Lost King

by Piper Lennox

  “Yeah.” He cracks his knuckles against each of his wrists. “I’d kind of string girls along, knowing full well they thought shit was serious, then drop them when I was ready to move on. Or I’d hook up with two girls behind their backs and just, like, totally ruin their friendship. I’d tell myself it was their problem, not mine. I was selfish.”

  The redness of his skin deepens. “This was back in high school, though. Not like that makes it okay—just saying, I haven’t been like that for a long time.”

  Oh, you mean you’ve totally reformed? No more filming your exploits, or hooking up with fat, nerdy girls for a laugh?

  I wish this thought came with the anger it used to. I would kill for that uncomplicated fury again.

  But all I keep hearing is how Theo talked about his mom’s blog—the pain in his voice, hidden in sarcasm and laughter, at having his life exposed to the entire world by someone he trusted.

  On the one hand, it makes what he did to me even worse, because he knew how it felt.

  But on the other...maybe it makes sense. Like how bullied kids can turn into bullies themselves.

  “What about you?” He pulls the blanket up to my chin when he notices I’m shivering. “When was your last opportunity?”

  I do the math. “A few weeks ago. Right before we met.”

  Theo nods, but I catch the pull of his mouth as he chews his cheek. I smile and elbow him.

  “Jealous?”

  He nudges me back. “About as jealous as you secretly were, asking me about Fourth of July.”

  When I sink down into the couch, defeated, he takes my cup and kisses me.

  “But not too jealous,” he whispers.

  The taste of him on my lips is deep and smooth, like the espresso. I start second-guessing my whole “let’s not fuck the day away” plan. “Why not?”

  “Because whoever that guy was, he’s not here now.” Theo sets my mug down somewhere without even looking—without, for one second, taking his mouth off my neck. “I am.”

  19

  After breakfast, Ruby asks if she can shower. I’m tempted to join her, but as soon as I show her around Dad’s bathroom she gets this weird look that makes me think she’d rather bathe without me.

  “Towels are in here,” I add as I leave, knocking my hand against a cabinet.

  “I know. You said that, already.”

  “Did I?” I genuinely can’t remember. My brain’s too busy thinking up ways to keep her here all day. Maybe all night again, too.

  After showering in one of the guest baths, I pull on jeans and a white Henley with both buttons missing. It’s a size too small, fitted tight to the chest.

  “A lost-and-found castaway,” I explain when I come downstairs. “All I packed were summer clothes.”

  Ruby stares while I roll the cuffs up to my elbows, trying to disguise the fact the sleeves are too short. “It, uh….” She clears her throat, flustered. “It still looks good on you.”

  “I can tell, with the way you’re staring at me.”

  “So? You’re staring at me.”

  “I am. And if I get my way, I’ll get to keep doing it until tomorrow morning, too.” I slide her plate of unfinished Pop-Tarts the length of the counter. She catches it. “Now that we’re all clean…feel like getting dirty again?”

  She tamps her smile. “Never did call out of work, actually. I’m debating whether or not I should go.”

  “I vote ‘no.’” I check the clock on the fridge display. It’s ridiculous: this house, purchased exclusively for vacations where no one has anywhere to be, has more clocks than all our other properties combined. “You’re already late, right? Might as well skip the whole shift.”

  Warily, she slides onto one of the island stools and takes tiny little bird-bites of her food.

  I sock-skate closer, skidding to a stop right in front of her. “Please stay.”

  “I don’t know.” Through her damp hair, I catch her glance at me. “Probably not the best idea.”

  “Wholeheartedly disagree.” I fold my arms on the counter and rest my head there, leaning until she’s got no choice but to look at me again. “Do you like me, Ruby?”

  “Thought we covered that last night.”

  I take her hand when she reaches for the food again. “No—I know you want me. I know there’s sexual attraction between us. And I know my body is extremely good at making yours feel good, and vice-versa.”

  She gives another hidden smile, tongue shifting inside her mouth as she clears the sugar from her teeth. I wish that was my full-time job. My tongue, fingers, and cock want permanent parking passes inside and on her.

  “What I’m asking,” I finish, “is if you like me.”

  When I let go of her hand and stand straight, she picks at her food a moment longer before she looks up.

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then let it happen.”

  She tilts her head. “Let what happen?”

  “Us.”

  Ruby leans back, holding the edge of the stool between her legs. “And what does that entail, exactly? Being exclusive? Making things official?”

  Now that I’m being forced to define it, I’d feel stupid saying “boyfriend-girlfriend” so soon. And as well as I already feel like I know her, there’s way more under this scratched surface.

  “Exclusivity,” I answer, finally. It’s the less crazy-sounding option. I mean, that’s fair to ask of someone after a few dates and sleeping together, right?

  Not that I’d know. Being exclusive is as foreign to me as being half of a real couple. Everything I learned about dating, I learned from my cousins—and they didn’t do dates. They did hookups, flings, and one-night-only deals.

  In other words: I learned jack shit about dating.

  But I did learn a whole hell of a lot about what not to do, watching them. It’s a big reason I stopped being such a shit to girls who liked me. Stringing people along is easy to brush off as no big deal, but each one leaves you feeling a little worse about how decent you are as a person. It’s like a thin film. And over time, they add up. I didn’t like who I was when I finally stepped back to look.

  From afar, the typical Durham game of being an asshole too cool to care about anything—and anyone—looked perfect. If you don’t invest anything real, you can’t lose anything real.

  Up-close, I realized, it was just another name for keeping ourselves lonely.

  Ruby messes with the strings of her hoodie. It’s actually a bathing suit cover. I can’t remember who owned it, but I know without a doubt that Ruby is wearing it better.

  “Yeah,” she says, after what feels like hours. “There’s nobody else I want to date, so...why not be exclusive?” A blush starts under her skin as she adds, softly, “I do like you, Theo. A lot. I think I’m just skittish because—because it all seems so fast.”

  “It doesn’t feel fast to me. It feels like I’ve been waiting for you a lot longer than I even realized.”

  Ruby looks shocked by my confession, but I refuse to take it back or modify it somehow.

  Yeah, I don’t want to sound crazy or scare her—but I want her to know how right this feels on my end.

  “We can let things go at their own pace,” I assure her. “Exclusivity right now, then we just...see where things go.”

  With another smile, she narrows her eyes. “Promise you won’t rush things?”

  “No.” I reach across the island and take half of her Pop-Tart, winking. Anything to see her blush again. “But I promise I’ll try.”

  Finally, I make it home.

  I did call out of work, but decided, after “just one more quickie” with Theo turned into two hours in the home theater, that I needed some peace and quiet. Someplace to be alone and clear my head.

  Why on earth I thought my own fucking townhouse could provide that, I’ll never know.

  “Go home, Callum.” I’m so tired of saying that. Maybe it’d be a worthwhile investment to get it tattooed on my arm.

  My ar
m. I know I’m imagining it, but the bruises he left when he grabbed me yesterday throb at the sight of him. Theo asked about them when I was getting dressed to leave, but I concocted a pretty convincing story about knocking some dictionaries off a shelf at a client’s house.

  I feel sick at how easy it is for me to lie, these days.

  While I unlock the door, Callum stays seated in the dormant flower bed under the kitchen window, staring up at me like a lost dog.

  “Do you have my key?” he asks quietly.

  “Why?” I shove the door open and wait for him to follow; I know he’s going to. “Did you lose it?”

  “Hale said I was here last night, so I figured....” His eyes, clear but flat-looking, eye the deadbolt before I swing the door shut behind us. “Just thought maybe it’d be here, that’s all.”

  I’m determined to show him that this whole hat-in-hand bit is the last thing I want. That all I want from him, in fact, is nothing.

  No, actually: I want him to go home. And I want him to stay there.

  He watches as I busy myself with chores: emptying receipts from my purse into the trash, soaking some dishes I forgot about, and opening junk mail by the microwave.

  “You went to Gret’s?”

  I spin on my heel, in the middle of reading a letter from Aunt Thalia. It’s pretty much a summary of our nightly text exchanges. Mom’s holding steady, work is slow, and could I maybe possibly send a check soon, no rush?

  “What?” I ask with a dry mouth.

  Callum holds up a receipt from the trash. The bruises ache again.

  I shrug and pretend to go back to the letter. “It was a friend’s birthday. No one to celebrate with, so...I treated them to pie.”

  “Who?”

  “You don’t know them. Someone from work.” Jesus, why did I let him in here?

  But see...I know exactly why. Callum has this move down perfectly: after any blowup, he magically turns into someone resembling the person he used to be. My best friend.

  The guy who picked me up in that driveway, dusted me off, and loved me the best he knew how.

  I always fall for it. I used to live for it.

  Lately, I’ve learned it’s just a clever little trick to get his foot back in the door, literally and figuratively. There’s always a point where something like this happens, and the true colors return.

  “Lessie said you were at the rink last night.” I sense him step up behind me—can feel him invading more and more of my space. “With a guy.”

  My eyes read every line of the letter and comprehend none of it. “What, I can’t be friends with a guy?”

  “Ruby.” He takes my arm. Not hard: so soft I barely notice, actually. But his fingers fit perfectly into the bruises, just like last night.

  “We’re broken up, Callum, remember?” Carefully, like trying to step out of a bear trap without setting it off, I slip from his hold. “You don’t get a say in who I hang out with.”

  “Just tell me who it is.” He shrugs, like this request is perfectly reasonable. Nothing but a friend, looking out for another friend.

  For the first time, I notice his hair is freshly cut. Hale probably buzzed it for him. Maybe he hoped it could kick Callum’s ass into caring about his appearance again: he’s got scabs along his jaw, some being picked acne; the rest, scrapes from fights and drunken pass-outs. His eyes always look sunken, these days.

  I wonder how many times my heart will break for him before it’s all scar tissue.

  “If Lessie told you,” I say quietly, evenly, “then you already know exactly who I was with.” Marcus’s niece is dating one of Callum’s dealers, and she’ll dig up info on anyone for ten bucks.

  He stares down at me, breathing hard. It’s half like he’s angry, and half like it’s just too hard to get oxygen. He looks sober right now, but who knows.

  I definitely don’t want to find out.

  “You should go.”

  “Tell me it’s not him, Ru.” He touches my arm again, then migrates to my neck. It’s a gentle brush of his knuckles, but makes me flinch inside worse than when he grabbed my arm.

  I hate him touching me.

  I hate that I wish it was Theo doing it, instead.

  He lets his head hang low so we’re almost eye-level, until he starts looking like a broken marionette missing most of its strings.

  “Tell me,” he growls, “that you’re smarter than that. Tell me you aren’t actually doing that to yourself again.”

  “Why do you do this to yourself, Ruby?”

  “It’s not how it sounds,” I whisper. “He...he’s a client, I’m just cleaning his house, and yesterday was his birthd—”

  “Do you not remember what that asshole did to you?” His voice booms.

  His fingers sink into the soft flesh of my shoulder.

  Not on my neck, but so close I just know that was his intention—to remind me how easily he could put them there.

  “Go home, Call.”

  “Not until you tell me why you’re going within five fucking feet of that guy.” His fingers pulsate. I stare at the holes peppering his shirt hem, where the fabric always scrapes and drags his belt buckle. Callum owns eleven shirts exactly, and nine are holey.

  For reasons I can’t remember anymore, I used to love them: winding my fingers into each and every puncture, waggling them while he swatted me away with a smile.

  That feels so impossibly long ago.

  “He’ll break you, Ruby.” Callum’s grip tightens the tiniest bit. But that’s the tipping point, where it goes from feeling like a firm and angry hand, to an immoveable vice.

  His body drifts close to mine. His hipbones bracket my lower abdomen, fitting just above my hips like two puzzle pieces smashed together. They sort of fit—but one piece will always come out warped. Or torn.

  “It’s none of your business,” I say.

  Turns out, that’s the worst possible thing to tell him.

  Callum’s thumb twists into my skin, driving deep, a railroad spike of pain and anger I can’t fight. My yelp startles me, but not as much as the fact my arm suddenly can’t function. It jerks like a spasm, rigid and useless as the lightning bolt zings through to my fingertips.

  “Fuck, Callum, it’s just revenge! It’s some stupid little revenge thing, okay? Let me go!”

  My knees almost buckle, but I catch myself with the microwave cabinet in the same instant he releases his grip and steps back.

  I lean hard against the particleboard door, my good arm braced on the dishtowel bar. The other hangs by my side as though he stole its life force.

  My panting fills the air. Tears claw up my throat.

  Callum paces in a slow, jerky oval to the counter while I stare at his shoes and try to tame my fear.

  I don’t want to be afraid of him. Ever. I want to go back to feeling sorry for him. I want to hate him, just a little. Just enough to keep pushing him out of my life.

  “Revenge?” he asks, finally, glancing back at me. Shame is trickling into his eyes, steadily replacing the fury, especially when he sees me flexing my hand and rubbing my shoulder.

  “Go. Home.” My order comes out full of stutters and gasps, like a kid after a crying jag. I straighten up and refuse to flinch when he crosses the room in a single step, yanking me into a hug.

  “Ruby, babe, I’m sor—”

  My arms are pinned between us, folded against his chest, so I dig in my nails to make up for the lack of force when I push him off. “No, Callum. Fuck your apology. Fuck you. Get out of my house.”

  “I lost my temper, okay?” His lips stamp a winding map over my face. I wince at every single one. “It’s just—just the thought of you going out with someone else at all, it’s not like that’s easy for me to handle. But then hearing it’s him?”

  His hands rest on my waist with exactly as much tenderness as his previous touch lacked. He’s good at that. Playing opposites. Going from zero to ten, then back again in mere seconds, to make you feel like you overreacted.
<
br />   I remind myself not to step into the trap.

  “Go.” I inhale slowly, trying not to let him hear the strain.

  “Not until you swear to me he means nothing to you. You don’t want to be with me anymore? Fine. But I’m still your friend, whether you fucking want me or not, and I’m not standing by while you get your heart broken again, or your whole goddamn life destroyed.”

  His hands grab my waist and pull me in. My stomach tightens. I feel a partial erection through his denim, pressed hard against my hip.

  “Like I said,” I whisper, leaning back until my spine feels like it’ll snap against the cabinet, “it’s just revenge. Don’t worry about me.”

  “You swear?”

  My mouth goes dry again. I nod, relieved when I feel his grip loosen. “I swear.”

  Callum tongues his cheek a moment. It’s disgusting; there’s a deep wound pitted into the skin, a scab he either picked at or scraped off stumbling into a brick wall, or maybe falling down some stairs. He used to have such beautiful skin.

  “What’s your plan?”

  “My plan?”

  “Yeah. You said it’s just revenge, so you’ve got a plan, right? Tell me.”

  I use the stunned look on my face to pretend I’m thinking—turning it from, How the hell do I explain I’m second-guessing the whole thing? to, Where the hell do I even start?

  “It’s...it’s not anything super concrete.” I pry his fingers off me and slip to the doorway. The open space behind me—and access to a door—calms my pulse better than deep-breathing ever could. “I’m kind of playing it by ear.”

  Callum lifts an eyebrow, shrugging. “Okay, and? What’s the actual ‘revenge’ part, then?”

  “Breaking his heart,” I blurt. It feels like I’ve lost control of my mouth. And my mind.

  And my own stupid, rebellious heart.

  Because the second I reveal this to Callum—the second I remind myself what all this was really for—I get a pang of regret. I wish so badly I still wanted this plan.

  I shut my eyes, mentally shaking my head at myself. This is ridiculous. So I’m attracted to Theo. We had a great night and several great fucks.