by Cora Kenborn
“They’re fine,” he assures me, reading my thoughts and ignoring my question.
“They aren’t, you know…thinking of me, are they?”
He laughs. “Of course they are, but I wouldn’t worry about them. They probably can’t move after last night.”
“Excuse me?”
He grins again, his smile as white as his t-shirt. “Their dicks probably feel like they jerked off with sandpaper.”
I do the unthinkable and blush. “Well, you seem to have no problem talking to me right now.”
He shrugs. “Gotta work harder to intimidate me, lady.”
Frankie is unlike anyone I’ve ever known. I’ve never encountered someone so blasé about meeting me. I know that sounds conceited, and that’s mainly because I am. Confidence is key, and it’s clear that if I’m going to survive in this hell hole for the next three years, I’ve got to hold on to all of it I can.
Shaking me out of my fog, Frankie takes the mop out of my hand and puts a crumpled plastic baggie in place of it. I stare down at what looks like a set of clear dentures inside a sandwich bag.
“Boss left orders,” he explains, pointing toward a shelf against the far wall with at least ten cups lined up against the top of it. “You’re on mouth guard duty today.” Upon second glance, I note a plastic tub sitting underneath the shelf, and I’m almost afraid to ask what abomination a mouth guard is supposed to be.
Speaking of the boss…
“Where is Cary?” I try for nonchalant, but I’m not sure I quite make it.
“I guess he’s with Taryn.” Frankie avoids eye contact as he tears open little paper squares filled with round cakey discs.
“They look good together.” The words stick like molasses in my throat.
A slow smile pulls at his lips as he gives me a sideways glance. “You jealous, Snowflake?”
“Me?” I crinkle up my nose in disgust. “Hell no. I’m out of here in three years. I don’t give a shit about anyone in this town.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Without a word, Frankie nods toward the shelf again and I follow him like a robot. Handing me the discs, he instructs me to fill each cup with water and drop the tablets inside. I assume Cary meant for me to do this all on my own, but I’m not going to turn down the help.
“When did he start fighting?” I ask, trying to appear disinterested.
Mindlessly fishing into the bucket, Frankie pulls out a mouth guard from a Ziploc labeled with Tiny’s name and drops it into the fizzing liquid. “Dude’s been throwin’ fists as long as I’ve known him. I guess about four years now. Taught me everything I know.”
“But isn’t fighting bad?”
He cocks a dark eyebrow. “Isn’t coke bad?”
Ouch.
I should’ve known that the people here would feast on the details of my downfall. I mean, shit, I made the newsfeeds all over the world. Why the hell wouldn’t the gossipy people of Myrtle Beach have a field day with this? I just hoped I wouldn’t have to face it day in and day out for three years.
“Look, I ain’t judging you,” he says, his tone softer. “Hell, I got busted for selling weed just to put shoes on my feet and sleep somewhere with a roof. We don’t try to kick each other’s asses here. Boss taught us when to quit hittin’, but getting in that ring gets all that pissed-off shit we got inside of us out.”
I glance over my shoulder. “You can’t be more than eighteen. What do you have to be mad about?”
Frankie chuckles and mumbles something in Spanish. “What kind of car do you drive, Snowflake?”
I remain silent because my car is a pile of wreckage.
“I take the bus everywhere I go.”
I can’t imagine taking public transportation. I actually don’t think I’ve ever stepped foot on a bus. Or near one. Or on the same block as one. My mother used to say bums used public buses as urinals and we could get STDs from sitting on the seats.
Frankie drops the rest of the mouth guards in the cups and faces me as I reach for the same mop from yesterday. “How about your place? How big is it?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Just answer the question.”
I sigh, leaning my hip against the handle. “Five thousand square feet.”
“I lived in a foster home with a dude who beat the shit out of me every day until I parked my ass on a bench.” He waits for a reaction, his hand gripping the back of his bald head as if it still holds the steel imprint.
“Frankie, I…” I have no idea what to say. I’m not good in situations that require empathy. I’m not sure the Wests even possess that gene.
“How much do you make a year?” he continues, prolonging the torture.
Oh boy. Here’s where shit gets real.
“Nine million.” My voice is barely above a whisper because even to my own ears it sounds ridiculously pretentious. Who the hell deserves nine million dollars for pouting and showing her ass?
Frankie doesn’t even flinch. “I make fifteen thousand five hundred dollars, and I’m damn happy to get it. Know why? Because I know that’s all the boss can afford.” Throwing his arms out, he motions around him. “This place brings in shit for money, but he takes care of us first with what it does make.”
“I had no idea.”
“You asked me why I call you Snowflake. It’s not because of this,” he says, pointing to my bare arm pressed up against the mop handle. “How you see the real world makes you whiter than your skin ever could.”
I don’t respond. I can’t. There’s no possible way to come back to that. Instead, I concentrate on mopping as if it takes every brain cell I have. Eventually, I notice Frankie is gone, either having joined the others or having left to man the front desk, so I spend the rest of the morning figuring out on my own what needs to be done. I’ve never cleaned in my life. However, the last thing I want to do is call attention to myself, so by lunchtime, I’m dirty, exhausted, and unsure if any of it is done correctly.
Or if anyone cares, since Cary sure as hell doesn’t.
Eight
Cary
I shift in the uncomfortable wrought iron chair, cursing as my elbow slips off the tiny round table again. The entire café is pretentious and upscale with its low lighting, cloth napkins, and menu with missing prices. Any menu that doesn’t list prices is a place I can’t afford.
Not that Taryn gives a shit.
Ever since Shiloh has come back to town, her high-maintenance meter has shot through the roof. It’s like she’s bought out every high-end store from one end of the beach to the other. She’s gone from being Taryn McDaniel right back to a Shiloh West wannabe.
It’s disturbing as hell.
“What is it, Cary?” she says, taking a sip of water.
I guess I’m staring harder than I thought.
When I don’t respond, she makes a big production out of smoothing her napkin on her lap. “You and Shiloh seemed pretty friendly yesterday.”
“What did you want me to do—punch her in the face?”
“It would be a start.”
I hold my tongue as an overdressed waiter delivers her overpriced grilled chicken salad topped with some weird-ass cheese I can’t pronounce. I don’t want to think about how much this stupid meal is going to set me back.
She seems to have dropped the conversation in favor of cutting her meal into toddler sized pieces, but I’m far from done. I pop a fry in my mouth and watch her face. “You almost have a gleam in your eye, Taryn. You’d think you were the one with a vendetta against her.”
She pauses mid-cut and gives me a disinterested shrug. “Maybe I am.”
“For what? Don’t tell me you’re still harboring prom queen resentment after all these years. That’d be a little sad.”
It’s an unnecessary dig, but absolutely deserved. I was there.
“Whose side are you on?” she asks, her tone sharp.
“Mine.”
Shit, that sounds way too familiar.
“Don’t forget who picked you up and got you to where you are today.” Her eyes darken for a moment before the shadow passes and a smile spreads across her face. “Are we not a team in this, Cary? I mean, how many nights did we spend in bed talking about fucking her over? Well, our chance just fell into our lap.”
As much as I don’t want to admit it, she’s right. Although she saw it go down, I never meant to tell her what really happened the night Shiloh left for good. It was a secret I’d kept for almost seven years—until too much Jack Daniels and an amazing blow job made me reveal the one thing I swore I’d keep to myself until.
In fact, I kept most of my revenge plans to myself over the years. Unfortunately, after confessing to Taryn, the darkness in me tripled. Night after night, we’d get drunk, have sex, and make plans about how we’d make Shiloh pay. Taryn fed my hatred like it was her own.
I just never expected everything to come to fruition like it has.
“What do you have in mind?” I blink once, keeping my face blank. I’ll hear her out. A side project might not be bad. Double the payback would be sufficient for the interest Shiloh has accrued over time. It’s not like I’m not going through with my original plan anyway, no matter what Taryn has to say.
“Well, she got a slap on the wrist, right?” she says, placing her fork on the side of her plate. “Her sentence should’ve been much worse for what she did to that poor girl.”
“Obviously.”
“My dad’s a lawyer, Cary. You don’t grow up in an attorney’s home without learning a thing or two. I did some research on Shiloh’s little arrangement. Everyone knows her daddy bought her freedom.”
The confidence in her voice has me on edge. “Is this going anywhere?”
“She has strict rules she has to follow, baby. One wrong move and her charmed ass gets shipped off to a women’s correctional facility in California. Everyone finally gets justice.”
“And what do you get?”
“Her out of your life. Do you think I’m stupid? I see the way you’ve always looked at her.” Picking up her fork again, she stabs through a strip of chicken. “She’s a freak show now, and I won’t come second to her twice in one lifetime, Cary.”
I’d call her more of a wounded warrior than a freak. The devastated look on Shiloh’s face when I called her Shallow flashes through my mind, but I keep quiet.
“You’d send someone to jail for your own personal gain? That’s kind of sick, Taryn.”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t act so sanctimonious. You want to talk about sick? Do you remember the things you fantasized doing to her while you fucked me?”
I wince at the accusation. I wish we’d drank enough whiskey to block out the things I’d said, but I remember them clearly. I’d said I wanted to hurt her. Not just emotionally, but physically. The worst part was that Taryn seemed to have gotten off on it.
She’s right. We’re sick. This whole arrangement is sick.
But I continued to do it for months. Until Shiloh walked in yesterday. Now, nothing makes sense.
“How do you plan on accomplishing this?” I ask, pushing my plate away. “It seems Shiloh has an aversion to being behind bars. I don’t think she’ll willingly do anything to jeopardize going back there.”
A disturbing smile curves Taryn’s lips as she spears a piece of lettuce from her salad. “You leave that to me. I’ve got eyes on her, and I’ll find her weak spot. Everybody has one.”
The rest of the meal is spent in silence. Taryn happily picks at her salad, while I watch her face. She’s serious. There’s a part of me that wonders if we’re going too far. Sending someone to prison is serious shit. Taryn is playing God with another person’s life, and if I sit back and do nothing, then what does that make me?
Then I remember how Shiloh played God with my life with no regrets for seven years.
After paying the bill and walking Taryn to her car, I promise to take her to The Light House tonight. Everything inside me wants to drive to the center and get in the ring to clear my head, but my thoughts are too screwed up. I have to solidify my own plans before I can deal with Taryn’s.
There’s also no use in denying the obvious. I want Shiloh, and after the way my body reacted to her yesterday, I know there’s only one thing to do.
I’m going to make her fall for me. I’m going to take what I want from her.
And then I’m going to destroy her.
* * *
I stare at the outside of the community center, my hand on the door, and the rest of my body frozen in a weird Heisman position. Anyone driving by would think I’ve lost my mind.
Maybe I have.
I’d planned on waiting until tomorrow to put my plans for Shiloh in motion, but the minute my foot hit the gas after leaving the café, I found myself here. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment. Maybe I’m overly anxious. The more likely scenario is that I just can’t stop thinking about her.
As I open the door, the sticky humidity from outside mixes with the tepid air inside the center, creating a swooshing sound that turns every eye my way.
Every. Eye.
I head straight for Frankie’s desk, rifling through the mountain of junk food wrappers. “Where the hell is the mail?”
Shifting a glance to the side, I catch Shiloh’s hardened gray eyes glaring at me. Even though she’s standing with a broom in one hand, the barely-there black crop top and tiny shorts she’s wearing screams anything but “maid.”
“I don’t know, chief,” she replies, inhaling so deeply that her tits lift high above the top of her tank top. “Why don’t you find a way to ask that doesn’t makes you sound like a giant dick, and maybe I’ll answer you.”
My blood boils, and what I really want to do is bend her over this desk and show her how I react to being disrespected in my own place. Instead, I curl my fist around an overdue invoice I have no intention of paying.
“Has the mail arrived today, Miss West?” The muscles in my neck tighten as I punctuate each word with a grind of my teeth.
It kills me to bow down to anyone, much less her. The smug grin on her face is almost enough to make me kick the entire desk across the room. She’s kidding herself if she thinks she has the upper hand. Taryn is already planning on doing some kind of diabolic shit to take her down, and I’ve barely skimmed the surface of what I have in store for her.
I almost feel sorry for her. By the time she leaves South Carolina, she’ll have wished she’d opted for the jail sentence. Legal suffering and revenge suffering are two different beasts. One is designed to punish and redeem, while the other is crafted for pain and destruction.
Too bad her pride won’t allow her to shut her mouth long enough to figure that out.
“Well, I don’t know,” she says, walking toward me. “I’ve only been here two days, so I’m not really in tune with the delivery schedules. Maybe if you were around to run your own business you’d know these things.”
That does it. The condescending and aristocratic bullshit attitude I’ve worked my whole life to avoid is thrown right in my face by the one person who embodies it. It takes all my restraint not to wrap my fingers around her neck and squeeze—just to hear her beg me to stop. Sick? Maybe, but the desire has remained ever since the day they buried my sister and I curled my hands around the metal bars, pretending they were her pale skin.
I wanted to hear her beg then. I want to hear it now.
But with a room full of underage boys watching me intently, I step back and snap my jaw shut. Instead, I curse and backhand a half-empty Coke can sitting on the edge of the desk, sending it careening to the floor.
Catching Shiloh’s widened eyes, I ignore the blood pumping straight to my cock and turn to walk out when she grabs my arm and swings me around with surprising strength. The gray in her eyes darkens as she holds my stare. Her lips are pursed, and although I know she’s ready to spit fire, they still look kissable. Fuckable.
Christ, the woman could stop traffic and kill a man dead.
I pull away from her hold. “Problem?”
“Are you going to clean that up?” She drags her eyes along the sticky mess left by the soda.
“Nope.”
“You’re the one who made the mess, not me.”
I laugh. “You’re the one with the broom in your hand, not me.”
Flicking her gaze upward, she jabs her finger into my chest. “I just spent an hour cleaning this place. You did this on purpose, asshole! Clean it yourself. You don’t own me.”
My chest burns and fire licks along every seam of restraint I have left. I’ve kept myself in check up until now, but the minute she shoves the broom to the ground by my feet and turns to stomp away, something inside of me snaps.
Resentment gets the best of me, and I draw my foot back, kicking the can halfway across the room. As Shiloh is preoccupied with the stupid piece of metal skidding across the floor, I slip my hand up the side of her neck and curl my fingers around it. She lets out a startled gasp, and refocuses her attention on my face—just where I want it. There’s a surprising mix of heat and loathing in her eyes as I slam my lips against hers, and relish in it.
Right before I fuck her world up.
Stunned at first, she quickly composes herself and struggles against me. However, her mouth welcomes my invasion as her fists fight to resist against it. I deepen the kiss, meaning only to prove a point, but unable to stop myself.
My hand tightens in her hair, craving more. Needing more. Her lips are unlike anything I’ve experienced in years—a mix of fireworks and damnation punching me in the chest. We kiss harder, her defenses crumbling as her lips part wider, her tongue meeting mine stroke for stroke.
Then I hear the murmurs and low laughter. I remember where I am and who’s watching.
Goddamn it.
She’s tipped the scales in her favor.
Again.
Lust has overshadowed my hate.
Again.
“Starshine,” I whisper, tearing my mouth away and dropping my lips next to her ear. Our cheeks brush together like silk against sandpaper.
