Melissa (Daughters Series, #3)

by Leanne Davis

  “I love the snow. It’s so clean and pure. It’s like a blank canvas laid on top of the earth. And we can paint it however we want. Our footprints, the pavement, and all the blemishes and ruins of man’s society are covered up. For a while, nature can almost recapture it all.”

  Okay, not her most stupid ramble. It is kind of poetic, I guess, if you’re into that kind of thing. But it’s bat–shit crazy too. She’s raving about the snow and a blank canvas and nature reclaiming the world. How does any of that relate to what we were discussing? She entered my apartment again without my permission. And I find it exceedingly difficult to enjoy my apartment as I deserve to because she insists on having sex in it.

  “Look, Melissa, focus here. I need for you to hear me.” I press my hands into the pockets of my pants and poke my elbows out, slumping my shoulders. Perhaps she doesn’t respect me, or thinks I’m just a computer and science tech geek. Why else wouldn’t she respect that I live here for now?

  She turns and blinks suddenly, as if she’s surprised I’m still there. “What?”

  I wave towards the bedroom. “You. In there. Some guy? Remember? It’s my place. My bed. I don’t want you in here anymore. And I mean it.”

  “Oh. Sure.” Shrugging, she walks around the kitchen and stops before the little shelving unit that was here when I moved in. It has little knick–knacks on it that I assume her mother probably put there. Using her index finger, she points one out. “Mom used to have this over the fireplace mantel. They got it on some camping trip we took when we were young. I used to take it off the mantel and play with it. It was my Barbie doll’s dog.”

  So what? I can’t fathom how that remark connects to our former conversation. She is a complete and utter space cadet. She can’t focus or listen or seem to follow the thread of normal conversation. I don’t enjoy being around her for that reason. Who cares about some trinket made from the volcanic ash of Mt. St. Helens and shaped into a wolf? Sure, it’s pretty, but generic, common, and cheap. Just a tourist souvenir. Yet she continues staring at it as if she’s enraptured. Was it talking to her? Speaking in wolf dialect to her? I swear, it would not surprise me if she thought so. I’ve often seen her with the animals her mother keeps around the yard on their mini–farm. I’ve observed Melissa talking to the animals before too, as if she is conversing with a human. No embarrassment on her part. Now an object shaped like an animal made of volcanic ash? Sure. I could see her believing it would talk back to her.

  She continues to stare at the tiny wolf. “Dad used to get annoyed at me. He didn’t want it to get broken. So he’d warn me over and over to leave it alone, but I’d just forget and play with it again the next day. He couldn’t understand how I always forgot what he said. But I did.”

  Was she comparing that from when she was a kid to this? Is she somehow saying she forgot she wasn’t supposed to have sex with strangers in my bed? I cross my arms over my chest in disbelief. She just can’t be for real. I refuse to accept it. Anyone related to Christina or Jessie Hendricks could not be that stupid or clueless.

  Christina is Melissa’s older sister. She accompanied her mom the most often when they used to visit us over the years. So I got to know her the best. I had a crush on her that started when I was ten and lasted until well into high school. She never reciprocated my affection. I knew that. I tried to keep my attraction to her quiet and private, but she always seemed to avoid me and treated me with kid gloves, so I knew she didn’t feel the same way. She was always smart too, with perfect grades and a sharp, curious mind. Not like Melissa. Christina was not prone to forgetting the gists of conversations, or the basic social norms that were so obvious to me and mostly everyone else. But not to Melissa.

  “Melissa. I’m serious here. You can’t keep bringing these strange guys here to have sex. Do your dirty work somewhere else.”

  “Where?” she asks, elevating her tone as if she’s seriously unsure where to do it. She seems almost alarmed by it. Where? What do I care where she has sex? Can’t she figure that out on her own?

  “I don’t care where you go. Just don’t do it in my bed. I don’t want you using my bed anymore. Please acknowledge that you get this and understand it clearly.”

  She suddenly whips around. “Have you ever climbed it?”

  Exasperated, I throw my hands up. “Climbed what?”

  “Mount St. Helens?”

  Mount St. Helens? Back to the wolf of volcanic ash? I shake my head, completely puzzled by her strange way of thinking. “Uh. No, not yet. I hope to go there in February.”

  She finally seems to tune into me and raises her gaze as some color fills her face. “Why during the winter? Isn’t that more dangerous?”

  “I climb up and ski down the face of it,” I reply, using my hands to indicate the two skis leaning against the wall in the corner.

  “You don’t seem strong enough to do that.”

  Insult me much? I inwardly groan and tap my hand to my leg. “It doesn’t require brute strength, not like you apparently think. And I can hold my own.”

  “Can I come sometime?”

  I stare into her pupils, looking for dilation, and shiny, unfocused eyes because I am sure now that she’s high on something. Nothing she says makes any sense or flows or even connects. What does one concept have to do with the other? She’s crazy. I can’t find any logic in her.

  “Uh. No.”

  “Why not?” Her eyes squint and her forehead wrinkles up as if she is contemplating with all her energy.

  She seems actually offended. I roll my eyes. “Where do I start? Because you can’t climb. Or ski. It’s dangerous. Hard. And you don’t have the right equipment, nor do you know anything about it. That’s just the obvious reason. I could go on at length.”

  “How do you manage then?”

  “I learned from my dad. For years. I read about it. I do it. I could explain the techniques I use.”

  “It doesn’t seem to fit you.”

  Yes, insulting me only makes me all the more eager to embrace this half–baked, hare–brained idea of hers. “Melissa? Hear me. You can’t do it. It’s not for you. It’s hard work. It can be dangerous. It takes tenacity and care and a strict adherence to the rules. It also takes plenty of determination, concentration, and strength of mind, body, and character. It’s definitely not for you.”

  I lay it on thick, hoping she’ll get it. She retreats half a step. “You… think that badly of me?”

  “You were just screaming about ‘riding Daddy’ with some stranger in my bed. I don’t really have too high of an opinion when it comes to you, no.”

  “You look down on me because I have sex so often? You do, don’t you? Why? I mean, it’s a natural expression and part of being human. And being young. There’s nothing dirty about it.”

  I don’t look down on her. But I certainly would never discuss my private life with her. Never. Ever.

  “No. It’s fine. Just not here. I think you keep missing the point of our entire exchange. Hear me out, okay? I don’t care if you have sex. Or the partners you choose. I don’t care where you do it either. Or how often. I just don’t want you to do it in or on my bed again. Okay? Please quit sneaking in here when I’m away. I detest it. And I’m asking you for your respect and consideration.”

  Her head tilts as her expression once again, seems perplexed. “I didn’t realize you felt that way about me.”

  I scratch my head. She has literally stumped me again. “How could you not know I felt that way? I’ve been crystal clear every single time it happens.”

  “I don’t want you to think so badly of me.”

  I throw my hands up. “Fine. I don’t. I just want you to listen to me when I speak to you. I want you to understand and respect my privacy. And I don’t want you to come in here again, this residence which I am currently renting, and use it as if it’s your own. We don’t have that kind of relationship, Melissa.”

  Shaking her head, her hair falls down. “Well, do you want to have sex with me?�
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  Staring at her, completely dumbfounded, I hold her gaze but she doesn’t blink or blush or simper. What reason could she have for making that statement? Is it to make me like her? I don’t know what to do with her anymore. I open my mouth to speak. And even I am shocked by what pops out.

  Chapter Two

  ~Melissa~

  “What? And get some kind of STD? No thanks, Melissa, I’d prefer the odds of getting bitten by a rabid dog,” Seth says to me.

  His words slash my heart. Maybe it shouldn’t hurt so much, but it does. He’s nothing to me. Some friend of the family’s kid. He should not matter to me at all. But… he does. I tilt my head to the side, away from his prying eyes, so he can’t see me flinch. I take a step back, then another. I know I shouldn’t have come here to begin with. I mean, he’s right. Seth is right in every single accusation he just said to me. As Seth Gifford is always right. He’s a damn genius, after all. So of course he must always be correct and right.

  Why do I do these things? I honestly can’t answer his questions. Nor anyone else’s. Everyone asks, goads, demands, nags, probes, and grows angry at me over it. Why can’t I freaking focus? Or stay tuned into conversations? Or finish anything? Why? How many times over the course of my life have those words been addressed to me in some fashion or another? My dad is the one who says them the most often. He doesn’t hesitate to express his total disdain of me when I inevitably quit the sports team or club or activity I was so excited to join until my interest dims, and my desire to do it fades. Eventually, I just weasel my way out of it. That went for my school work as well. Something which I couldn’t weasel out of so easily. The four years I spent in high school became one long, drawn–out battle between Dad and me. He won most of the time. I barely scraped by, scarcely graduating with low Cs and Ds. Yeah, not exactly meeting the Hendricks family standards. So many of my teachers had Christina in their classes before me. Christina was their favorite student, so they were often visibly shocked by me and my poor study habits.

  As were my parents and most people who knew Christina before they met me.

  But this is coming from Seth, who is meaner than he needs to be. Even I don’t deserve this. I might be annoying. And a little flaky and flighty, and yes, a bit slutty, but I’m not evil. And Seth knows that much about me. He could have just said no. I expect him to refuse. I often rib him about sex but only because it makes him so uncomfortable and he seems like such a priss about it. It’s our thing, our dance, our way of interacting. We go back and forth. I piss him off and he lectures me, rolling his eyes and expressing his unmasked scorn. He always acts so put–out and offended while I like to express my unbridled joy in doing it. But for him to be outright cruel to me?

  No.

  I whip around, running inside his room to grab my clothes and dart towards the door as I descend the stairs, clutching the towel around me. Yeah, that would be typical for me too: fleeing outside in nothing more than a freaking towel with wet hair in November when it’s forty–two degrees outside. Ignoring him calling my name, I sense a tinge of regret in his words. I don’t stop. I just run. I hurry past the barn and the horse pasture, glad to get past my dad, who is repairing one of the dog kennels’ roofing after it blew off. He’s doing that for me. But I don’t stop. He doesn’t lift his head or appear to notice me. I don’t dare pause. Tears blur my eyes, and the need to avoid Dad becomes critical. Just as I avoid Christina. I lost my job again and Dad doesn’t know it yet. I don’t want to admit it although he and Christina somehow always seem to know when I screw up. I don’t know why I screw up so often, but I always do.

  Quitting seems to follow me. Like a rabid dog, I sneer in my head.

  Who is Seth to criticize me? At least I have no problem finding members of the opposite sex who want to have sex with me. Who would want to have sex with Seth? Maybe that’s why I’m so upset at him. That he dared to insult me like that, especially when he can’t even get a date.

  I stomp my foot, and dirt poofs up from the mound of ash. Years ago, in 1980, Mount St. Helens erupted in Washington State and much of central and eastern Washington was covered in ash. Even now, there are small mounds of the gray ash. I always love to mess with them. They are soft and poof up like smoke. I stare at the mound, knowing my brain is doing that again. I’m switching tracks from what I don’t want to engage in any longer. Damn it!

  But really, I know it’s only because what Seth said hurt me so much.

  I don’t know why Seth would be so freaking cruel. So I might have used his apartment once or twice. So what? It was supposed to be my apartment, but no; my parents nixed my plan to live there when I failed to land a job quick enough after high school to pay for it. So they swiftly offered it to their friends’ son to live in while he attended college close by. Rolling my eyes, I understood their distinct message: Seth is successful, and accomplishing something they deem worthy, so he could live there, but I could not. I wasn’t allowed to because I am not successful. Seth doesn’t pay any rent, so it isn’t like they gain financially from the arrangement. No. The apartment was distinctly removed from my occupation precisely to put me in my place. Something I don’t appreciate at all.

  Work. I did it sometimes. I just wasn’t the best at holding on to the jobs I got. I have no desire or ability to pursue more education, having just barely squeaked through high school. And it was excruciating for me. I just wasn’t good at any of it. Every ounce of school work was as uncomfortable and tortuous as using pliers to extract one of my teeth without pain meds. That’s how I found school. No kidding. And same goes for all the jobs I tried.

  Contrary to what every single person believes of me, I do try. I try as hard as Christina, who received straight As throughout her bachelor’s degree and now her master’s too. I fail to succeed or stay with anything long enough to get positive results.

  Goosebumps break out over my bare arms and I shake my head, feeling disgusted with myself once more. Outside. In a towel. With wet hair. Yeah, this is me. I throw the towel down and slip my clothes on as I huddle in the coat, rubbing on my arms to warm me up. I quit the stupid, aimless running and start to head back towards home. Where should I go exactly? Yeah, nowhere. Home. I mean, Seth is right. What the hell am I doing?

  Sex. I like sex. It’s easy for me. And honestly? Not much is very easy for me, so perhaps I might indulge in it too often. School wasn’t good. Work is a struggle. My family and I are often like oil and water. I bicker with my sisters, as well as my parents. I don’t actually fight with my parents, although I often desire it. I usually hold my tongue on half of what I’d like to say when they start lecturing me or get exasperated with me. I censor the nasty retort I’d truly like to say. But with Seth, I don’t.

  However, when it comes to sex, it’s something that I naturally like to initiate. I don’t get shy or confused. Honestly speaking, guys like my body so it’s more than easy to find partners. Not much else comes easy for me. Today’s guy is someone I’ve been seeing lately. I like the kind of guys who are the opposite of what my family would want for me. Hence the reason why I have to hide them and do them up in the apartment. Or at least, I used to until stupid Seth came into the picture. He’s a huge cramp in my style. My family approves of him because he is someone like my dad, all upstanding and hardworking. Just like Christina’s boyfriend, who also happens to be our adopted first cousin. He wasn’t part of the family until he was thirteen when he was adopted by our aunt and uncle. He’s quiet, serious, and sometimes difficult but also protective and he works hard at school. My parents have grown to like his involvement in my sister’s life. That’s the kind of relationship they want for me.

  But it’s not what I want. So, our preferences don’t match and I have to learn to hide mine. I like wild guys. I like hot guys. I like to get away from home and forget who I am or where I came from. I like pure freedom. I party too much and too often and too hard, if you ask my parents, who are always on my case. I do my best to hide some of it if only to lessen the
effect it has on our relationship. Anand isn’t exactly an upstanding citizen. He belongs to a motorcycle club. I think they’re pretty harmless, and not like the ones that run drugs or commit other crimes. I guess so, but I don’t know that for sure.

  He’s twenty–eight and I have no idea how he affords anything. No job, so maybe there are some drug–related, nefarious activities going on. I don’t ask and he doesn’t tell me. He has a kick–ass Harley Davidson motorcycle. He’s had it for years and it looks brand new. It’s his prize possession and the only thing Anand treats with any respect or care. Including me. Yeah, not so much of either with me. Which is fine, I’m not really seeking that from him. I have to meet him down the road from my house so my parents don’t know about the motorcycle. Anyway, he’s kind of my boyfriend right now. I guess. I think. No. He is. But I wouldn’t be shocked to meet another girl or two and find he’s been sleeping with them too.

  Contrary to what Seth just said, I am always careful. Always. I use birth control and make sure that whatever guy I’m sleeping with wears a condom. Every. Single. Time. I might be flighty, and a space–cadet, or lazy, or a bad judge of character, but I definitely do not want to get pregnant. And I doubt a guy like Anand would be faithful to me. I don’t like pain, so yeah, I mean, no, I don’t want any STDs.

  Anand merely knows where I live and not much else about me. He doesn’t know that my dad was a captain in the Army Special Forces. He doesn’t know my mom is a veterinarian or that I, like my mom, love animals. Or that I’m a vegetarian. Or that I just lost my job working as a hostess for a pancake house.

  He knows I like to drink hard and I’m usually up for a little mind–altering, meaning drugs. He always has an unlimited supply. And yes, I see the red flags and might be persuaded to believe he could be dealing them. Ask me how much I care. Not so much. Again, I’m not looking to bear the man’s babies or even go to dinner with him. I’m simply looking for fun and sex, and feeling young and wild and free. The opposite of my life at home. Even if it doesn’t make me all that proud, at least, it doesn’t make me feel as bad as being at home does sometimes.