Very Wicked Things

by Ilsa Madden-Mills

  After that, I’d noticed her more and more. Out in the quad, in class, in the cafeteria, in the library. Where ever she was, my eyes had found her. And when we’d both gotten placed in the same history block together, I’d sat behind her and began my campaign to get her notch on my bedpost. And in the end, she’d been like all the rest, unable to resist me.

  But I didn’t want her now.

  And I’d nailed it home today with my mean words.

  But then why did I hurt so much now, when I’d been able to stave it off for a year.

  But, I think I knew what was going on with me.

  Something had shifted in me today at our lockers. Something had clicked or been turned on or whatever. I was feeling more. It was as if I was finally waking up after being submerged in water for a year. Drowning my feelings had been comfortable, and I wanted it back.

  Because barely living worked for me. It’s what I deserved anyway.

  But something had changed.

  And the crux of the matter had to be the fucking anniversary of this day.

  I punished myself for thinking about her by adding additional laps as I swam, embracing the burn. Later when I was home and exhausted, the workout would help me sleep. That and a bottle of Jack from dad’s study I’d swipe—if he didn’t come home. Which knowing what today was, he’d probably work late. Not talking about our grief seemed to be the way we handled things. Even better, I could call up Marissa, one of the older college girls I liked to hook-up with. Yeah, the best way to forget a girl is to get another one under you.

  After swimming, I walked out of the center and headed for the parking lot. My feet betrayed me, and I took the route that went past the dance building where she might still be practicing. My chest tightened the closer I got, and I don’t know if it was more from anticipation or dread. Definitely a combination. Because one part of me longed to stare at her without her knowing, but the other side of me knew there was no point. Still I headed that way, and when my feet stopped directly in front of the big windows, I glanced in all casual like. No one was there.

  I’d missed her. Thank God.

  By the time I got to the parking lot, I was freezing from the cold front that had moved in. In the space of five minutes, I had the Porsche’s heat on and the music cranked. I eased out of my spot, aiming for the quickest exit on the east side of the parking area. But before I reached the main road, I saw an old brown car, its hood popped. My pulse kicked up at the sight of Dovey bending over, peering at the engine as her skirt blew in the wind.

  My first instinct was to stop and see what was wrong because that’s what a decent guy would do, but that’s not me. I drove past her, refusing to look. No big deal. But when I got to the turn for the main road, I couldn’t make myself leave. I mean, it was after five o’clock and the parking lot was practically empty. What if no one helped her? On the other hand, she was tough and could take care of herself…

  I backed up, whipped my car into a spot next to hers and got out, completely ignoring my promise to stay away from her.

  I cleared my throat.

  She didn’t budge, intent on the car. I understood her silence when I saw she had ear buds in.

  I blew out a breath. Did I really want to talk to her. Willingly?

  “You know what you’re looking at?” I asked her, rather loudly.

  She jerked and straightened up, bumping her head on the raised hood. “Ouch!” She pulled out the ear buds and rubbed her temple. “That hurt.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, my gaze taking in every facet of her, like I needed it to breathe. Her dark hair was tousled from bending over, she had a smudge of grease from the engine on her cheek, and a red spot on her forehead where she’d banged it.

  She bounced from foot to foot in those boots, her face guarded. No surprise there. Our altercation in class was fresh in my mind. I’m sure it was in hers, too.

  “Let me help you,” I said, glancing at the car.

  “No thank you,” she said, turning away to look under the hood.

  I deserved that. In fact, I think she was being polite considering what a jerk I’d been today.

  I licked my lips. “I’m sorry, Dovey.”

  She froze. “Sorry for what?”

  Yeah, explain that one.

  “Cuba?” She put her hands on her hips.

  For playing with her heart?

  So I kept it simple. “I was a douche in class today. And there’s no excuse for it. I’m sorry.” I owed her more, but I couldn’t say it.

  “So I wasn’t just a curiosity to you?” she asked, face stony.

  I mentally groaned. “Someday, I’ll explain—”

  “Did you say someday?”

  I nodded.

  “Here’s the thing, Cuba. Somedays will eat you alive. They’re promises you make to fool yourself into believing everything will turn out right in the end. Someday, your ship will come in. Someday, you’ll tell me why you’re an asshole. But that someday gets further and further away, until before you know it, it turns into never. Make your someday, now. That’s my motto.”

  “Maybe I don’t care if my somedays never come true,” I said.

  “Then you’ve given up?” she asked. “You don’t care about being a doctor anymore? Or being happy?”

  “I’m happy,” I said. I wasn’t.

  She sighed heavily and put her back to me, gingerly picking up a wrench from an old compact toolbox.

  “Jumper cables might be more useful if it won’t start,” I said.

  “Feel free to leave anytime,” she mumbled from underneath the hood.

  I glanced around at the gathering dark. And as much as my head was telling me to go, my body wanted to stay. I came in closer, watching as she fiddled with the oil stick, knocked on the radiator, and then clanked on the battery, making an awful metallic clanging noise.

  “You should bang on the oil pan too. That might help,” I yelled over the racket.

  She paused and the silence stretched. And stretched.

  I grimaced. I’d been trying to break the ice, but, of course, it didn’t work because too much was between us. The barrier too thick.

  “Please leave,” she said, rising up and pushing her hair off her face. “We’re not friends, and I don’t need your help.”

  But she appeared uncertain. And worried.

  “You don’t know much about cars, do you?” I said.

  She spun around to face me. “Put your hand out.”

  I did and she slapped the tool in my palm. Hard. “Why don’t you take a shot at it, Mr. Handyman? Show me what you got.”

  I looked at the wrench in bemusement. There had been a ghost of a smile on her lips. Just a tiny one, and maybe she would have given it to any human, but I’d seen it. I’d take it. “Okay.”

  She moved aside, and I slid in next to her, closer than we’d been at our lockers. I stared down at her, fucking weak in the knees as I lingered on her lips. The lipstick from earlier was gone, leaving her lips bare, but they were still plump and soft. My hands itched to grasp her face and pull her to me, to press my mouth to hers until I couldn’t breathe, until she begged me for air.

  Swallowing, I edged away. I could never have those lips again.

  She shivered, hugging herself.

  “If you wore more clothes, you wouldn’t be cold,” I said pointedly.

  “If you’d stop talking, my car might get fixed.”

  I got stupidly giddy at the tartness in her voice because it was banter. Sparring with her had always been part of our fun. And then the sadness hit, and because this day was messed up royally already, I opened my mouth and said the wrong thing.

  “I miss you, Dovey,” I said flatly. Feeling defeated. Knowing my words wouldn’t count, but needing to voice it. “Most girls suck up. You never have.”

  “I never cared about who you were or how much money you had,” she replied, her voice dull like mine. She rubbed her arms again.

  “My jacket’s in the car.” I didn’t wait
for her to answer but ran to my car and grabbed a black wool car coat, nice and thick. “Here,” I said, shoving it in her hands. I wanted to drape it over her shoulders, but didn’t push my luck. Not with that wary look on her face.

  She peered down at it and then gazed back at me. Something fragile flickered in her eyes as she handed it back. “I’m not cold,” she said softly.

  “Your arms are covered in goose bumps. It’s forty degrees out here, and you’re nearly naked.”

  “Cuba, don’t be nice to me. I don’t want your jacket. Ever.”

  I startled, déjà vu smacking me in the face, remembering another day when she’d taken my varsity jacket.

  I tried to make a joke. “It’s not the same jacket.” She didn’t smile, and I nodded. “Fine. I get it. You’d rather freeze.” I took it out of her hands, and she glanced away from me, still holding herself.

  I asked her what happened with the car, and she explained she’d been warming it up when she noticed the temperature gauge spike. Then smoke came from under the hood.

  After a few minutes checking out her engine, I figured out the problem. “Radiator hose is busted which isn’t too bad, but you really need a new car. This one’s ready for the junkyard.”

  She stiffened. “Cars don’t grow on trees, but you with all your millions, you have no clue. So, back off.”

  I immediately wanted to crawl under a rock. Perhaps I was spoiled when it came to money, but she was richer in other things. She had hope.

  I rubbed my jaw. “I’ll take care of this.” I dug my cell from my track pants and called the local garage where Dad had our cars serviced. I talked to the manager briefly, explained what I’d seen, and they promised to get a tow truck out in the next twenty minutes. I hung up, feeling a sense of satisfaction.

  She scowled at me. “Why did you do that? Why do you assume I want your help? And FYI, I don’t have the money to pay a mechanic from Highland Park. Call him back and tell him to forget it. He won’t get a dime from me. I can buy my own hose and put it on myself.”

  I arched a brow. “Admit it, you don’t know anything about hoses. You banged on your car like it was a drum.”

  She huffed. “It’s a hose. How hard can it be?”

  “Yeah, but as much as you drive, you need a real mechanic to take a look. And I can pay for it. You probably—Who are you calling?” I asked as she walked away from me and pulled out her cell.

  “Spider. So he can come get me and take me home.”

  Oh, hell no.

  “I’ll take you home,” I growled, my jaw tightening.

  She shook her head. “Nope. It’s out of the way for you. Plus he knows where I live.”

  Oh, that last part pissed me off.

  “Dovey—”

  She threw her hand up to silence me, opened her mouth to talk on the phone, and I lost it a little, okay, maybe a lot. But it was that kind of day. For some reason, my gut told me I had to be the one to take her home, not Spider.

  I grabbed her phone and hung up on Spider. I needed her to give me a chance.

  For what? I asked myself.

  She sputtered, “You’re insane.”

  Maybe. Probably. I tucked her phone in my pocket. “I’m taking you home.”

  Her brow wrinkled. “I’m not your charity case.”

  I’d started packing up her tools, but I paused to meet her eyes. “I meant what I said. I am sorry. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but at least let me take you home. Just this one thing.”

  She mulled it over, nibbling on her lip. “I am in a hurry to get home, but this doesn’t mean you’re paying for my car to be fixed.”

  Oh, yes it does.

  “Whatever you say,” I stated, feeling a glimmer of exhilaration slice through me at the thought of being alone in a car with her.

  But then she got her revenge, knowing exactly how to get to me.

  Her eyes caressed the Porsche. “Fine. I’m driving.”

  “Cuba was part of the beautiful people. I wasn’t.”

  –Dovey

  “DON’T GRIND THE gears,” he reminded me as we approached his Porsche.

  I bit back a grin. Cuba loved his car and someone else driving killed him. “I know how to drive a stick. And I’ve driven it before. Remember?”

  He stopped in his tracks, his eyes burning into mine. “Oh, I remember.”

  My body clenched at the images that tumbled into my head. Of me straddling him in the front seat, my tongue tracing the curves of his tattoo…

  I slapped that memory away.

  He opened the driver’s door for me, and I got behind the wheel and even though I’d had a crappy day, I swooned. Because it was a freaking Porsche. A 911 Carrera Turbo with a seven-speed manual transmission, bucket sport seats, black leather interior, a slamming audio system, and matching silver alloy wheels with the Porsche crest.

  It was sex-on-wheels. And I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit his car made me horny every time I got in it.

  I settled into the soft leather. “Am I the only girl to drive your car?”

  He tightened his lips. “Yep.”

  “Huh.”

  “You know, my dad gave me this car for helping him run his charity basketball camp. It took me eight summers of volunteering to get it.” He shrugged. “But I loved working with him and those kids.”

  “Oh,” I said, a bit surprised at his talkativeness. It seemed strange and surreal for us to be on easy terms, but I went with it. We were in a small car for the next forty-five minutes. “So your ride means a lot to you?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “That and a few other things.” And then I felt him staring at me, but I didn’t check to see. Because he was crazy gorgeous with his yellow eyes and broad shoulders. And, he was right there, making my palms sweat. Plus, the last time I’d been in this car, we’d made love. Oh, wait, correction: we’d fucked.

  We headed out of the stop-and-go-traffic of Highland Park and got to the open road. The Silver Bullet—as I liked to call her—ate up the interstate, getting closer and closer to Ratcliffe.

  A few miles in, I glanced in the rearview mirror. A grey Mercedes had been tailing us since we’d left, and I hadn’t missed that it had made every turn I had. I sped up and so did they.

  I squirmed a little in my seat. The only people who drove expensive imports were people like Cuba or the wrong kind from my neighborhood. I doubted anyone in Cuba’s life would follow us, which led me to believe it might be Barinsky’s men. My stomach twisted at that thought, wondering if they’d been in Highland Park looking for me.

  I checked the mirror again, relived when I saw that the car had fallen back a few lengths. It was probably just a coincidence.

  A few minutes later, I took the ramp and turned onto 54th Street, trying to imagine my part of town through Cuba’s eyes. Masked by darkness, much of the underbelly was hidden beneath the night, but there was no misconstruing the hookers on the corners or the homeless with their cardboard boxes. As we drove by, neon signs from the stores flashed, from the red lights of the liquor store to the blinking yellow sign above the Chinese diner.

  It almost looked pretty, but it wasn’t.

  Soon, we’d be out of here.

  “I live in Ratcliffe,” I announced. “You got a problem with that?”

  “I know where you’re from,” he replied. “It isn’t where you live, but how you live that matters.”

  “Easy to say when you’re rich.”

  He grunted. “I never judged you for being poor, so don’t judge me for being rich. And maybe you have more important things than money.”

  I remembered his mother again and softened. “Cuba, I know what today is. I’m sorry about your mom.”

  He winced but gave me a short nod as he scratched at the leather seats. “I—I never mentioned it when we were together, but I had a sister once. Cara. She died five years ago when she was six. I was thirteen.”

  I blinked. A sister?

  “I had no idea,” I said, shooting him a
quick glance. The moment between us felt big, maybe because he was opening up to me, and I don’t think he talked about his feelings much to anyone.

  He stared out at the night. “It happened before you came to BA.”

  “What happened? If you want to talk about it?”

  He fidgeted, his hands clutching his knees. “I watched her die right in front of me. Her death was the worst thing I’d ever seen.”

  Horrible scenarios flashed in my head, but I kept silent, waiting.

  His head turned to me, and our eyes clung for a moment until I had to look back at the road. The intensity of the emotion I read on his face made me want to pull over and give him my full attention. It made me want to comfort him, hold him.

  But I couldn’t do that. He hadn’t wanted my sympathy at lunch.

  Yet, I was tempted to reach across the space that divided us and maybe grasp his hand. My heart had been walled up when it came to him this morning, but somehow in the space of a few minutes…

  No. I clutched the gearshift instead.

  “I’m sorry, Cuba. That must have been tough.”

  “Yeah.” His voice was raw, his pain a visceral thing.

  We were silent for the next ten minutes, each in our own thoughts. I kept thinking about him and his sister, picturing Cuba holding a dying little girl with soft curls like his. What had happened to her? Was it some awful disease like cancer?

  Finally, we pulled up in my driveway, and his headlights showed Beckham House, a run-down brick building with beige trim that needed painting and mildew that grew around the roof. A wonky-looking metal fence framed the property.

  “This where you live?”

  “It’s temporary until my mansion and beach house are finished.”

  He smirked at my snippiness, and the familiarity of it smacked me in the face.

  I made a decision.

  I turned the car off and took a big gulp, needing to know the answer to a question that had been burning in my head for a while. Since today was what it was, it seemed like the perfect opportunity. And we might not even be speaking tomorrow. “Do—do you blame me for your mother?”

  His whitened face reared back. “You don’t quit with the questions, do you? First class and now this?”