I try to think of an excuse.
But one taste of her cherry lips and I’m a goner.
I haven’t had her since Saturday night, but it might as well be a lifetime ago.
“Brighton …” I try to stop her, try to peel myself away. It’s a feeble, pathetic attempt, and I know it.
She leaves a trail of kisses around my collar, working up the front of my neck until she returns to my mouth.
My cock throbs, anticipating what’s to come, and when she tugs my shirt over my head, I lose my resolve completely.
Reaching for the curtain, I pull it shut so we’re not on display for anyone driving by who happens to glance through the front windows, and then return my focus to the beautiful girl offering herself to me on a silver platter.
I peel her jersey soft pajama bottoms down her long legs, tossing them aside, and slick my palms up her thighs in search of her panties—only there are none.
She came prepared.
“You must really want this …” I smirk, running a finger along her wet folds before circling her clit with my thumb.
Brighton’s answer comes when she widens her legs a few inches more. Lowering myself to my knees, I bring my mouth to her sweet pussy, tasting her arousal and waiting for that first sigh.
I live for that first sigh …
All week I’ve been thinking about what she asked me two Mondays ago … about what would become of this little arrangement should one of us meet someone else. I have no intentions of meeting anyone. I’m content with the way things are.
In a perfect world, they’d stay this way forever.
But I know this isn’t what she wants. At least not in the long term. She’s having fun now, but eventually she’s going to want something more, and she’s going to want to be with someone who can give her that something more.
A few times I’ve tried picturing her with someone else, but whenever I thought about another guy making her smile the way she smiles at me, another guy crushing those pillow-soft lips or trying to “impress her with Radiohead,” it makes me want to rage.
Brighton’s moans intensify, which tells me things are moving along a little too quickly. Probably doesn’t help that she’s waited days for another release. Her hands tug at my arms, guiding me up, and I unzip my fly, gripping the base of my throbbing cock.
I don’t have a condom on me—they’re not exactly something I keep in stock in my shop—but I know she’s on the pill. Either way, I plan to pull out when it’s time.
Guiding myself inside her, slow inch by slow inch, her body melts beneath mine and our eyes meet, holding for a few moments longer than usual.
She smiles.
And fuck it—I smile back.
I’ve never screwed a woman in my shop—not even Veronica. But I’d always envisioned it being a little dirtier, a little hotter.
But this is almost … sweet.
Driving myself into her, I fill her to the hilt, turn my face away from hers, and fuck her harder than I’ve ever fucked anyone before.
Her nails drive into my skin and she fucks me back, whispering in my ear to keep going … to not stop …
I’m glad she likes it because I couldn’t handle another second of looking into each other’s eyes and smiling like two lovesick fools.
This is how it has to be.
How it should be.
She finishes first, and then I pull out, brushing her shirt out of the way and releasing myself on her flawless, peaches-and-cream stomach.
By the time I stand up, I find that the client bed has migrated to the other side of the room, and in the midst of all that we knocked over two tool trays.
We clean up our mess, and a few minutes later the place is spotless and back in order. I check the lock on the front door before meeting her at the back entrance, but instead of being ready to go, she’s leaning against the wall with her arms folded and her head tilted sideways.
“Can we go somewhere?” she asks.
I check my watch. It’s almost eleven o’clock. “Like where?”
“Just a drive,” she says. “I could use some fresh air.”
“Don’t you have to work in the morning?”
Brighton lifts a shoulder to her ear. “I’m not tired … and I want to show you something.”
“Turn left at that stop sign.” Brighton points up ahead.
We’ve been driving for almost an hour now under a starry sky, windows down, music playing, and we just crossed into a town called Hidden Oaks, which for some reason rings vaguely familiar to me though I’m not sure why.
“Up there,” she says a few seconds later. “See that brick house? With the stone lions?”
Jesus. “Yeah. You can’t miss it.”
“Can you stop here?” she asks.
“Stop here?” We’re surrounded by multi-million dollar mansions, each one bigger than the one beside it. Despite the fact that this neighborhood isn’t gated and probably should be, I doubt these people want random strangers knocking on their door late at night.
“Yeah. Just park in the street,” she says. “This is what I wanted to show you.”
I pull up to the curb in front of the gargantuan brick estate and shift into park.
“This … house …” she sucks in a long breath, glassy eyes fixed on the massive exterior with enough lights to illuminate Wrigley Field, “is what I wanted to show you.”
“Okay …”
“When I was almost ten, I was staying the night with my grandparents,” she says. “It was this spur of the moment thing. Wasn’t planned. I just … missed them. And they were the best. Nicest people you’d ever meet in your life. Friendly and warm. They’d never met a stranger. Never had an enemy … anyway, I was staying the night at their house, and I asked if I could sleep in the attic bedroom. It was this space they’d converted to a kids’ loft for all their grandkids. It had bunk beds and a TV and video games. Even a little kitchenette they kept stocked with the kind of junk food our parents never let us have …”
Her voice drifts for a moment, her shoulders rising and falling. And then she lifts a finger to her cheek, brushing away a small tear.
“I’m sorry … I haven’t been back here in over a decade. I didn’t think it would hit me as hard as it is …” She swallows a gulp of air before continuing. “Anyway, so that night, I was asleep upstairs. I’d actually fallen asleep listening to my iPod, headphones in my ear and everything. Back then I always had to have something to listen to when I fell asleep. The next morning, I woke up and headed downstairs. The house was quiet, which I thought was strange because my grandparents were early risers. My grandma was known for her 5 AM walks and my grandpa would always have breakfast on the stove and the news blasting on his radio. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I realized my sock was wet. I looked down, and I’d just stepped in a puddle of dark red liquid.” She pauses, glancing down into her lap. “When I looked down the hall … I saw my grandparents, lying face down, covered in blood.”
Her hands lift to her face, and she wipes the fat tear tracks that dampen her cheeks.
“They caught the guys who did it,” she says. “I guess my grandfather shot and killed one of them. The other’s in prison now. The police said it was a botched burglary.”
And just like that … I remember now why Hidden Oaks sounded so familiar to me.
It was my father.
It was my father who killed her grandparents.
Her gaze returns to the front of the house and the saddest smile colors her expression. I’m sure she’s thinking of happier times.
“Not a day goes by that I don’t miss them,” she says. “They were my favorite people in the entire world.” She looks down again. “Still are. Wish you could’ve met them. They would’ve loved you. I mean, they loved everybody, but they really would’ve loved you.”
“I’m sorry, Brighton.” It’s the only thing I can say.
“I always think about what my life would be like had that never happened,” she says. “I mean,
as far as my parents are concerned. They were so terrified that someone was going to come after me, that whoever did it had purposely targeted my grandparents and that we’d be next, that they pulled me out of school, hired a tutor, put me in therapy, and didn’t let me leave the house for almost an entire year. It wasn’t until my therapist told them they couldn’t imprison me like that, that they finally relented, but only a little. Everything they’ve ever done has been because they were terrified they were going to lose me. Though I’ll give my mom most of the credit. She’s the one who truly went overboard. I think losing her parents and, in her mind, almost losing her daughter, pushed her over the edge.” Brighton turns to me. “She was never the same after that night.”
I give her a few more minutes to bask in … whatever this is. Grief. Nostalgia. Bittersweetness. And then I say, “It’s getting late.”
“Yeah.” She pulls in a breath and lets it go, giving the house one last hard look. “We should go.”
We drive home in silence, though my mind is loud as hell.
Life has a sick sense of humor sometimes.
Who’d have thought this woman, this gorgeous, gentle-hearted creature, would be the granddaughter of the two innocent people my father murdered?
And the granddaughter of the man who shot my twin brother in the chest at point-blank range.
37
Brighton
It’s past one in the morning when we get back to the apartment. I’m going to be exhausted tomorrow, but it was worth it. I hadn’t been back to my grandparents’ house in over ten years, and though I’d wanted to drive by it a hundred times, I never wanted to go alone and I never had the courage to ask my mom to come with me. God only knows it doesn’t take much to put her in a tailspin.
We strip out of our clothes, and I set the alarm on my phone before crawling into bed. He slides in beside me, rolling to his side, his back to me.
I’m not sure what changed, but these past several nights there’s been something colder about him—or colder than usual, anyway. There’s always been a distance between us, but lately that distance feels like it’s the size of an entire universe.
When I told him I wanted to show him something tonight, my hope was that if I opened up, maybe I could make him realize that it’s not so hard—and that maybe he might open up to me.
Of course he sat there in silence the whole time.
Maybe he didn’t know what to say as tears streamed down my face. I can’t blame him for that. He didn’t sign up to be a shoulder for me to cry on.
But at least I tried.
I’m hopeful that with a little time and a little more patience, he’ll one day tell me something, anything about him. In the short amount of time that I’ve known him, I’ve already racked up a list of things I’m dying to know about him.
Why is his last name different than Devanie’s?
Why doesn’t he talk about his childhood?
Why doesn’t he have any tattoos, and why is the reason such a closely-guarded secret?
Who is Dallas?
And last but not least, is he still in love with Veronica?
“Madden,” I whisper his name before reaching across the bed and placing my hand over his arm. “Are you still awake?”
He rolls to his back, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah.”
I scoot closer to him. “I can’t sleep.”
I move in, lifting his arm and draping it over my shoulder before resting my head on his chest. His skin is warm beneath my ear, and the steady thrum of his heart relaxes me.
“Can I ask you something?” I trace the divots of his chiseled stomach.
“Sure.”
“Have you ever been in love?” I ask.
His chest rises and falls and he doesn’t answer right away. “We talked about this once before.”
“You told me no one’s ever loved you,” I say, “but have you ever loved someone?”
He clears his throat, situating himself. I can tell he wants to roll over, but he can’t because I’m sidled up against him. Unfortunately for him, I’m not letting him see his way out of his conversation.
“When I was with Devanie last weekend, she mentioned you dated this girl before,” I say. “Veronica, I think she said her name was?”
His body tenses beneath me.
“Sounds like you two were pretty crazy about each other,” I add. I’m fishing for information and maybe it’s blatantly obvious, but I’m dying to know.
Madden slides his arm out from under me and rolls to his side. “Get some sleep. You have to get up in five hours.”
I move back to my half of his bed and pull the covers up to my shoulders, rolling in the opposite direction.
Maybe opening up to him tonight had the opposite of the intended effect? Maybe it weirded him out? Maybe it did nothing but close him up more?
“Madden?” I need to ask one more question.
“Yeah?”
“We’re friends, right?” I ask. “You consider me a friend? Not just a friend-with-benefits?”
“Go to sleep, Brighton.”
I roll back over, vowing to call tonight a loss and write it off, though my mind won’t stop spinning.
There might as well be a stranger lying beside me.
I don’t understand how I can know so much about someone but still know so little. I know his favorite color is emerald green. His favorite pizza is sausage and mushroom. I know he’s a side sleeper. I know his favorite sexual position is reverse cowgirl. I know when he’s had a bad dream at night because he does this twitchy thing and makes this angry face. I know when he can’t sleep because he tosses and turns and puts his arm around me when he thinks I’m out cold. I know he takes his coffee black, his favorite movies are anything starring Al Pacino, and I know he’d do anything in this world for his sister.
But all of that means nothing.
My knowledge of him is only skin deep.
He won’t let me in beyond that.
And I wish he would.
So much.
Because I still think he’s pretty amazing.
And if all the parts of him I do know are good, how bad could the rest of him be?
38
Madden
“You coming over tonight?” Pierce asks Friday morning as we open the shop.
“Yep.”
“Bringing the girlfriend?” he asks. For all intents and purposes, everyone thinks we’re an item. It was easier to keep up the illusion across the board in the beginning, but then we just kept going with it because at the end of the day it’s no one else’s business but ours. “She skipped out last week.”
“I don’t know what she’s doing tonight.”
He gives me a look, scoffing. “What do you mean you don’t know what she’s doing tonight? She’s your girlfriend. And it’s the weekend. You should know exactly what she’s up to.”
I shrug, flicking on the neon “Open” light in one of the front windows.
“Come on. Don’t act like you’re not batshit fucking crazy about her,” he says, swatting my shoulder. “You can drop the act. I mean, man, she’s good for you. And we’re all glad you were finally able to move on from Whore-onica.”
“Glad you guys like Brighton, but we’re not that serious.”
His jaw turns slack. “Hate to break it to you, but you’re a fucking moron if you’re not serious about her. She’s an eleven. Straight up. No shitting you. Intelligent. Kind. Hot as fuck. The trifecta. It literally doesn’t get any better than that and here you are, sitting around all smug like you could take her or leave her, like she’s some piece of ass you picked up at O’Callahan’s on a Saturday night.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Newsflash, Madd. She’s too good for you. Hold onto that with everything you’ve got and don’t you ever fucking let go.”
I arrange the magazines on one of the tables in the waiting area before grabbing one off the top and paging through. “I’ll take that under consideration.”
&n
bsp; “Shit. If you don’t want her, give her to me.”
My gaze flicks up from the glossy pages in my hand. I see red before I see him.
A wide grin covers Pierce’s face. “See. You do like her.”
“I never said I didn’t.” I wish he’d drop this entire fucking conversation, but he won’t let it go, like a mutt with a bone.
Even if I accepted the way I’m beginning to feel about Brighton, it won’t change the fact that our pasts are painfully intertwined.
I don’t blame her for what happened. She was just a kid. Completely innocent. And I’d never hold any of this against her, but how would she feel knowing I’m the son of the man who brutally murdered her beloved family members … the son of a man who probably would’ve killed her too had she been awake to witness it.
My father’s a monster.
And I’m the son of a monster.
And she deserves so much more than anything I could ever give her.
Pierce slaps my shoulder before motioning toward the door, where a tall man in an expensive tailored suit, shiny shoes, and dark sunglasses walks toward the shop with wide, confident strides.
“Who the fuck is that douche lord?” Pierce asks.
I toss the magazine aside and fold my arms across my chest.
“That,” I say, “would be Brighton’s father.”
The bells on the door jangle as he walks through, and he scans the front of the shop before yanking off his glasses and pointing his intense stare at me.
“Mr. Karrington,” I say, remembering I’m still his daughter’s “boyfriend” in his eyes. “How can I help you today, sir?”
I sound like the biggest jerkoff, but I remind myself this is all for her.
“Was hoping I’d catch you,” he says. “I’d like to have a word with you.”
Brighton’s dad looks at Pierce, who throws his hands up in the air before walking to the back and making himself scarce.
Charles’ lips press into a flat line. I’m a few inches taller than him or he’d probably be looking down his nose at me about now.
“Brighton’s doing well,” I say, “if that’s why you’re here. Her new job—”
Pricked Page 18
