Save Me, Sinners: A Dark MFM Menage Romance

by Jess Bentley

  Is this real life? This kitchen is gorgeous, with stainless steel appliances and black enameled cabinetry. Light from a skylight filters down and makes everything seem to coolly glow.

  Without looking up, he says: “Don’t just stand there. Come and sit down, Kita.”

  And I want to, but I also want to run.

  Yet, I find my feet obediently shuffling in his direction.

  Chapter 29

  Daniel

  As soon as I hear the bedroom door open upstairs, my heart starts to beat faster. As I'm whipping up a simple pancake batter, I can't help but imagine what she's doing up there. Waking up, wondering where she is? Exploring her surroundings?

  I wonder if she's all right. Should I check on her? Should I call out to her? She had quite the dose of tranquilizer last night. Roofies, I'm guessing. I imagine that comes with a bit of a hangover. I hope she's not feeling too unwell.

  As soon as I hear her feet on the stairs, I can see them again in my mind. When I laid her down, I couldn’t help but stare at those tiny, pale feet, limply crossed. The long bones of her legs curved subtly as she drew her knees toward her chest. A downy covering of fine, almost invisible hairs laid neatly along her upper arms, similar to the way her blond, bobbed hair fell softly across her cheek.

  I don't want to think about it. I won't think about it.

  As the surface heats up, I keep my head down, ladling a half cup of batter into the bottom of sauté pan. I see her out of the corner of my eye, just outside of the kitchen area.

  I won't look. I'm not some old pervert. I don’t want to frighten her off.

  But when she steps into the silvery light from the skylight, I catch a glimpse of her. She's wearing my shirt. It falls to just above her knee, the curve of the shirttail exposing her upper thigh. I don't want to think about it. I shouldn't be looking at her, but my pulse is racing and feel something uncoil in my belly. Something I haven't felt for a long, long time.

  I clear my throat. “Don't just stand there, Kita,” I tell her in my most businesslike voice. “Come and sit down.”

  Her tiny feet make almost no sound on the kitchen tiles as she obediently comes in, pulling out a barstool on the other side of the kitchen island. She climbs into it nimbly, and seems so dainty as she rests her elbows on the counter and perches her chin on top of her fingers.

  She blinks at me a few times, saying nothing, and I'm happy to see that her dilation responses seem to have returned to normal. The drugs have worn off. That's good.

  “Want some juice?”

  “Coffee? If you have it,” she says in a small voice.

  “Coffee is bad for you,” I reply, surprising myself with the sharpness in my tone. While that is a fact, why am I telling her this?

  “Oh,” she sighs, sitting up a little taller. “You're probably right.”

  That makes me feel a little bit worse. Most women would have snapped at me, telling me that was none of my business, telling me that bossing them around was also bad for me. But her courteous answer just sort of pointed out what a jerk I was in a much more precise fashion.

  I flip the pancake over again in the sauté pan, then slide it out onto a plate. I can feel her eyes on me as she watches everything that I'm doing. She probably thinks I'm up to no good.

  As I push the plate toward her, she drums her fingers against the granite counter.

  “Go ahead and eat. There are berries there and maple syrup. I'll make you some coffee.”

  I turn around to find the French press at the back of the cabinet, and I'm happy to hear her pick up the fork. So, she's not too suspicious of my motivations. Or maybe being hungry has made her more adventurous.

  “Are you a student at the University?” I ask her, not turning around.

  “Yes,” she says after swallowing politely. I can imagine the motion of her throat as she takes those first few bites. I’m filled with that kind of gratitude you get when you get a stray puppy to accept food from your hand.

  “I could drop you off there after you've eaten. Or maybe your parents’ house? I need to go out anyway.”

  “Um...”

  I turn around, and sort of wish I hadn't. She's looking at me with those big, innocent eyes, her fingers shyly covering her mouth as she chews. She has turned up the cuffs on my shirt so that it's not too long and her delicate wrists extend from the fabric, so fine and dainty I want to wrap them both in my hands. I remember vividly how she nuzzled against me as I carried her out of the bar. My palms itch, wishing I could feel that again.

  I can't think about that.

  I'm going to stop thinking about that.

  Oh my God, what is wrong with me?

  “Actually, I sort of need to get dressed…”

  “Oh, of course you do. Your parents’ house then?”

  “I don't have a… I mean, could you just take me to the sorority house? Chi Rho Pi? Do you know it?”

  I wish she hadn't said that. Acid sloshes through my mouth as I think about those horrible girls.

  “Yeah, I know it,” I growl, finding myself gripping the edge of the counter. “I don't think you should go back there.”

  Her eyebrows go up in two perfect curves. Slowly she sets the fork down and then drops her hands into her lap.

  “Excuse me?”

  I don't know how to talk to her. There are about thirty things that I want to say to her all at once, but I'm instantly too angry to say them at all. But, what do I care? She's not my responsibility. And she's looking at me like it's not my business.

  She's right about that.

  “Kita, do you know how you ended up here?”

  And she blushes. This rosy hue shoots up from her collarbones all the way up to the tops of her cheeks in three seconds. It makes her freckles glow. Her lips open slightly as she breathes in and I hear her respiration increase.

  Oh my God, it's one of the prettiest things I have ever seen.

  “But we didn't… I know we didn't,” she objects. The words tumble urgently from her mouth. “I don't drink. I don't know what happened!”

  “No, it's all right… nothing happened. That’s not what I’m saying,” I explain to her, feeling like a dirty old man who just got caught thinking dirty old man thoughts. But I didn't do anything.

  I have nothing to feel bad about.

  Other than a few thoughts. Just a few. Which I’m going to stop having immediately.

  She shifts back and forth in her seat, staring at the few pieces of pancake left on her plate. After the kettle boils, I pour the water over the Italian coffee brown to the timer for 3 1/2 minutes. Come to think of it, coffee really does smell good.

  “So, are you telling me that you live at the sorority house? While you are a pledge?”

  She stares at me curiously. “Yeah, I know it’s usually just full members, but they kind of bent that rule for me. Lizzie said… why are you making a face?”

  I realize I am making a face. I can't help it. Just the mention of Lizzie's name aggravates me. The last three years, she's been in charge of the bake sale. She's the one who turned it from an actual bake sale with cakes and pies and maybe a little bit of flirtation — okay, a lot of flirtation and maybe a fair amount of exploitation — into something that was just 100% exploitation. She's unrepentantly using these girls. And she cackles about it, because she thinks it's funny too.

  But I don't want to say that out loud. Instead, I ask her, “How much do you know about your friend Lizzie?”

  Kita shrugs one shoulder, dislodging the shirt slightly and exposing a couple more inches of smooth, touchable shoulder. A shiver runs up my thighs.

  “Only a little, I guess. Just since school started. Her mom knows my foster mom, and there was a spot open in the house. She says I’m a shoo-in for membership so they let me have the room. I just got lucky.”

  “Foster mom?” I say, repeating the obvious thing.

  But when her eyes flicker down I realize she doesn’t feel entirely good about this. She probably thinks bein
g at the sorority is moving up in the world. She's probably running away from something that legitimately she needs to escape from.

  The timer goes off and I depress the plunger in the coffee pot, then place it on the counter next to a large mug for her. I don’t have half-and-half, but I do have whipping cream. As she takes the carton from me, my hand brushes against her tiny fingers and seems to spark. I almost expect to see it light up or something.

  She feels it too, and her lips part in a perfect, pale pink oval. I pull my hand back reflexively, and try to think of something else to do. I should be getting busy cleaning up the kitchen. Anything to keep my mind occupied, keep my eyes from wandering over her.

  I know I'm inspecting her too closely. I know how ridiculous this is. I just need to get her out of here and back into her own life before I do something stupid.

  But somehow, I can't help myself. “Kita...” I start. “We should talk a little bit more about last night.”

  “What's your name?” she asks me suddenly from behind her coffee cup.

  “Oh,” I say, slightly speechless. How could I be so rude? “I’m Daniel. Daniel Lockwood.”

  She nods slowly as though finding the sound of my name acceptable.

  “What do you remember about last night?” I begin again, more gently.

  She presses her lips together. “Um, not a lot. I usually don't drink. I guess somebody put something in my Diet Coke?” She chuckles nervously.

  “Do you remember anything that happened?”

  She bites her lower lip, drawing it in between her perfect white teeth.

  “I remember arriving. I remember standing with the other pledges in the middle of the room. It was really hot. Like, really hot. There was music that seemed to be so loud I could feel it through the floor. Oh! Wait, I also remember… no, that can't be right.”

  Her voice drifts off as her expression clouds. Did she just remember something disturbing?

  “Kita, what is it?”

  “It's just, well, I must've met you there, right? What did you see?”

  I'm not sure what to tell her. “Kita, it's not that I saw anything that you did or said. I don't want you to think that. I’m not suggesting you did anything wrong. But I've seen the bake sale before and —”

  She frowns slightly. “Okay, so what is this about? If you didn't see anything —”

  “No, when I arrived it was my intention to stop the event.”

  “Wait, what? You just decided… you just stopped it? Daniel, that event is for charity —”

  “That's a lie.”

  Her eyes open wide, her lips pressed together so tight they almost disappear into a line. I watch her small hands ball into fists on the counter.

  “Those are my friends, Daniel. It is for charity. It's an event that's been around forever.”

  “Kita, let me ask you something. Did you see any actual baked goods?”

  She shifts in her seat, casting her eyes to the side. “You know what, I don't think you know what you are talking about. I think that maybe you should just take me back now. Please.”

  I can see I’ve upset her, but I really think she needs to know. If I don’t tell her, how else is she going to find out? I try to keep my voice quiet to keep from escalating the conversation.

  “I’ve never seen any baked goods. What they usually do is offer the cherry pie. And that's just a joke. The cherry pie is you, Kita. The pledges. Your… innocence. Your beauty. They make like it's all for show, but that hasn't been the way things have actually gone.”

  She edges off her seat, and I can see her eyebrows crinkle in the middle as she scowls. Why doesn’t she believe me?

  “This is what they do, Kita. They get the girls drunk. They get the guys worked up, suggesting that their donation is really going to get them one of these girls. They make the girls dance, do suggestive things…”

  “I didn't do any of that,” she insists.

  “You don't remember doing any of that,” I counter. I'm being far too aggressive about this, but why won't she listen to me? “This is a real thing. I don't care what Lizzie told you. She's not your friend. She's not.”

  She looks up at me, her eyes blazing. I feel so bad about making her angry that I want to take everything back. I want to pet her hair, to comfort her. The trouble is, I'm the one who's upsetting her. She doesn’t seem to remember anything about last night at all.

  “Mr. Lockwood,” she says calmly, but with an edge in her voice, “I don't think you know what you're talking about. I'd like to go back to the sorority house now. And if you won't take me, I'll find another way.”

  And I can tell she's completely serious. There's no way I am going to get through to her. Who am I anyway? Just some old man who basically kidnapped her and now is yelling at her in his kitchen. I can kind of see myself from her point of view, and it is simply ridiculous. What am I doing?

  She's got me. I can't just keep her here. I'm going to have to let her go, and hopefully stopping the event last night was enough. Maybe she'll be able to forget all about it.

  “All right, I'm sorry I've upset you,” I tell her in a hoarse whisper. “Just let me go get a jacket, and I'll drive you back now.”

  Chapter 30

  Kita

  I tug the hem of his shirt as close to my knees as I can while Daniel drives me back to the sorority house. I don't even want to talk to him, though some part of me can't help but watch him. He's holding so much in, I wonder what else he wants to say. But the stuff he already told me is completely ridiculous. Still, the way that he's practically mangling the steering wheel in his big hands, there is obviously a lot more on his mind.

  But I don't want to hear it. I do not want to hear any more of this nonsense.

  What does he even think he can get from all of this? Just flat-out lying about the sisters of Chi Rho Pi? Everybody knows the stuff that they do in the community is generous and vitally important. In fact, I remember going to a house sponsored picnic when I was 16, back when I'd only been in the foster system for a couple of months. It was terrific.

  It was just a simple picnic at a park a few blocks from my house. I happened to walk by it and see the banners and balloons. There was a barbecue, a bouncy castle, kids running around on the swing set. And all these beautiful sorority girls, ladling out scoops of potato salad and handing hot dogs to little kids. One of them saw me staring and beckoned me over.

  They didn't even ask me if I belonged there. They didn't even ask me for anything. I just ended up hanging out with a few really nice college girls for a couple hours, seeing what life would be like in their shoes. They were so happy, so carefree, living lives with purpose and promise. College students with futures. It was like some kind of fairytale, to me.

  So where does this guy get off, just slinging mud at them?

  He pulls to the curb in front of the house, and I start to get out, then turn back to him. His expression is so strange, like he's sad. Like he's sorry for the things that he said, sort of wounded. I feel bad for him and almost want to reach out and touch him or something. He raises his hand, holding up a key.

  “Kita, I want you to take this.”

  I cringe back a little bit. What is he talking about? His dark eyes are serious and steely.

  “I know this is going to sound strange, and I totally understand why you feel the way you feel. But it's my job to know things, you might say. About people. And I know a few things about Lizzie and the sorority house. So if you ever need a place to stay, someplace safe —”

  “I have a place to say,” I remind him.

  He softens slightly, his broad shoulders slumping just a little bit. Why do I feel like I'm sad?

  “I know you do,” he says softly. He reaches forward and presses the key into my palm, then folds my fingers over it. “Take it. Throw it away when you get inside, I don't care. But just take it. I promise you there's nothing weird about it… there are no strings attached… but I would just feel a million times better knowing you have o
ptions. Okay?”

  I pull my hand back away from him, feeling the impression of his fingers over mine. For a few long seconds, we sit without saying anything else. Then I get out of the car, fully intending to throw the key in the bushes on my way in the front door. But somehow, instead, I just hold it tightly, squeezing it until I can feel the ridges pressing themselves into my skin.

  When I get in the front door, Lizzie and Claudia stand up suddenly, snapping a laptop closed. Their cheeks are flushed and their mouths hang open, as though I caught them in the middle of laughing.

  “Hey, hi guys,” I mumble awkwardly, wrapping my arms around myself and remembering that I'm wearing someone else's shirt.

  Claudia raises her eyebrows and rakes me over with her eyes, sucking in her cheeks judgmentally.

  “Oh,” she purrs. “Looks like somebody had a good night. Did your daddy loan you that shirt?”

  I rock back and forth a little, feeling suddenly woozy again. “Um, no… he's not my… I just —”

  Lizzie sucks her teeth in disgust. “Your daddy owes me $400.”

  “He what?” I gasp.

  But they don't answer me. They tilt their heads toward each other, laughing as though sharing a joke between them.

  “What are you guys talking about?”

  They don't look at me for a few seconds, and I can feel myself getting red. I don't like to be angry. I don't like to speak out, but this is a little ridiculous, I think.

  Lizzie starts laughing out loud again, staring up at the ceiling with her mouth open so wide I can see her molars. “Oh my God, you know what's really funny? I didn't even think you had a daddy. You been holding out on us, little innocent Kita?”

  “That's not a nice thing to say,” I mumble under my breath, but I don't even think they hear me. They just hold each other as they laugh, doubling over and running out of breath over and over again.

  Honestly. It really isn't very nice.