Our whole fucking story is spread over the walls, in brilliant color and haunting black and white.
“Fish,” I murmur, and she makes a small noise.
“You like it?” she asks, her hands twisting together nervously, and I walk her backward, until she hits the wall and the picture of me grinning in the snow rattles. She gasps when I push against her, my dick rubbing at her through the layers of clothing.
“I love it,” I whisper against her ear. “I love you.”
She purrs, a soft noise of satisfaction and rolls her hips. Pleasure shoots through me, and I groan against her lips. “You know moving is exhausting as fuck, right?”
She nips at my lower lip, kisses me, and grins. Pulls back. “Go lay down,” she murmurs.
I arch an eyebrow and she smirks.
My shirt hits the floor and I toe off my shoes and shove down my shorts before I sprawl across the bed, propped on my elbows as I watch her.
She ties my ankles first, and I drop back, grinning.
Peyton loves games. She's sweet and proper outside our bedroom. She likes wearing her artistic edge in her clothing and the hair she cut recently, the gauges in her ears and nose piercing. But she's a sweet girl, for all that. Polite, and considerate.
But she's a demanding bitch in the bedroom. And she loves to play dominance games. It's not hardcore shit—neither of us have the bent for true D/S—but sex is a game. One mixed with pain and control and exhibition. It’s why she likes being loud when she knows Scott is home, why I can finger fuck her in a bar, or on a crowded city bus. It's hot as fuck, and I'm just kinky enough that I fucking fly on it.
She kisses me once when my hands are tied, and shoves a pillow under my head so I don't have to crane to see her.
Whatever game we're playing, she wants me to have a good view.
She strips slowly, a coy tease as she sways around the room, coming close for a kiss and brushing her bra-clad breast close to my lips before pulling away and shimmying out of her jean shorts.
She's naked and smooth and wet beneath them, and my dick jerks as I strain against the ties.
I'm not going anywhere.
It might all be a game, and I might love to play it, but I'm also not under any delusions about Peyton's seriousness when she comes to play.
"You’re tired, right, baby?" she coos, stretching out alongside me. Close, but not close enough. "So you relax. Watch."
My mouth goes dry as she leans her head against my shoulder, her hand dropping down to squeeze her tit. Her back arches a little, and her eyes go glassy as her fingers circle and circle, teasingly light before pinching a nipple and tugging, and her body goes bow-tight against me, her back arching as she moans. Her free hand is trailing down her belly, and I watch it with avid hunger as it smoothes over her soft stomach, the pale, freckled skin, down to her pretty pussy. She whimpers when she brushes her clit, and I swallow. "Does that feel good, sweetheart? Do you feel good?"
"So good," she groans, her fingers sliding along her folds. Her hips are moving, and I'm not sure she's even aware of it as she teases us both. "So wet."
"Show me," I demand, yanking at my ties. "Come here and let me lick that sweet pussy."
She laughs, and the noise turns choked and broken as she slides two fingers deep, her thumb pressed against her clit as she fucks herself. Her head is pressed against my shoulder, digging in, and I can smell her hair and sex. The sound of her fingers sliding in and out of her, the fucking sight of it as her moves become frantic, desperate, her hips churning against her fingers, and she screams, a long, low scream that echoes through our room as she comes.
She's so fucking perfect.
"Don't tease, baby. Let me fuck you."
She twists her head a little, smiling at me sleepily, and her body convulses as she slides her fingers free. Brings them up between us.
"Fucking hell, Peyton," I groan, watching her lick her fingers clean. I'm so hard it hurts, and she's laughing when she kisses me. Licking into her mouth, catching the taste of her on her lips, it's almost like going down on her.
"Thought you were tired," she whispers.
"If you don't fuck me, I swear to god, I will beat your ass red."
"Promise?" she breathes, and I groan.
Curse as she rolls to straddle me. My dick sliding into her wet heat will never be old. Will never be anything short of fucking amazing. I groan and rasp out, "Fuck me, perfect girl."
Her eyes flash and she moves, riding me hard, until I'm cursing and she's crying out with every move, her whole body tight above mine, and then I'm coming, and she screams, her body jerking against mine, clenching tight.
We fall asleep like that. Wrapped up in each other, sticky with sweat and sex and completely fucking in love. Convinced nothing could ever go wrong or change what we have.
Chapter 20: After
Feet ache, pain so familiar
It is almost unfelt.
As she slips on tiptoes,
To a song she cannot sing,
Through eggshells and jagged edges.
And she never realized
The relief that could be found
In dancing through life to a tune
few could hear, in combat boots and
A smile.
(Rike’s poems to Peyton)
It takes almost a month for my parents to realize I’m in Nashville. Brody vanishes one Sunday afternoon, and comes back to his downtown, high-rise apartment with its black, modern furniture and clean lines, spitting mad in the way only our father was ever able to achieve.
He’s quietly furious, grabbing a beer from the fridge and tossing the cap while he stalks through the apartment. I’m curled in a corner of the couch, leafing through one of the sketchbooks Rike sent home with me, and I eye my baby brother while he paces.
Brody is the youngest of my three siblings, and the one I’ve always been closest to. He isn’t quite the black sheep that I have been, but where Cassidy went to law school and Sean joined Daddy’s campaign, Brody joined the Marines. He’s filled me in on everything I’ve missed with him, and I’m so proud of him. He’s made a good life in military intel, and if he ever chooses to leave, he can make a better life for himself as a civilian. And he did it without the help of our parents.
He never bought into the political machine life that our parents created, and he never appreciated how they pushed aside my problems to take the next Senate seat.
But we were kids, and kids can’t do much to protect themselves.
Maybe that’s why I loved Rike. What drew me to him. He was another broken child forgotten by the people who were supposed to care for him.
“Want to storm around and break shit, or do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” I drawl.
Brody gives me a dark look, and I smirk. Because he might be all grown up and a badass, but he’ still my baby brother. I cross my arms. “Spit it out.”
“Mom and Dad want to have a family dinner.”
“Fuck,” I mutter.
He laughs, and nods. “Exactly. Better find something appropriate to wear.”
I snarl a curse, and he snorts. “I wonder if I could wear the leather skirt and my skull and crossbones shirt. I wore that last time. Bonus points for wardrobe reappearances.”
Brody’s eyebrows shoot up. “You remember that?”
“What?” I ask, flipping my sketchbook back open.
“Wearing that outfit. It was the day Rike met them. Do you remember?”
I stare at him, confusion crowding me. I don’t. I don’t remember anything about Rike meeting my parents, or why on earth I ever thought that was a good idea. I shake my head helplessly and he sighs. The anger drains away and he comes to the couch, brushing my legs as he drops down. I reach out and snag his beer.
It’s still weird that my baby brother can legally drink.
“Do you feel up to it?”
“To seeing Mom and Dad? Fuck no. But I suppose I need to. I can’t avoid them forever.”
&nbs
p; He shrugs. “You were doing a pretty damn good job of doing it forever before this shit.” I wrinkle my nose at him and he laughs. “Fine. This weekend?”
“Ok,” I say quietly.
“Good. You want the little Chinese place tonight?” he asks, pushing to his feet. I nod and yawn as he pads into the kitchen to order takeout and set up the dreaded dinner with my parents.
I really will have to go shopping before Saturday.
***
Brody and I play a game, every night while the news plays quietly in the background. It doesn’t really have a name, and he would say it’s nothing at all, but it is.
It always starts the same.
“Do you remember when you were going to senior prom, and Dad set you up with Tripp Harris?”
I roll my eyes. “How could I forget that? It was awful. Tripp spent weeks trying to talk me into going and Mom bought that hideous dress and then I blew it off—went to the cabin with Lacy and a few other girls. A couple guys. Dad was so fucking pissed when I got home.”
Brody grins. “You should have seen him in the two days before you came home. I’ve seen Dad mad, but I don’t think it’s ever been that bad.”
I shrug. Grin. “He could have called the cops. There was nothing stopping him from that. It was his choice to keep shit quiet to protect the campaign.”
Brody’s smile slips, and I shift. “Do you remember when you came to Knoxville for the first time to visit me?” I ask.
This is where the game is actually played. When I can get my brother to tell me things I don’t know, filling in the events of the years that are still a black hole. The journals have helped so much. I feel like I know who Rike and Scott are. Instead of two strangers who were trying to share my life, they’ve become two friends who are important for very different reasons. Lindsay—I twist, shaking my head. I can’t think about Linds without wanting to cry. Can’t imagine a girl as brilliant and beautiful and alive trapped in a wheelchair.
I shake the melancholy and listen to Brody spin out the story that was mine, and try to ignore the pull of the three people I called family.
***
He’s been trying to get in touch with me. I can’t talk to him, can’t hear his voice without hearing it hoarse and broken as he came inside me. And I can’t believe I was stupid enough to let that happen.
He texts a lot—more than I think Brody suspects, although he knows some of it. And I told Rike before I left Austin where I was going and that I would be back. But it’s been almost a month, and nothing has changed. I know more, but it’s secondhand knowledge, the kind that comes from hearing about something instead of experiencing it.
I know he wants me home. But so far, Rike has respected my boundaries.
Rike: What did you do today?
Me: Brody took me to a clothing store I used to love, and I bought a couple outfits. We’re having dinner with my parents this weekend, so I thought it was warranted.
Rike: You promised me you wouldn’t see them without me.
Me: I don’t remember making that promise. Besides, it’s harmless. Nothing will happen.
There is a long pause, and then he sends a short response.
Rike: Fine.
I stare at the phone for a long minute, waiting for something else, but there isn’t anything. So he’s mad, and I get to deal with my parents.
This week is looking better and better. I grab my notebook and crawl into bed.
I don’t write poetry often—despite it being something I love, I don’t think I’m very good at it. But as I stare at the blank page, the words start coming. And I write.
***
Brody glances at me as we walk up the paved walkway to my parents’ overly large house. He arches an eyebrow. “You ready, princess?”
I make a face and nod at him. He grins and shoves open the door, giving the housekeeper a quick kiss on the cheek before he yells, “Ma! Dad! We’re here.”
I swallow my laugh and follow him more slowly, hugging Maria before venturing deeper into the house.
It looks exactly like I remember. A house that could fit so easily in a magazine, the décor and pictures chosen to reflect who we are as a family rather than what we love. My nose wrinkles in annoyance, but there is no denying that the familiarity, so fucking rare these days, is comforting.
Brody is in the formal dining room, talking to my mother and Cassidy while Mom fiddles with a centerpiece of brilliant red roses. Her expression, when she finally looks at me, is confusing. There’s a flash of guilt and concern, and then it smoothes back into the bland polite smile she perfected years ago.
“Peyton. You look”—her gaze skims over my tight red sundress. It’s vintage, with wide, white straps and an oversized white bow. It’s almost demure. It would be, if I had buttoned all the buttons up the sweetheart neckline. Her lip tighten—“interesting.”
I smile, too sweet, “You look like you just stepped off the campaign trail. So I guess we’re both the same as we were yesterday.”
“Maybe don’t start fighting before we sit down to dinner, Peyton?” Cassidy says sharply. I ignore her. I’ve been doing that since before high school so it’s not terribly difficult to continue the trend now.
“Where is Dad?” I ask as Maria begins carrying in our dinner. I shift, look at Mom.
“He’ll be here soon,” she says stiffly. With that familiar cold displeasure.
She might be a good little campaigner, and do everything he needs in public, but Mom hasn’t ever appreciated the time commitments and how often she was left behind for it.
He lied to her too, when he decided to run for office. He promised that we would stay close, that nothing in our family would change. I think that’s why I hate him so much. I never told Rike that. But once upon a time, before politics and that fucking elusive Senate seat, Dad was a good dad. Attentive. Mom was cool, but she wasn’t cold.
That changed. Almost overnight.
I shove the thought aside, and follow Maria into the kitchen where I grab a plate of garlic chicken. She gives me a small smile.
“Really, Peyton, that’s her job.”
“And I’m helping. You understand getting help on a job, right, Cass?”
She flushes, and slams her glass down.
“Ah, here it is. The tension has arrived. Good times,” Brody deadpans. “Where are Sean and Lily?” There’s a moment of quiet, and then Brody groans. “Really? She’s gone already? But this one was only six months!”
“Maybe don’t bring it up. I know you’re still catching up but he wasn’t expecting it.”
My older brother is a serial cheater. How he can’t expect the women he dates to leave him, I’ll never understand. The bickering continues as we sit down and Mom waits patiently for Maria to serve her before we all make our plates. She glances at me, a potato speared on her fork.
“Peyton, have you gotten a dress for the gala next week? I have a few that would look lovely on you.”
My stomach lurches and I drop my fork, reaching for my wine instead. “What gala?”
“The one next week. The hospital is having it and your father is the keynote speaker. He expects you to attend.”
I don’t believe this. Except, I do. It’s a classic move for my father. I sit back with my wine and my mother’s brow furrows. “Eat, Peyton.”
“Not hungry,” I snap.
Cassidy smiles, a sharp brittle thing, “That’s normal, though, right?”
The dig at my eating disorder stings.
“Shut the fuck up, Cass,” Brody snaps, and I jerk to my feet.
Big hands close over my hips, pulling me back into a broad chest and the scent of soap and smoke. His beard brushes over my bare shoulder as he kisses my cheek, and then he glances up. At my family.
“Mrs. Collins,” he says coldly.
Mom is eyeing Rike like he’s a vagrant who wandered into her pristine house, and I have to swallow my giggle.
“I told you that Peyton is my responsibility. Mine to
keep safe and keep healthy. That means I keep her the fuck away from you because you’re fucking toxic.” I gasp, twisting to stare at him. He’s watching my mother, loathing in his eyes. “She’s not yours anymore, not to manipulate. Stay the fuck away from her.”
Mom stands, her cheeks red and her hands shaking. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this furious. “You have no right to even be here.”
He smiles, a lazy arrogant thing that makes my heart pound. “I have the only right.”
And then he escorts me out of my parent’s house.
Chapter 21: Before
Scott is actually sitting on the new couch when I emerge from my bedroom. Lindsay and Peyton are in the kitchen, and I glance at my best friend in a rare moment without either present. “You good, dude?” I ask.
His eye flick to mine and I’m startled by what I see there. He looks peaceful. Content. That’s a look I’m not used to seeing on Scotty. It’s almost disturbing.
“I’m good,” he says, and the last band of unease loosens. Because it’s going to work. This. Us together, with the women we fucking adore. It’s going to work. He grins suddenly. “Broke in the new bed, huh?”
“You and Linds didn’t exactly go to sleep after bedtime prayers,” I deadpan.
He laughs, a satisfied noise. “Well, she did say ‘Oh God’ a lot, so I think that should totally count.”
“Can you two behave for like, five minutes?” Lindsay asks grumpily, slipping past me to nestle against Scott on the couch.
“Where the hell is the fun in that?” Scott asks, kissing her head absently. “You got class today?”
She nods. “We both have our schedules on the fridge.”
I frown at Scott. "When the fuck did we become dudes with schedules on the fridge?"
"When you fell for a siren in a bar," he shoots back. "Quit bitching. I like sex on the regular."
"Like that was ever an issue," Lindsay snorts, and he smacks her lightly on the back of the head. Peyton ambles up with a cup of coffee and two pieces of toast. I steal one and she growls when I drift too close to her coffee. I laugh softly and kiss her cheek instead. She's not a friendly person in the morning, especially before coffee.
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