"You need a ride today?" I ask, and she shakes her head, pulls the coffee away from her lips long enough to murmur, "Linds will take me."
"When are your parents getting into town?" Lindsay asks, and Peyton goes tense under my arm. I glance at her and she's glaring at her best friend like Lindsay just stabbed her dog.
"Fish?" I ask, softly.
She breathes out a curse and twists to look at me. "Tomorrow. My parents and youngest brother will be here tomorrow. Dad has a fundraiser. I've been invited."
My head is spinning and I take a step back. I'm conscious suddenly of the tattoos tracing up and down my arms, the eyebrow ring, too-long hair. and beard.
I'm a fucking tattooed hillbilly rock star, and not even a good one. Why the hell is it surprising that she doesn't want to share that with her parents?
It's not. But it stings. More than I want to admit, it stings. Because I thought we were past this. I thought we were in a good fucking place. I've been waiting for six months for the shoe to drop, and I had convinced myself it wouldn't.
It just fucking did.
"I see," I say, simply.
Then I turn and stalk out of the room, slamming the door behind me on her protests and Scott's sharp voice calling Lindsay off.
It doesn't fucking matter. She'll have a pretty excuse, some logical reason why I should swallow her hiding her parents from me. But it doesn't matter. The door opens behind me, but I don’t stop walking.
"Rike, stop!" she snaps, yanking on my arm, and jerking me around to face her. "Let me fucking explain."
"Why? It’s shit I've heard before. I don't really want to rehash, and you'll be late." I force a smile. "You can't be late on your first day of class, Fish. Get going."
She stares at me for a long moment before a disbelieving laugh bubbles up. "Is that really all you've got? You'll be late, get going? Are you fucking serious?"
"What do you want me to say?" I snap. "Your parents are coming into town. You hid that from me. You’re embarrassed. I get it. He's a politician and she's a perfect political wife, and I'm a tattooed high school drop out with a juvie record. I get it. I'm not take-you-home-to-Mom material. But fuck, Peyton. It hurts a little."
She's pale, her freckles standing out against her white skin as she stares at me with wide eyes. "Is that really what you think of me?"
“What did you expect me to think?”
“I expected you to trust me. That I love you and if—” My eyebrows raise, and she scowls “When I choose to keep something from you, it’s for a good fucking reason. I expect you to know that.”
I shrug. “You might be expecting too much, sugar.”
She takes a step back, hurt pooling in her bright eyes. I hate seeing that look on her face. Hate that I put it there. But this is one time I can’t back down.
I give her a final look, a small smile. “Go to class, Fish. you’ll be late."
Then I walk away, and try to think of anything but how much this hurts.
***
The tattoo I'm supposed to be drawing is for a client. A giant fucking back piece—eagles and fish and some other tribal nonsense, all done in dark band and artistic, vague, half-formed images.
It should look amazing if a little bit hipster and pretentious for my taste.
"That is not tribal art," Scotty says, dropping beside me. The breeze of his arrival ruffles my sheet of paper, and I flick a look at him. There is so much I could say here, but why? It doesn't change anything.
"You need to let her explain."
"When did you start taking her side in shit, dude?" I snap, refocusing on the art.
"When you fell in love with her. She fucked up by keeping it from you. I'm not denying that. But she deserves a chance to explain why. She's not an idiot and she loves you."
"And we all self-sabotage," I say
"Peyton isn't trying to get out of this. If she was, she wouldn't have moved in and built a shrine to your relationship. She's in this. So let her explain why the fuck she's hiding her parents. We aren't the only ones who came into this with baggage.
He rises and I glance at him. "You don't have a session today."
"I'm not here for me," he says, staring back at me.
I swallow the snappy comeback, and nod once. Turn back to the sketch.
It's a koi, a bright red fish with blue scales gleaming almost iridescently along its sides, twisted on its own tail. It's all soft and sweet and I know it's for her.
Staci come up beside me, and peers at it. "Good work. You adding it to your portfolio? "
"I don't know," I say. She glances at me, her gaze assessing and sharp.
It's vaguely disconcerting, and I know why. Staci took a chance on me. I wasn't going to take her up on her offer. But I love the shop. I love the sound of the tattoo machine, and the stories behind the art, even the stupid as fuck pieces that kill my soul a little. I like getting to know the clients, and seeing the excitement in their eyes when they see my sketches.
I even like that it hurts. Peyton laughs and calls me a sadistic masochist. She might be on to something.
Staci taking a chance on me gave me the choice to be good at something. Something that allowed me to still be creative. And I didn't want to let her down.
"You need to be focused," she says quietly. "This shit we do—it's for real. It lasts forever. So we give the client every bit of our attention while we're here. I don't know what happened with Peyton, but you need to leave it at the door."
I nod, and tuck the sketch of the koi aside. Force a smile for my boss and straighten. "I'll have it done in a few hours."
I get lost in the art, my mind racing as I sketch, and despite Staci's admonition, I'm struggling to figure out how the hell this happened. What she thought could be gained by hiding her parents coming to town.
Peyton and her folks don't get along. They haven't since her last stint in rehab for the anorexia. I know that. I've read her own words, seen the pictures. I know she was miserable being forced into the political daughter mold.
But I also know she's here on their dime. She goes to school, pays rent and her bills, buys food—all with money they provide. She might hate the hold they have on her, and she might not go home to dance to their tune, but she depends on them.
Is that why she's hiding me?
I huff out a sigh, and shove the thoughts aside, focusing on the design. She can explain it. I owe her that much—and we live together. It's not like I can avoid her forever.
***
Lindsay is home when I get in from the shop, and she gives me that knowing smirk she does so well that annoys the fuck out of me. I like the girl—I really do, and not just because she’s Peyton’s best friend and Scott’s girlfriend; I like her for her own merits—but she’s got a cocky attitude about shit, especially when she thinks I’m wrong about something.
Which is often.
I grit my teeth. “Is she here?”
“Shower. You sure you’re ready for this, Rike? Her parents are no joke.”
I ignore that. Lindsay is the only one who has a normal family. People who support and love without conditions. People who stuck around.
Sometimes I wonder if she’s with us just out of curiosity, and then I remind myself that thinking that is fucking shitty, and that she really cares about Scott.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
The bathroom door is closed, and I eye it briefly. The bed is still unmade, and I wonder if we’ll get back to where we were last night.
We will. This is a hiccup, but we’ve had those before. We’ll be fine, because we have to be fine.
The shower turns off, and I hear music blaring for a moment before she cuts it off and emerges, wrapped in a towel and steam and water droplets still clinging to her shoulders.
She eyes me briefly, and ruffles her wet hair. “You need to change.”
“Why?” I ask, keeping my tone even.
“Because we’re meeting my parents,” she says. “Dinner at Ruth’s Chris.�
��
I cross my arms, and study her coldly. “Is there a dress code for this shit?”
“Something you didn’t just pull a shift in,” she says, still buried in her closet, and I huff. It finally sinks in that I’m pissed, because she emerges from her closet and frowns at me. “What the hell is wrong now?”
“You suddenly want me to meet your parents.”
“I never didn’t want you to meet them, asshole. I didn’t want you to have to deal with their shit. But it’s a big deal to you, and I get it. So we’ll go.”
She tosses a dress on the bed and glares at me. “I wasn’t going to go. I didn’t keep it from you because I was planning to see them without you. I kept it from you because it doesn’t matter. Like not telling you I put gas in the truck and bought a candy bar on the way home. So fucking irrelevant.”
I stare at her and it’s hard as fuck to swallow my irritation and all the protests. I shake my head and strip out of the grungy shirt I’m wearing, stalking into the bathroom and turning on the shower.
We don’t fight. Maybe that’s why I’m struggling with this so hard. Scott and Lindsay fight constantly—it’s their form of foreplay. But we don’t. We never have. Being with Peyton is easy. Even when one of us is being a moody artist, it’s easy.
When I step out of the shower, she’s in the bathroom, leaning into the mirror as she does her makeup. She’s barely dressed, only a strapless white bra with black lace details and a matching thong. Her gaze meets mine in the mirror, and I see apology flickering there before she refocuses.
We’re going to do it that way then.
I slip past her silently and we’re both quiet as we dress.
***
We take the truck, and Peyton sits on her side of the cab in tense silence. She looks fucking amazing, in a tiny dark red shirt with a skull on it and a tight little leather skirt. The neckline wraps around her neck, leaving her shoulders bare, and the skirt ends mid-thigh, exposing a mouthwatering length of leg. I’m itching to run my hand up the smooth skin, under that flirty skirt to the tiny panties I know she’s wearing.
We didn’t fool around when getting ready. We barely spoke.
“I didn’t have a family, Peyton,” I say abruptly. “I didn’t do family shit, and I don’t have family for you to meet. The only family I have is Scott, and I’ve never tried to keep him from you.”
“Because Scott is someone you want to have in your life. Because Scott isn’t an asshat.” I arch an eyebrow and she snorts. “Ok, but he’s your asshat.”
“And these are yours,” I say softly.
She shakes her head. “You and Scott and Linds are my family. Not them. But. You’ll see.”
I reach for her hand and squeeze it gently in my own. “I just want to know where you come from, Fish.”
She make a choked little noise that worries me, but we’re pulling up to the steakhouse. She takes a deep breath as the valet approaches, and I glance at her.
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s get it over with.”
She shoves the door open and slides down without waiting for me, and I follow suit, taking the valet ticket and slipping it into my pocket while following her inside.
“Party for Senator Collins,” she says to the hostess. The girl nods, snapping to attention as she leads us deeper into the restaurant.
They’re sitting at a table in a back corner, surrounded by other empty tables. A man in a black suit eyes me as we approach, but doesn’t try to stop us.
Peyton’s shoulders are back, and her smile is stiff as she pauses, hands on the back of the chair. “Mom. Dad. Good to see you.”
The senator is a tall man with broad shoulders, sharp eyes, and Pey’s freckles. Her mother is softer, curvy with a wide-eyed innocent smile that screams fake, and a power suit that would make Hilary Clinton jealous. And they’re watching Peyton with something like disgust in their eyes. Shock. That’s what it is.
“Well. That is certainly a different look, sweetheart.”
Peyton touches her hair and gives a smile. “Like it, Ma?”
“Not particularly,” comes the stiff reply.
“Pity,” Peyton coos, sugar sweet and I swallow a laugh. She tucks her hand into my arm and tugs me forward a step or two. “I’d like to introduce you to my boyfriend, Rike Johnson.”
Their eyes swing to me, and the younger dude lets out a startled laugh. “Damn, Tay. Did you pick him to piss them off?”
“Fuck off, Brody,” she says lazily, and for the first time since we arrived, a real grin tugs at her lips as she flicks a glance at her brother. He laughs, a soft noise that reminds me of her, and some of the tension eases from her shoulders. She pulls a chair out and sits, and motions for me to do the same, putting me between her and her brother, away from her parents.
Who are still staring at me like I’m a devil bent on pillaging their daughter’s virtue.
“Nice to meet you,” I say with a small smile.
They stare, and the senator blinks once, then focuses on his daughter. “What the hell is this?”
“My boyfriend.”
“No.” He doesn’t even argue. Just a flat no, like she should care about what this prick has to say.
“Do you think we can order drinks before we start in on how Pey has fucked up her life?” she says, and my heart hurts. She doesn’t ever change her tone. It’s classic defensive Peyton.
A puzzle piece of the enigmatic girl slides into place. I glance at her, at the pleasant smile, and I get it, suddenly.
“What the hell are you trying to prove with this?” Collins hisses.
“I’m not trying to prove anything. It was never about that.” She turn to me. “What do you want to drink?”
A very petty part of me wants to ask for a beer just to fuck with her folks, but her big eyes are pleading and desperate, and I remember suddenly that she is only here because I threw a bitch fit this morning.
“The Talbot pinot noir,” I say, flashing a quick smile at the hovering waitress. She gets the rest of the orders, and scurries away.
The senator is looking at me instead of his daughter now, which has to be an improvement. I push up my sleeves and his eyes tighten at the sight of the colorful tattoos tracing up my left arm. I meet the hostile smile with my own. “Good to meet you, sir. Peyton has told me a lot about you.”
“Note that he didn’t say it was good shit, Dad,” Brody says.
“Well, I do try to avoid lying. My mama raised me well,” Peyton deadpans and Brody laughs, shaking his head.
“We didn’t realize you were dating, Peyton,” Mary Anne says.
She leans back, and I feel her hand on my back, a steady pressure. I don’t know if it’s for me or her, but it’s soothing. “We’ve been together for over six months. And before you ask—I’m not hiding shit. I’m living my life. You haven’t bothered to ask or visit, so excuse me if you aren’t up to date on who and what is important in my life.”
“You made it clear when you left for UT that you didn’t want us involved in your life,” Mary Anne says stiffly.
“And you’ve always been so fucking good at listening to what I want, right? That’s why Dad first ran for office. Because you totally listened when I said I didn’t want anything to do with his political circus.”
Mary Anne makes a dismissive noise and waves a hand at Collins. “You deal with her. You’re the one who thinks her being at the benefit is a good idea.”
“She lives here. How the hell will it look if she lives here and doesn’t show up to support the campaign?” Collins says evenly.
“Give it up, Dad. I’m not coming to the fundraiser. I’m done doing the political daughter shit. I’m here, now. As your daughter to let you meet Rike. Now do you want to focus on that or should we go?”
The senator and Peyton glare at each other for a long tense moment, and then he huffs. “Will you consider it?”
“Will you drop it if I say yes?” He nods and she shrugs. “Sure. I’ll consider it.”
>
Brody snorts and I turn my attention on Peyton’s younger brother.
He’s got the same red hair, just a few shades darker, a wide grin, and mischievous eyes that are instantly likable. He’s the only one in her family she ever talks about. She likes her young, wild brother. I think he’s the only reason she ever goes home—even on her abbreviated visits.
“Tell me about yourself. What do your parents do?” Collins says as the waitress puts our drinks down. She takes our order and then scurries away and I have to face the question.
I shrug. “My mother was addicted to crack. We bounced around with her pimp for a while. She overdosed when I was six and I landed in the system. My father—well, he’s never been part of the picture.”
He blinks at me, and I stare, my face blank.
No one is ever completely comfortable with me dropping the info like that. And this guy—he doesn’t want me anywhere near his daughter to start with.
“Were you adopted, then?” Mary Anne asks.
“Nope. I was in and out of group homes and foster families until I aged out. Spent six months in juvie when I was fourteen for assault. When I turned eighteen, my best friend and I had a little bit of money saved up, so we got a place and that was that.”
She looks startled, and I smile. “Not exactly the pretty picture you wanted, right?”
“How serious is this?” Collins asks, his gaze on Peyton. He’s gone back to pretending I don’t exist.
“We just moved in together, Dad. Pretty fucking serious.”
“You know he’s using you, right? For your trust fund.”
“Fuck, Dad,” Brody sighs.
“What’s shocking, Dad? The fact that someone wants me or the fact that I’m not playing the dutiful daughter?” she snaps.
“I don’t need your daughter’s money, Senator. Frankly, I’ve tried to convince her to quit using it to pay for rent. I make more than enough to support us both. I’m with her because I love her.”
Before & After Page 12
