Shallow

by Cora Kenborn

  However, my path of loyalties run in different lines now, so I keep my mouth shut.

  “I spent some time up there but it was just too dirty for me, so I came back. I’ve done local commercials that’ve been pretty big,” Taryn shoots back, crossing the room to stand beside me. She runs her talon-like nails through my hair and kisses my cheek. “Besides, there are things here that New York will never have.”

  “Oh? And what’s that?”

  “This fine-ass man right here.”

  As Taryn makes an unnecessary display of groping me, I focus on Shiloh’s reaction. I have to hand it to her—I was banking on shock, but in true Shiloh fashion, she watches her former best friend with detached boredom. It’s that look that makes me want to fuck Taryn on the half-assed swept floor just to get a rise out of her.

  In fact…

  Snaking an arm around Taryn’s waist, I jerk her against me. Taryn sighs, but I don’t give a shit. This isn’t about her. Kissing Taryn has never been about affection, so I grab the back of her head and slam my mouth against hers. She immediately opens for me, gladly putting on a show for the woman who outshined her in every aspect of her life.

  We kiss as Shiloh watches. Taryn’s hot. My dick should be hard for her, but it’s not. It’s reacting to the woman squeezing the shit out of a wooden mop handle.

  “You two are together?” Shiloh asks quietly when we finally break apart.

  Taryn wipes her mouth and smirks. “For almost six months.”

  Then Shiloh shocks me with a statement so far out of left field, I never even see the pitch coming.

  “This isn’t you, Carrick. You’re better than this.”

  My body stiffens. Fuck her. She doesn’t know anything about me. For seven years, she hasn’t cared to find out. No calls. No letters. No goddamn apologies.

  “Now just wait a goddamn minute, you bitch…”

  I raise a hand, silencing Taryn. She pouts, but obeys regardless. “And how would you know what I am?” I glare at Shiloh, my tone so sharp it could cut glass. “It seems we all get what we deserve in the end.”

  “Have you become that cruel?”

  “Have you finished mopping, Shallow?”

  Taryn lets out a hollow laugh as I hiss that one word, but not me. I’m pissed off I don’t feel the satisfaction I thought I would. I actually feel sick. It’s a low dig. I’ve never called her that in my life. I used to fight kids who called her Shallow behind her back. I’d come home with ripped clothes and black eyes over that cruel nickname. I never fought over my own nickname, but I took punches for hers.

  And now, I just punched her with it.

  “That was priceless!” Taryn laughs, kissing my jaw.

  “Go home, Taryn.” I pull away from her. This whole day has been one big mind fuck, and I’m done.

  “But we’re going to The Light House tonight!”

  Shit. I forgot we’d made plans a few days ago to go to the local dive bar for a few drinks. Right now, discussing the shit Taryn wants to talk about over a beer is the last thing I need. What I need is to be alone with a bottle of Jack Daniels and fucking decompress.

  I brush my thumb over her cheek. “I have a few things to do with the boys tonight. Let’s do it tomorrow.”

  I deserve a goddamn Academy Award for this shit.

  “But, Cary…” she whines, sticking her bottom lip out.

  “Tomorrow, Taryn.” I don’t take orders from her, and I’m not going out tonight. End of story.

  Giving up, Taryn turns to go, but not before grabbing my ass and shoving her tongue down my throat one last time. I’m not particularly in the mood for this, but I’m still a guy, and my dick doesn’t know the difference.

  “Bye, baby,” Taryn whispers. With one last kiss, she turns an icy gaze toward Shiloh and rolls her eyes. “Later, jailbird.”

  The minute the door slams, I head toward my office. “Go home, Shiloh.”

  “I still have to mop,” she says quietly, the injury from my earlier insult still bleeding through her tone.

  “Do it in the morning. I’m done with you.” I don’t wait for a response. My head is a fucking mess, and she’s the cause of it.

  I assume she has her mother’s driver pick her up because eventually, headlights pause in front of my office window and then drive away. She never bothered to knock on my door before leaving. It’s just as well, I wouldn’t have opened it anyway.

  After an hour of sitting in my chair, I finally open the middle drawer of my desk and pull out the magazine shoved in the back. It’s her first Maxim spread. I’ve had it forever, evident by the wrinkled pages and stains all over it.

  The photo is in black and white, but it gives Shiloh a Marilyn Monroe quality that sends men over the edge. Her hair is curled and tumbles over her shoulders. She’s barely dressed in black thong and a tiny black and silver studded bra. Her tits are busting out of the top, and she’s leaning over the back of a leather couch with her fingers pressed against her lips. Her makeup heavy and dark, and she’s staring at the camera with her mouth open like she’s begging for someone to fill it.

  When the darkness comes calling, I let myself believe it’s me.

  The moment I bought this magazine, I knew Shiloh would be a star. It was also the moment I knew she’d never come home.

  The more I stare, the more the pressure is too much to take. I’m so fucking hard I’m about to punch through my pants. Keeping one hand on her face, I use the other to release the zipper on my jeans. The minute I wrap my hand around my cock, I groan. It’s not going to take much. Sparring with Shiloh all day has been like three-hour long foreplay. While I stare at her half-lidded eyes, I pump my fist, my grip tightening. Sweat beads on my forehead as my gaze drops to her bra. My tongue darts out to lick my lips, and heat builds inside me. I can’t think. I’m breathing faster.

  Tighter.

  Faster.

  I groan. The base of my spine sends electric shocks to my brain and my entire thought process halts as my mind goes numb.

  “Fuck, Shiloh!”

  My free hand crumples her face as I pump out every last bit of one hell of an explosive orgasm. Of course, all orgasms are explosive when I think about Shiloh. They always have been.

  Exhausted, I curse myself for my stupidity as I slump back in the old creaky chair. I now have less than twenty-four hours to compose myself before having to face her again. The one woman who can reach through the hate and still access the lust I’ve always had for her.

  Isn’t it obvious which force is stronger? Here I sit with cum stains on my jeans because even seven years of loathing couldn’t hold up to seven minutes of being in her presence.

  In high school, I thought she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen, but seven years later, the woman is so much more than that girl ever thought of being. Even with her scars. Even with the fucked-up predicament that brought her here. Even with my deep-rooted hate for her, I’m still a man, and I still have a dick, which, regardless of what she did, still wants her—bad.

  And this apparent fall from grace? Well, that just makes what I have planned so much easier. The mighty fall and the wounded rise. Now, they meet and what will happen is anyone’s guess. I always believed that somehow, Shiloh West and I would cross paths again someday. I dreamed of almost this exact scenario—me being the strong one with my shit together and her being broken and crawling back on her knees, begging for my forgiveness. I’ll get my revenge, but claiming her and throwing her away before taking it will make it that much sweeter.

  Seven

  Shiloh

  I wrap the white comforter covering the king-size bed in a death grip, ripping the lace overlay. Heaving a disgusted sigh, I flip onto my back and stare up at four princess-style pillars with a sheer, gauzy thing draped over the top.

  What the hell was I thinking as a teenager? It looks like a virginal Disney princess slept here, which doesn’t make sense. The only things I had in common with those bitches were that we lived in castles, had
assholes as parents, wore killer shoes, and had boyfriends with the IQs of a condom wrapper.

  Yes, the wrapper. Because the actual condom has a purpose.

  Before I can contemplate the full existential bullshit that is my life, my bedroom door opens and my mother stands at the threshold in a pink monogrammed velour tracksuit, holding a silver platter.

  “I have morphine and Xanax, what’s your pleasure, darling?” Staring wide-eyed through makeup that’s still perfect at eleven o’clock at night, she pushes the tray toward me. In the center of it sits two prescription pill bottles and a highball glass of what I assume to be straight vodka.

  “Mother,” I say, drawing out her name slowly, “I’m randomly drug tested. I don’t think scarfing down narco-skittles is the smartest bedtime snack.”

  She just shrugs and sets the tray on the nightstand. “Suit yourself.” Popping a pink pill, she washes it down with half of the highball glass without even a grimace and plops down beside me. “What’s got you so antisocial? You came in from your job and ran upstairs without dressing for dinner.”

  “It’s not a job.” I roll back over and groan into the pillow. “It’s community service.”

  “It can’t be that bad.”

  “I swept and mopped.”

  “Floors?”

  I turn to the side, cracking an eye open against the pillowcase. “No, the lawn. Cary’s really particular about his grass.”

  My sarcasm is lost on her as she cocks her chin and squints as if in deep thought. “Cary. Cary. Cary…”

  Let’s get real here. My mother isn’t the sharpest crayon in the box. My pathetic excuse for a father didn’t marry her for her intellect or her conversation skills. I can only assume she snagged him with other oral skills.

  No, I’m not horrible for talking about my own mother like that. It only makes me a bad person if it’s not true. People talk in a small town. Trust me. It’s true.

  “Carrick,” I grumble, flopping on my back before her brain overheats. “Carrick Kincaid. My new boss.”

  “Oh, yes.” Her lips thin at the mention of his name. I turn away because unfortunately, she knows every ugly detail. “How is Carrick these days? I remember him as looking like he could’ve used a good meal all the time.”

  “Yeah, well, apparently, he’s Cary now, and he’s had plenty of meals since then.” I swallow, remembering the hard plane of his chest as it clung to his t-shirt. “He’s been working out since I left. He’s very fit.”

  And tattooed from head to toe.

  And pierced.

  And his hair has grown out and dusts over his eye like a dangerous criminal.

  And his smile isn’t as sweet as it is deadly.

  “Shiloh, where’d you go? You seem a million miles away and you have this silly little grin on your face.”

  “I do not.” I scowl and brush my fingers across my lips.

  Shit, I totally do.

  “I was just thinking how long three years seems.” Sitting up, I pull the pillow from behind my back and hug it to my chest. “He’s not going to make it easy on me, that’s for sure.”

  “Well, aside from the horrid manual labor, maybe you’ll make some new friends.”

  “He has juvenile delinquents coming in and out of there all day, Mother. I can’t even secure my purse because the lockers are located where they all shower.”

  Glancing out the window, she suddenly turns back with excitement. “What about that nice young man who called before you got home? He wanted to introduce himself to me and check to see how your day went. Let’s see, I think his name was Walter something…”

  My head swivels around as she taps her finger against the corner of her mouth. “William Emerson?”

  Always ready to marry me off to any man with a nice smile and a fat wallet, my mother’s eyebrows lift in hopeful expectation as her pupils dilate from the Xanax. “Yes! That’s it! William. Oh, he did sound like a lovely man. Is his face as handsome as his voice? Who are his people?”

  I groan. Rich Southerners always worry about who your “people” are. Who you’re related to. Who you’re connected to. Who can set their daughter up in a lifestyle she became accustomed to before falling flat on her ass.

  “He has no people here, Mother. He’s from Missouri.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s not connected, darling.” Patting my arm, she slightly wobbles, the effect of the downer hitting her. “Warren Buffet is a Midwesterner. Did you know that?”

  No, actually, I didn’t know that. And to be honest, I’m shocked she does.

  Who is this woman, and what has she done with my mother?

  Hmmm. Weed makes people philosophical. Maybe Xanax makes my mother smart.

  “Will Emerson is my probation officer.” I slide over as she slides in beside me. “I think sleeping with him is a one-way ticket back to jail.”

  “I’m just saying,” she slurs, her eyelids heavy. “You could do worse things.”

  “I already have.”

  Which is the entire reason I’m here in the first place, having a conversation about jumping my probation officer with my boozed-up mother.

  Yeah, I know, way to cast stones, Shiloh.

  However, even if it weren’t taboo to get it on with Will, there isn’t room in my head for him—not with every available nook and cranny being slam packed with Cary’s sinfully distracting body. Even the way he ordered me around today like I was nothing more than gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe got me going.

  What does that say about me?

  I’ve never been a doormat for men. I’ve been the alpha in all my relationships. I love them and leave them, and if they don’t like it, then fuck ’em. There’s always another one ready and willing to take their place.

  But the way sweet, docile Cary snarled at me with a look of pure disgust in his eyes lit a fuse in my belly that’s still simmering. Even when he called me the one name that ripped a hole in my heart, I still can’t douse the flame.

  Yep, there’s definitely something wrong with me.

  “Mother?”

  “Hmmmm?” Popping one eye open, she tilts her head back and stares at me.

  “Am I so irredeemable that people are done with me?” I don’t want to know the answer, but Cary’s words are haunting me.

  She’s quiet for a long time and then a smile tips the corner of her mouth. “The only ones who can’t be redeemed, darling, are the ones who don’t want to be. As for other people, well, it’s usually those we hurt the most who are the last to believe we’re worthy of a second chance.”

  My mouth hangs open as she gives me a smug little wink.

  The air in my bedroom suddenly feels thick and heavy. Pushing off the bed, I cover my mother with a blanket and head for the door. Although it’s almost midnight, I need to walk on the beach and clear my head.

  As I open the door, my mother’s garbled voice calls out behind me. “Shiloh?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You cost him everything and walked away from it losing nothing. Whatever he is now, it was created, not developed.”

  My heart slams against my chest as the door slams behind me.

  * * *

  After sleeping through my alarm three times, I finally dig through my unpacked suitcase and throw on a pair of designer jean shorts with a cropped black Vera Wang camisole that I once paid seven hundred dollars for without batting an eye. At the time, it was worth the price, but the minute I walk inside the center, I change my mind. It’s completely out of place in a glorified underground fight club filled with smelly teenage boys.

  For some reason, I immediately know Cary isn’t here. I stumble a bit, shocked that his presence has such an impact on me. Jesus, I’m in town less than twenty-four hours and I already sense him again. The thought nags at me, but I push it to the back of my mind and continue through the main room toward the back.

  There it is. The red mop.

  Evil piece of shit.

  “You gonna get those expensive thread
s all dirty.” Glancing to the side, I meet the eyes of what has to be the Oakland Raiders’ missing linebacker. As round as he is tall, he kisses the air and gives me a wink. “You might wanna take ’em off.”

  Keeping my eyes down, I speed walk past him and the lingering stares of at least ten overgrown tattooed boys who remind me of a prison gang. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until the wooden stick is in my hand and I’m holding it like a third-degree black belt about to take someone’s head off.

  “Don’t do it, Snowflake. It’d only dent his head, not bash it in. Tiny’s got thick padding around his skull, know what I’m sayin’?”

  I let out a scream and spin around, taking the mop and bucket with me. The Puerto Rican kid from yesterday grins, holding up both hands in surrender while trying to avoid the wave splashing from inside the bucket.

  “What the hell? Don’t scare me like that!”

  “Sorry,” he says, shaking drops of water off his shoes. “It’s just that you had those crazy chick eyes goin’ on when you walked by, and it looked like you might try to play Whack-a-Mole with Tiny’s brain.”

  “I don’t like the way he looks at me.”

  “Take a look around, they’re all lookin’ at you like that. You’re the first high-class bitch we’ve seen here in years.”

  “I’m not a bitch…ummm.” I stare at his white t-shirt and ripped jeans, trying like hell to remember his name.

  Yes, I am. I’m absolutely a bitch.

  “Frankie,” he says, putting me out of my misery. “And chill, Snowflake. It’s just a general name we use for a woman. Don’t get so offended.”

  “Then why not just say woman?”

  “Why not just tell Tiny to fuck off?”

  Touché.

  “Why do you call me Snowflake?” Frankie’s not enamored with me like the others. He looks me in the eye when he speaks to me. I’m not used to men being unaffected by me, and it throws me off balance. I glance over my shoulder at the wall of testosterone still staring at my ass and wonder if Frankie could be my one ally in this hell hole.