  I laugh.

  He doesn’t.

  “I’m being serious,” he says. “All this spending time together, all this pretending … it could get confusing. Lines might get blurred. If at any time you start feeling a certain kind of way, we need to stop and get off the ride.”

  “Fine,” I say.

  “I need you to promise me.”

  I lift my pinky. “I’ll do you one better. I’ll pinky swear you.”

  “I’m not kidding, Brighton. I need you to promise that if you start feeling something toward me, we’ll end this. Immediately. No questions asked.”

  “I promise,” I say. “And for the record, I’ve kept every promise I’ve ever made.”

  He exhales, almost as though he finds relief knowing there’ll be no love, nothing real between us.

  And honesty, I find that a little sad.

  While I’ve never been in love in the romantic sense, I imagine it could be quite nice if the circumstances were right for it. If he denies himself this sort of thing, he’s only punishing himself.

  “What do we tell Devanie?” I ask. “If she finds out we’re spending time together, she’s going to ask questions.”

  “We’ll just tell her we’re dating. We’ll tell everyone we’re dating, just to make it easy. Only we’ll know the truth.”

  “Okay, so then it’s official now?” I ask. “You’re my … boyfriend?”

  I plaster the cheesiest grin on my face, hunching my shoulders as I wait for his response.

  “ … yeah …” he says, watching me.

  Throwing my arms over his shoulders, I squeeze him tight and bounce on my toes, pretending to be over-the-top excited. When I peel myself off of him, his expression is frozen.

  “I'm messing with you,” I say, returning to my usual calm and collected state.

  His chest deflates.

  “You should’ve seen your face though.” I reach for the door knob, give him a wink, and with that, I’m gone.

  I drive home with the windows down and the music loud. Maybe this little arrangement is ridiculous and over the top, but so is my life. And if this is what it takes to break free, then this is what I'm going to do.

  I’ll embrace the good and the bad, the highs and the lows, and the pleasure and the pain with open arms.

  I want to experience all of it, full throttle.

  No looking back, no regrets, no matter what.

  24

  Madden

  The dining room at the Karrington Estate is so massive, every clink of silverware on china, every cleared throat echoes off the walls. The ceiling drips with crystal chandeliers—five in all—and the chairs are comically oversized and better suited for royalty.

  I was only ever joking when I called Brighton a princess.

  But apparently the Karringtons live like actual nobles.

  “So, Madden, our daughter tells us you own your own business,” her father, Charles, says between bites of beef Wellington. “What is it that you do exactly?”

  “I own Madd Inkk,” I say. “It’s a tattoo and piercing parlor.”

  Her parents exchange looks. Brighton reaches beneath the table, resting her hand on my knee for a half second. But I don’t need the reassurance. I couldn’t care less what the Karringtons of Park Terrace think of me.

  After all, I get the satisfaction of fucking their daughter and at the end of the day, that’s all this is about.

  “Must see a lot of interesting people,” her father says, jaw jutted forward. His hair is equal parts brown and gray and he’s the quintessential embodiment of an old-moneyed, upper crust white male.

  “Every day.” I reach for my water glass, which appears to be some kind of etched crystal and heavy as hell. Props to them for making the ordinary task of drinking water a luxurious experience.

  “So how did the two of you meet?” Her mother wears a smile as fake as the tits protruding from her bony chest. I keep catching her scanning my arms and neck and any bit of exposed flesh, like she’s searching for any trace of tattoos, but she hasn’t asked about them yet. “I don’t believe Brighton has told us that story.”

  Brighton clears her throat, buying time, but I go for it.

  “Through friends,” I say.

  “His cousin lived on my floor at Rothschild. She introduced us,” Brighton says. She isn’t a very convincing liar, but her parents nod and chew their food and drink their wine.

  Most of our dinner consists of bits and pieces of small talk sandwiched between awkward pauses and bouts of silence, but that’s exactly how I imagined it would go from the moment I stepped foot inside their house in my ripped jeans and gray Pink Floyd t-shirt.

  “What will the two of you do when Brighton goes back to school in the fall?” Temple asks, gaze passing between the two of us. “Or have you not discussed that yet?”

  I place my fork down and turn to her, trying not to be obvious, trying to hide my annoyance at the fact that she left out one seemingly helpful detail.

  A boyfriend would know if his girlfriend was going off to college in two months …

  “Mom,” Brighton offers an embarrassed giggle. “We’ve only been dating a couple of weeks now. We’re taking things one day at a time.”

  “Yes, but the summer will be over before you know it,” she says. “And then you’ll be an hour away. With all your studies and the distance, how will you find time to keep the flame going?”

  Her father chimes in. “It’s a good thing I met your mother after medical school or I don’t know if we’d all be sitting here right now.”

  Interesting she never mentioned anything about medical school. Never would’ve struck me as the future-doctor type.

  “If it’s meant to be, we’ll find a way to make it work.” I say the kind of thing a lovestruck schmuck would say when trying to impress his future in-laws. “Fate has a funny way of making sure things work out exactly the way they’re supposed to, despite our best-laid plans.”

  Temple covers her heart with a manicured hand—red nails to match her red lips—and she shoots her husband a smile from across the table. He smiles back, but only with his eyes.

  A few minutes later, two women clear away our dishes and a man dressed in a chef’s uniform brings the final course—some kind of chocolate cake with multiple layers, each layer a different kind of chocolate.

  When we’re finished and the final plates are cleared, Charles rises and makes his way to me.

  “Madden,” he says. “Glad you could join us for dinner. I’d love to stay and get to know you a bit more, but I’ve got a late-night conference call to prepare for. Temple, I’ll be in my study if you need me.”

  Charles leaves and Temple clears her throat, toying with the string of pearls around her neck.

  “Well, I suppose,” she says, exhaling. “I should take my evening walk before the sun goes down. What do the two of you have planned this evening?”

  Brighton looks to me, smiling and shrugging. “Thought I’d show him my room. Maybe give him a tour of the house?”

  Girlfriend-y things …

  Brighton slips her hand into mine and leads me to a curved staircase with a polished banister. I follow her up and she stops in front of the first door on the right.

  “So … this is my room.” She lets go of my hand. I guess if her parents aren’t around, there’s no point in carrying on the lovey-dovey act.

  “Pretty sure your room is bigger than my entire apartment.”

  She rolls her eyes. “No, it’s not.”

  I take in the abundance of white. White four-poster bed. White dresser. White nightstand. White desk. White bookcase. White quilt. The
only non-white thing in here aside from the pale pink floral wallpaper is the bulletin board above her desk, which is littered with medals and ribbons and honor roll certificates.

  She truly is their perfect little angel.

  Brighton follows my gaze. “I told my mom there’s no point in displaying those. They’re so old. And who cares if you got first place in dressage when you were fifteen, you know?”

  “The hell is dressage?”

  She laughs. “Exactly.”

  Studying all of her awards, I conclude that her parents were so busy controlling every last detail, every spare minute of her childhood and adolescence, that she never had a chance to be a kid.

  Or a rebellious teenager.

  Which is why she’s rebelling now, at twenty-two.

  My gaze falls to a few framed photos resting on her desk, beneath her bulletin board, and I grab one. Brighton's hardly recognizable here, her skin more bronzed than it is now, her hair pulled back and covered in a hat, a man’s arm around her while a group of children in non-American clothing sit at their feet.

  “Oh. That’s two summers ago in Myanmar,” she says. “Every summer after college, I’d tag along with my oldest brother while he did Doctors Without Borders. We’ve also been to Mozambique and Cambodia.”

  I place the photo back where it was.

  Brighton’s a good person, through and through.

  I just hope I don’t ruin that for her.

  25

  Brighton

  I leave the ChemTech Soil and Water Laboratories shortly after five o’clock the following Monday. It was my first job interview, but I’m left with a sense of accomplishment and also relief.

  The woman who interviewed me said she’d make her decision by the end of next week, and if I don’t hear from her by then, I should call and ask to speak with her.

  It isn’t my dream job to test soil and water, and the pay isn’t amazing, but I’ve done the math, and on the lab technician’s salary, I can afford a small studio apartment in this area with enough left over for a car payment, incidentals, and other living expenses.