by Monica James
This…means…war.
“You son of a bitch!” I scream, not caring that the shriek just split my skull into two.
London laughs that arrogant, throaty chuckle. “You should know,” he states with a carefree shrug.
How dare he.
I forget my pain and quicken my rampage, intent on making him pay. I leap down the bottom step, scrambling toward him, and catch him off guard when I shove at his steel chest. I’m surprised when he actually budges. It may only be an inch, but it’s a victorious inch nonetheless.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you there,” he quips, laughing when I scream in pure rage.
“Fuck you!” I push at him once more. The adrenaline soars through my veins, intent on payback like he’s not seen before.
My victory dance lasts only a few seconds, before he stops humoring me and snares both my wrists in his large hands. I notice they’re calloused, but I shake such nonsense from my head. “You’d like that,” he states, continuing to chuckle at my fruitless attempts to bring him down.
I flail around like a madwoman, attempting to pry myself free, but he’s so strong; his fingers are like manacles around my wrists. I glare up at him, not allowing his towering frame to intimidate my petite five-foot-three stature. “In your dreams, you pig!”
His strong jaw clenches as he lowers his heated face inches from mine. He’s trying to intimidate me, but all he’s doing is making me angrier. “Oh, Princess…” His voice is low, his blue eyes wild. “You make a guest appearance in my dreams quite often.”
“Good. I hope I give you nightmares,” I bite back, still struggling with him, but he matches me, move for move. To onlookers, it may appear like we’re caught in a clumsy, synchronized dance because although I’m fighting with all my might, he’s barely broken out in a sweat.
His tongue sweeps out to wet his bowed, upper lip, and the action suddenly leaves me winded. His hot breath bathes my flustered cheeks, and the fact I’m wondering what cologne he’s wearing because he smells absolutely amazing kicks me in the solar plexus and shakes some sense into me, because I should not be smelling him—ever.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I obviously have a concussion or maybe even brain damage because when a smirk tugs at the corner of his pink lips, I actually feel myself growing lax.
“No, you’re the stuff wet dreams are made of,” he counters confidently, his voice dropping to an octave that should be illegal.
A strangled wheeze escapes my parted lips because this entire conversation has given me literal whiplash. His admission is laced with an undertone of desire, but the fact I can feel my eye turning blacker by the minute completely contradicts his words.
Either way, I need to remember just who this is, and how he’s made my life utter hell. With that as my driving force, I quash down this alien Holland who could stare into those tumultuous eyes for hours, and draw out the sane me, the one who can play this asshole at his own game.
It works for so many others, so I decide to try it on for size.
I know I’m not his type, as his “type” is blonde, big busted, and about as sharp as a bowling ball. But I’m not exactly chicken liver either. I’m dark-haired, light-eyed, and have a lean yet curvy body.
Surrendering completely, I blink once, feigning innocence as best I can. I’m certain he’s going to see straight through me, but am surprised when a winded gasp escapes him. I push out my decent sized chest and relish in triumph when his eyes drift to the goods I’m offering.
His fingers are still locked around my wrists, but the fact I’ve stopped struggling has him loosening his hold.
I bite my lip theatrically, feeling a complete fool, but his sudden interest eggs me on. “Wasting all that talent in your sleep…that’s a real shame.” My comment has caught him completely off guard, but I try not to gloat—not yet.
His chest begins to rise and fall, his nostrils flaring from the deep, steadying breaths he’s taking. The sun beaming down around us draws out the small number of lighter blond strands in his hair, something I’ve not noticed or cared about in the past. I don’t remember ever being this close to him before, so I take a moment to study just why so many girls want London Sinclair.
His runway looks can’t be denied. He’s all angular and chiseled with perfect bed hair and a dimpled smile, but beneath that perfect exterior lies such imperfection, I suddenly wonder what secrets he’s guarding.
But to know my enemy, I need to become him. I need to become the conceited, arrogant asshole who doesn’t give a shit about anyone but himself.
“Why? You want to lend a hand?” he asks, the Sin I know shining brighter than ever before. He makes hating him so easy. Maybe that was the plan all along.
“You couldn’t handle my hands,” I purr. It’s unbelievable how easy he’s fallen for this temptress act. What a chump.
“Is that a challenge?” he poses, tonguing his cheek with a smirk.
I shrug coyly, my lips parted, my eyes doe. “Let me go and find out.”
I can see him weighing my proposition. We’ve bantered and bickered our entire lives, but this, this is new. I’m woman enough to admit that some sort of weird tension is currently thrumming through my veins, but I peg it down to a punch of adrenaline, knowing that I’ve won.
At this moment, I know why they call him Sin. He’s radiating it from every inch of his hardened body. He’s cocky and arrogant, and call me crazy, but that’s why I think every man and his dog wants a piece of that sin.
Epic looks combined with a rebellious attitude make London Sinclair the ultimate bad boy every girl wants to subdue. But little do they know, he’s one beast that’ll never be tamed.
He releases me slowly, but not before skimming his finger over my thrashing pulse. The tempo betrays my response to him—the utter contempt I feel, laced with a small sliver of something else.
“So, now that you’re free…what are you going to do?”
I smirk, my innocence suddenly replaced with one hundred percent bitch. He reads me like a book, but it’s too late. Shame on him for thinking I’m like all the other girls.
“This,” I reply. The sound of my palm connecting with his cheek gives me a satisfaction beyond words. The sting in my hand also adds to the delight.
His palm shoots up to his reddening cheek, his jaw moving from side to side. His surprise that I can hit that hard is clearly evident, and my insides do a little happy dance in pride. “Touché,” he spits, still rubbing his cheek.
“Just so you know—” I level him with my gaze “—the next time, I’m coming for your balls.”
He has the gall to smirk. “Me and my balls can’t wait, Princess.” To accent his point, he grabs his crotch and winks.
“You’re fucking disgusting.”
“And you’re a smart-mouthed princess.” His attention flicks to the tattered copy of Romeo and Juliet I’m holding. “Shakespeare? It shouldn’t surprise me you connect with a headstrong pain in the ass who led poor, defenseless Romeo to his death.”
Yawning theatrically, I roll my eyes. “Bored now. There are only so many minutes in my day I can handle dumb, and you’ve just taken up all of them. Have fun with your harem of skanks and STD-riddled bros.” I don’t check my sarcasm at the door. “I have no idea why you choose to hang out with these deadbeats with not an original thought between them. Your GPA is perfect, but hanging around these losers definitely says something about your IQ.” He appears stunned that I’m in on his little secret.
London by no means is your typical meathead jock. He’s smart—like super smart. But I’ve always thought he’s embarrassed by his academic prowess, as if being an A-grade student will ruin his bad boy reputation somehow.
“Maybe I could teach you a thing or two?” he taunts, as I haven’t made my obsessive studying a secret.
“Please…the only thing you can teach me is how to catch Chlamydia.”
London looks slightly amused, but mostly, he looks like he wants to
rip off my arms and beat me to a bloody pulp with them. With that as my powerhouse, I brush past the stunned bystanders, sporting my black eye with pride.
“In and out,” I mumble to myself for the umpteenth time.
Thanks to the fact I look like I’ve gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson, I’ve had to come home after work in an attempt to conceal my blackening eye.
I iced it as best as I could at work, but running between the front desk and snack bar at Paradisco Roller Rink made it nearly impossible to tend to anything but the party of fifteen kids jacked up on Cherry Coke and cake.
I’ve worked there for just over a year, and most days, I loved the disco theme, paired with the roller-skating experience. But tonight, the techno music, bright neon fluorescent lights, and the piercing screams of kids just added to my headache.
I closed up right at nine, desperate to come home and crawl into bed. Sadly, when I checked my voice messages and heard Belle’s slurred message, asking when I was coming, I knew I had no other choice but to go down and make sure she was all right.
I wanted to go home first to change and cover my black eye because if I turn up at this party sporting a shiner, then no doubt tomorrow, school will be rife with rumors about how my white trash parents beat me. That, of course, is untrue, but the truth doesn’t seem to matter to the rich kids who have nothing better to do than make up rumors to add excitement to their perfect, cushy worlds.
I’m hoping my mom and dad are out because I don’t want to explain what happened today. Since I was young, they’ve known of London’s constant attitude toward me. They spoke to our teachers, who spoke to London’s parents, but thanks to their history, nothing was ever solved.
London’s parents blamed mine, saying they raised a crybaby, while my parents were quick to defend, saying they raised a psychopath. All in all, it just went back and forth, each parent pointing fingers and playing the blame game, while I suffered at the hands of London, who seemed to thrive on conjuring up creative ways to torment me.
I thought it would stop as we got older, but it’s only gotten worse. Just when I think he’s grown bored, he goes and does some fucked-up bullshit like today. I can’t wait to get the hell out of this town. It’s my dream to graduate top of my class and go to Stanford. I know we can’t afford it, so to achieve this, I have to get a scholarship. And to get a scholarship, I have to ensure my nose stays clean and my grades are infallible.
So it goes without saying, I can’t sport a black eye.
I enter through the backdoor softly, shushing Suzie, our family Labrador, by tossing her a treat off the kitchen counter. She happily runs with it and settles into her bed without a sound. Pausing, I listen carefully, letting out a breath when I hear the house is quiet.
Just in case my parents are locked away in their room, I slip out of my tattered Converse sneakers and tiptoe down the carpeted hallway. My room is the last on the left. I hold my breath as I sneak past my parents’ room, only exhaling when I close the door behind me.
I hate lying to them, but if they see me, then the twenty questions will start, and once they find out who gave me the black eye, it’ll be on. My dad will go down to London’s father’s work, hurling abuse, and he’ll be escorted off the premises by security, just like a thousand times before. He will be looked at like the white trash they all think he is, and London’s father will have grounds to add fuel to this already out of control fire.
London’s dad is the brains and money behind designing some new cell phone, which is apparently going to take over the world. He has over four hundred employees working for him, and in the world of technology, he may as well be God.
My father works at an accounting firm downtown. He may be a god to his clients, but to the rich and powerful, he’s a bug they could easily squash without even lifting a finger. But that doesn’t matter to him, because he would go above and beyond to protect me and my mom. In high school, he was a big deal. Star quarterback who could have amounted to so much, but that wasn’t the path his future was to take. He had me young and married my mom, and not once have I heard him gripe about his heydays and what he could have achieved if he hadn’t become a father at seventeen.
My parents are remarkable people, and I would do anything to save them heartache.
Not daring to turn on the light, I move around my small room with ease. The full moon streaming in from my window is all the light I need. I change into a pair of flared jeans which once belonged to my mom, a purple silk floaty tank, and top it off with a navy blazer. I slip in my drop earrings and rearrange the silver name necklace I’m already wearing. It’s inspired by none other than Carrie Bradshaw.
My long, wavy brown hair falls past my shoulders. I usually wear it down, but decide to sweep it to the side in a low bun. My long bangs are the perfect shield to partially conceal my eye. But I know it’ll need layers of makeup to hide the bruising.
Hunting through my drawers, I find some liquid foundation I got for free at the mall and crouch low to get into the right light. Peering into the cracked mirror on the wall, I cake on several layers until it’s almost hidden—almost. I’ll just have to ensure I talk at arm’s length and not rub my eye.
My notched dresser has seen better days, but from one of the supports that holds a few cheap necklaces hangs a pair of rose-tinted shades Belle left behind. I’ve always thought that wearing sunglasses in the dark was a total tool move, but in times of crises, one has to think on their feet.
I’ve always been a no-frills kind of girl, but now I feel ridiculous with a face full of foundation and no eye makeup to go with it. I rummage through my dresser drawer once more and find an eye shadow palette. I apply a frosted silver shade, and even in the dull moonlight, I can see my bright emerald eyes pop. Not that that matters, seeing as I’ll be wearing shades. I finish off with some mascara and eyeliner.
Peering back from the mirror, I purse my lips, impressed. Who would have thought I could pull off looking like a girl?
Snatching my Smackers strawberry gloss from the messy dresser, I place it and the sunglasses, along with my keys and wallet, into my handbag. I know I won’t look like all the popular girls, but that’s okay. I’m happy with wearing my own vintage style with pride.
Shutting the door as quietly as I opened it, I tiptoe slowly, still afraid my mom and dad will catch me sneaking out. I give Suzie a quick pat before I slip back into my sneakers and run down the rickety back steps.
I breathe out a sigh of relief, but that soon transforms into a strangled wheeze when a set of headlights turn down my small driveway. I could run toward my beat-up Honda and pretend I was never here, but the fact I’m caught like a deer in the headlights roots my feet to the ground.
My parents’ Mercedes has seen better days. It’s one of the only things leftover from our “rich” life. My dad insisted we sell and downgrade, but my mom knew how much he loved the thing.
I admire my parents’ love for each other and often wonder if I’ll ever find that sort of connection with another person. I doubt it’ll happen here, however, because everyone knows who I am and the stigma associated with my name.
I’ve kissed one guy. Lincoln O’Toole. He’s a nice enough boy. He’s on the football team and popular with all the girls. But the few times we’ve made out have been secret, and once the deed is done, he acts like he doesn’t know my name.
I know he’s embarrassed to be caught with me, so I can’t help but wonder why he keeps coming back for more. I should tell him to hit the road because I know I’m better than being kissed in the dark. Just this once, I want to be kissed in the light. No stolen or drunk kisses.
The only hope I have is to leave this small-minded community behind and make a name for myself elsewhere. Away from the rich, poor, mean, and judgmental because leaving this town means I get a clean slate.
The prospect is too tempting. It’s the only thing that keeps me going.
As my parents pull up beside my car and switch off the engine, I give them a small
wave before quickly hunting through my bag and slipping on my shades. I try to act cool, but the fact I’m wearing sunglasses at night and moving my weight from foot to foot is a sure sign I’m up to no good.
“Hello, Sweetie,” my mom says as she exits the car.
My mother is absolutely beautiful. She can make the simplest outfit look like the latest trend from Milan. Even though she’s in jeans and a plain pink tank, the way she holds herself with such elegance and poise has me hoping I look that good when I’m her age.
My dad steps from the car, looking just as stunning as my mom. I can imagine them turning heads when they were my age. Not only for the fact that they’re absolutely magical together, but because my mom stayed at school while pregnant with me.
“Hey.” I wave quickly. “I was just going out.” That’s my out to jump into my car and not look back, but I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.
“Too grown-up to give your mother a kiss?” she teases, pointing at her cheek. I sigh playfully, but amble over to where she stands.
I kiss her quickly, her familiar floral perfume spreading a sense of calm over me. “You look nice.”
She brushes her hands down her top. “Thank you. Your father and I got free movie tickets to see The Day After Tomorrow. The lead actor is a real hunk. Jake someone.” She nudges me in the ribs with a grin.
My father clears his throat melodramatically, while I pretend to gag myself with my finger. “I’m sure he’ll be a one-hit wonder. And besides, no one uses the term ‘hunk’ anymore,” I say, using air quotes, which elicits a muffled laugh from my dad.
“Oh, sorry, I’m not up with the lingo of today’s youth. I’ll have you know, in my day, hunk was an acceptable word to use for the opposite sex. For example, your father was a real hunk,” she adds, giving him a look which is reserved for their eyes only.
He primps up his collar smugly.
