by Penny Reid
“That’s silly. I’ll be able to find it faster.”
“If I can’t find it then I guess I’ll just have to tutor you in vector calculus.”
I grimaced. “Seeing my own handwriting takes me back to the moment when I took the notes and the lesson. It’s the only way I can study. I have an unhealthy attachment to my class notes.”
“Hopefully you also have an unhealthy attachment to me.”
“So, how do you feel about me using you for your brain instead of your ties to massive wealth or the magnificence that is your body? I’d like to use it, often.”
“What do you mean? Use what often?”
My back was resting on the bed now and he was over me, his bare chest against mine. I wasn’t going to be able to think in this position, especially since I could feel his erection against my hip, so I smiled hopefully and pushed him until he was lying on the bed and I was hovering at his side.
“Listen, I don’t want to mislead you. I do want to use you for your body, just so we’re clear. But I’d also like for you to put that big head of yours to use.”
He stared at me, and I realized too late that what I’d meant to say was brain…not head. Not. Head.
Martin fought a smile, and just looking at his handsome face made my stomach do a sudden backflip. He said smoothly, “Tell me more about what you’d like me to do with my big head.”
I scowled at him. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel a huge amount of embarrassment, just slightly flustered.
“Quit your backtalk or else I may have to pinch you again.”
“I wouldn’t mind, as long as I get to pinch you back.” His hand moved to my breast and he fingered my nipple, making my breath catch and his already stiff erection tent his boxers.
“Stop it for a minute, I want to talk to you. I’m trying to be serious.”
Martin’s heated stare turned into a petulant glare and he removed his hands, sighed, and folded them behind his head. He blinked at me once, then moved his eyes to the ceiling. “Fine. What do you want to talk about?”
I didn’t roll my eyes at his somewhat dramatic withdrawal, but I wanted to. Instead I pushed myself up and sat on the bed facing him, hugging my knees to my chest and started again.
“What I’m trying to say is that…I like you, Martin. I like your brain.” I blurted the last part, not knowing exactly what I was about to say.
Just his eyes slid back to mine, the lines of his face thawing as he searched my face.
I tucked my hair behind my ears then rested my arms on the top of my knees, heartened by his open interest. “I like you. I like you for who you are, even though you’re callous and don’t quite know how to treat people. You’re clever and funny. I admire the way you move and how you can’t help but lead. I like how driven you are, and passionate. It’s fun to watch. I also think there’s a good heart in there, but I feel like it might be bruised and neglected…”
After I said the words I knew it was true. His heart was bruised and neglected. He needed mending, care, and comfort. He needed someone to trust.
I shook myself, realized I’d trailed off and we’d been sitting silently for a long moment, and turned my attention back to Martin. He was peering at me, waiting for me to continue.
I took a deep breath before speaking. “The thing is, I’ve been wanting to tell you this since Sunday. You have a friend in me. No matter what happens between us, I want you to know that if you ever need me—as a friend, as someone you can trust—I’ll always be there for you. I’ll always be your safe place.”
Martin considered me for a moment, his gaze flickering over my face as though searching, before saying, “I don’t think I’ll ever want to be friends with you.”
I must’ve made some outward expression that mirrored my inner surprised hurt because he gripped my leg to keep me in place and rushed to add, “I mean, I don’t think I could ever be just friends with you. I could never be disinterested enough.”
“Disinterested? You think friends are disinterested in each other?”
He half shrugged, his eyes moving to the right. “Yes. I have friends, but I’m not interested in them.”
“Do you have any female friends?”
He nodded. “Yeah. My business partner is a woman. I’d consider her a friend and I couldn’t care less who she’s out with. But with you, I don’t think I’d be able to see you with someone else and not go crazy.”
“So, what? If we break up then you’ll just cut me completely out?”
“I would.” He nodded, looking very serious.
“Because you think you’ll never be disinterested?”
“I know it.”
“And by stating that you’ll never be disinterested in me, you mean that you’ll always want to…” I waved my hand in the air to finish my sentence.
His eyes moved back to mine and he grinned. “I’ll always want to…?”
He was being obnoxiously obtuse, trying to force me to use his language.
“You’ll always want to have intimate relations with me.”
He shook his head like he thought I was cute, and clarified using his own vernacular, “Yeah, I’ll always want to fuck you.”
I scowled at him. “You know, it’s one thing to use that word when we’re,” I waved my hand through the air again, “when we’re in the middle of copulation. But it’s completely different when we’re sitting here and I’m trying to have a conversation with you about serious matters.”
“Why? Why does it make any difference?”
“Because, it’s crass and ungentlemanly.”
“Ungentlemanly?” He looked like he was about to burst out laughing.
I increased the severity of my scowl. “Yes. Ungentlemanly. How you speak to me during everyday discussions matters because it’s a direct reflection of how you see me and whether or not you respect me. Using bad language—yes, bad language. Don’t give me that look.”
He’d rolled his eyes and ground his jaw, like he thought I was being ridiculous. So I pointed my finger at him and wagged it.
“Using bad language tells me you don’t have enough respect for me to use good manners or think about the implication of your words before you say them.”
“Kaitlyn, you know I respect you.”
“Yeah, you respect me so much you want to fuck me—not make love to me, not be intimate with me. Fuck me.”
He grew still, the amusement and rebelliousness waning from his features, and he studied me. Though I got the impression he only half saw my face, and was mostly lost in his own thoughts.
At last he said, “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“But it’s what you said.”
His jaw ticked as he processed this information. A calculating gleam entered his eyes and they narrowed. “All right, how about this. I’ll use more gentlemanly language during our everyday conversations if you use more bad language while we…during our periods of intimacy.” He said this last bit in a flat tone, like he couldn’t believe he was actually saying it in place of his favorite four-letter “F” word.
I considered his terms for less than five seconds. Really, there was nothing to consider. Using his bad language during lovemaking made sense…might even help me loosen up. Therefore I nodded and stuck my hand out for him to shake.
“Deal.”
He smiled, fitting his hand in mine. “Parker, I love you.”
“Sandeke, I see your love, and I raise you a secret handshake.”
CHAPTER 11
Line Spectra and the Bohr Model
Martin received a call in the morning that Mrs. Greenstone couldn’t find my notebook.
Therefore, the next morning—after a forty-five minute argument, copious seething glares from Martin, and two hours of him giving me the silent treatment—we were all on our way to the big house to get my folder.
I couldn’t take the chance he’d be unable to find it or abandon the search prematurely. I wasn’t kidding when I told him I had an unhealthy attachment t
o my class notes. I was convinced the notes were the only reason I was getting As in all my upper-level courses.
Yes, my notes might have been somewhat of a security blanket for me, but so what? I needed them. I believed I needed them in order to succeed. I wasn’t leaving the island without them.
We drove the rugged golf carts across the island, Martin and Eric in one, Sam and I in the other. The all-terrain vehicles were loaded up with our luggage and I was splitting my attention between Sam’s chatter and her roll case threatening to fling itself off the cart with the slightest bump or provocation.
When we arrived at the mansion, Martin walked over and offered his hand to me. When I accepted it, he gripped mine tightly and studied my features; his were stormy and uncertain. When he made no move toward the house, I lifted my free hand and smoothed it over his cheek, lifted on my tiptoes, and brushed a soft kiss to his mouth.
“Hey, let’s get this over with. We’ll go in, get my folder, and get out. Maybe steal some cookies from the kitchen.”
I watched him swallow. His features still stormy and undecided.
“If we run into my father, just do what I say. Just…” He sighed, closed his eyes, and ground his teeth. “This is a bad idea. You shouldn’t be here.”
I didn’t know how to make this better for him, so I took three shuffling steps toward the house and tugged him after me. “Hurry up. I need those notes and we have a plane to catch.”
He opened his eyes, giving me one last pained stare, then overtook my lead, pulling me after him. He paused just briefly with his hand on the door handle, as though mentally preparing himself, then opened the door quietly. We walked into the entrance and Martin searched the space briefly, loitering on the foyer steps. He seemed extremely reluctant to venture farther.
Before I could make an attempt to soothe his obvious tension, one of the most irritating sounds in the known universe halted our progress.
“Heya, Stroke.”
Ack.
I knew that voice.
It was the cuss monster.
I looked to the left just as Martin did the same, then I glanced up at Martin’s face. He was clearly perturbed and confused.
“What are you doing here? Why didn’t you go back with everyone else?” Martin’s grip on me tightened just a fraction as we turned to face Ben.
“Didn’t see a good reason to go back yet,” Ben said, before taking an obnoxious sip of what appeared to be a strawberry daiquiri through an oversized straw.
“Because I told you to leave. How about that for a good reason?” Martin’s tone was flat, hard, and irritated.
I pressed my lips together to keep from making any kind of facial expression.
Meanwhile, Ben shrugged again, but sounded positively elated as he said, “But your dad invited me to stay, so I did. Besides, I’ve decided to quit the team, so you can go fuck yourself.”
I felt tension roll through Martin—gathering—tangible in how he stood and the measured way he drew breath. But before he could respond, we were interrupted.
“Marty.” This came from the top of the wide staircase and echoed through the foyer. The man waited until both Martin and I looked at him before continuing. His pale blue eyes rested on me. “I thought you’d left the island.”
Denver Sandeke, Martin’s father, was taller than I thought he’d be. Taller and not nearly as scrawny. He wasn’t a good-looking man; his chin was almost non-existent and his nose was oddly shaped, thin and long. As well, he was either a member or the president of the hair club for men.
And with his entrance I felt a shift.
Whereas before Martin was and had always been the center of focus, the “alpha of the pack” as Sam put it, now his father’s presence demanded the spotlight. In truth, neither of them clearly dominated the other. It wasn’t shared power; it was dual power that co-existed very, very badly, like when two acid-base reactions are after the same proton.
“No,” Martin said. The frost in the single word seemed to lower the temperature of the room by several degrees. It seemed that Denver, like his wife, brought out the Abominable Snowman in Martin.
Denver didn’t respond to his son. Instead he sauntered down the steps, his eyes still on me, a friendly smile affixed to his lips. I noted that the shape of his mouth was similar to Martin’s.
“You’re Joss Parker’s daughter.” He sounded immensely pleased. Meanwhile something about the way he used my mother’s first name made me want to pluck out all his nose hairs.
I started to respond, but Martin tugged on my hand and shifted so he was half blocking me from his father, like he was protecting me with his body. “We’re leaving.”
Denver ignored his son and offered me his hand. “It’s so nice to meet you. I know your mother quite well. She is,” he chuckled to himself, “she is certainly a force.”
“Don’t touch her.” As Martin said this he moved me completely behind him, and with one hand on my hip, guided us a step back toward the door. I noted that he still faced his father, almost like he knew better than to turn his back.
My view of his father was obscured now that the mountain of Martin was between us, but I heard the change in Denver’s voice as he addressed his son.
“You finally did something useful, Marty. You’re still the village idiot, but at least your dick makes smart choices.”
I heard Ben fake-suppress an obnoxious guffaw, but I barely registered it as my brain was still trying to grasp the venom that had erupted from Martin’s father’s mouth.
His father!
And yet, even knowing what I did about Martin, even knowing he had a history of callous indifference toward the feelings of others and had no qualms about yelling at men, women, children, and turtles, I was completely unprepared for his response.
“Better the village idiot than the village pervert and impotency expert. By the way, Ben here used your entire stash of Viagra earlier this week. You two flaccid assholes have so much in common.”
Martin’s father tsked and responded coolly, “Careful, Marty. Or I might decide to break your new toy.”
“You even fucking look at her and they won’t find your body.” Martin took another step back, taking me with him.
This was completely crazy. I thought the run-in with his stepmother was vicious—this took vicious to a whole new level.
“You forget who bankrolls your life, son.” I winced as Denver said the word son. In context, coming from Denver’s mouth, it sounded more like whore. “Your toys are my toys, and I’ll use them whenever and however I please. Now step aside, you’re not going anywhere until I say so.”
I felt Martin tense. He released my hand and I saw both of his were balled into fists. He shifted on his feet, his stance bracing, like he was about to throw a punch. Martin was big, but his father was also big; as well, Ben the rapist was clearly on Team Evil’s side. Two against one was hardly fair. I might be able to call for Eric before the situation escalated, but that was unlikely.
Tangentially, I wondered how many times Martin and his father had come to blows, but pushed the thought away for later contemplation. I couldn’t stay where I was, silent, hiding. Now was not the time for me to hide, not when Martin was putting himself into harm’s way on my behalf. I needed to do something.
Now was not the time to bow out gracefully. Now was the time to fight for Martin.
Since Martin was no longer holding me behind him, I stepped to his side and slipped my left arm around his right elbow.
Placing a thin smile on my face, I addressed Denver. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t shake your hand. As I’ve met your wife and see the company you keep,” I nodded toward Ben, “you’ll understand if I’m wary of communicable diseases. As Ben will tell you, not touching people I don’t know is one of my life rules.”
I was gratified to find my small speech had stunned all the testosterone in the room into inaction. Three sets of male eyes stared at me as though I were a strange creature.
I cleared
my throat and continued, “I have no interest in knowing you, Mr. Sandeke. All I want is my vector calculus folder and then we’ll be leaving.”
Though Denver’s eyes were on me, he spoke to his son. “I’m looking at her now, Marty. What are you going to do about it?”
Martin shifted restlessly at my side but I tightened my grip around his arm and responded for both of us, my voice conversational. “Again, I’ll just take my vector calculus notebook and we’ll be on our way.”
“No. You won’t.” If Denver’s wife had dead-face, Denver Sandeke had dead eyes.
Channeling my mother, I drew myself up straighter and glared at him square in his beady dead eyes. “Actually, we will. You see, Martin told me before we came over that you were a wee little worm of a man. Therefore, I made a call to my mother’s security team. You may have heard of the US Secret Service? …Yes? …No?”
Mr. Sandeke shifted a half step back, his gaze narrowing on me.
“Ah. I see you’ve heard of them. Despite all their guns and shooting and whatnot, they’re actually very nice men.” I moved to side step him and pulled Martin with me, careful never to give him our backs. “Now, we’ll just be getting that notebook then we’ll get out of…well, we’ll get out of your hairpiece.”
***
On the up side, I had my folder. I also managed to collect my missing textbook and clothes—so, double bonus.
On the down side, Martin had barely spoken since we’d left the mansion. He also wouldn’t look at me and had made no move to touch me beyond helping with my bags, offering me his hand on the boat, and guiding me to my seat on the plane—so, double whammy.
Also, his father was basically Satan, but with no chin.
Regardless, I didn’t regret meeting the man. Meeting Denver swiftly explained many things about Martin, brought so much of his behavior and motivations into painfully sharp focus.
Now, as I eyeballed Martin from my seat, I noted that his face was red, flushed with color, and his eyes were a bit wild. I knew he was still thinking about his father and I knew his emotions were very, very near the surface. His seething anger radiated from him, like a billowing cloud of dark rage.
