by LK Farlow
How could something so wrong feel so right? How could Brock Larson, of all people, make me feel like that? Like I was weightless and heavy all at once. Like I was desired and sexy and coveted. How? He contradicts almost everything I stand for.
While I shun my silver-spoon upbringing, he wears his like a badge. I refuse to comply with my parents’ expectations, and he falls in line like a good little soldier. I yearn for passionate, crazy, uncontrollable love that burns like a wildfire, whereas he probably wants a society wife, with her pearls in place and hair perfectly coifed, to meet him at the door every night, scotch in hand and dinner on the table.
No matter how much he turns me on, we’d never work. And while I’m no prude, I know better than to shit where I eat, so to speak. Hooking up with Brock wouldn’t lead to anything good. No way, no how. Especially if word ever got around to our parents. His dad would probably forbid it, and mine would either expect me to fall in line and conform to their insane standards or—and this is more likely—they would be worried about me tainting their sweet and perfect Brock with my wickedness. You know, because wild hair and tattoos equal wickedness.
Slowly, I move from mild irritation to outright anger. Fuck him for starting something with me after the way he walked out of my life all those years ago. Fuck him for crawling into my bed, damn near naked, like the biggest temptation I’ve ever seen. Fuck him for making me feel desired, wanted, and worthy, all with his lips pressed to mine.
The feeling of dampness on my cheeks blankets the rage simmering in my veins. Am I seriously crying over this? Over him? No. Nope. No way. Never.
Unwilling to waste my tears on an almost hook-up with a pretty-boy who probably has a different airhead warming his sheets every weekend, I snatch my phone off the charging dock and text Stacia a 911 message, knowing she’ll have to respond no matter what. That’s our code, and Lord knows, she’s sent me enough of them over the years.
Me: 911!!
Stacia: REALLY? WHY? WHAT?
Me: Late breakfast before my class?
Stacia: Benny’s?
Me: Duh.
Stacia: I’ll park at yours and we can walk together.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m dressed in my most favorite cut-off denim shorts and a cotton crop top that reads ‘But first coffee’ across it, waiting in the lobby for Stacia. Luckily, I’ve only been waiting a few minutes when she strolls through the door. “Ready?”
“Yup. Let’s go.”
We exit the lobby, and Stacia pounces before I can even take a step from under the awning. “Why the 911 text?”
“I…ugh. It’s so stupid.”
Stacia turns to face me, her eyes glowing with intrigue. “Seriously, talk to me. I can’t help if I don’t know.”
I pinch my eyes shut and suck in a deep breath of fresh air and slowly blow it out before pulling her behind me and onto the sidewalk. Once we’re on our way toward Benny’s, I launch into why I summoned her, not skipping over a single detail. “So, as you can see, I messed up.”
“Oh AJ,” Stacia murmurs, her voice full of sympathy. “Don’t get mad at me, okay?” She pauses and I nod. “Did you really mess up though?”
I scrunch my nose at her question. “What do you mean? Of course I did. I almost slept with Brock!”
“No, I heard you. Now, hear me. He’s not some rando dude from the bar. He’s not married or in a relationship. Sure, y’all have a tumultuous history, but maybe it’s not such a bad thing?”
Ugggh. I massage my temples, contemplating ways to make her see things my way. “How? How can you say that? He’s…him, and I’m…me. We’re so totally opposite, and we can hardly stand each other for more than five minutes at a time!”
“C’mon now, girl. You know as well as I do that opposites attract. And anyone with eyes can see how fine he is. Not to mention, you’re always saying you want that crazy kind of love…”
Her words leave me a little stunned and I almost walk into a bench. “Right. But I don’t love Brock. I borderline hate him.”
Stacia tsks me. “There’s a fine line between love and hate, AJ.”
“That may be so, but I can guarantee you, there’s no love between us. Lust? Sure. Love? Never. Not ever in a million years.”
Smirking, she sing-songs, “Never say never, bitch!”
“Enough about this. I need a change of subject.” I quicken my pace to an almost speed-walk. “And some bacon in my belly, pronto!”
Benny’s—our favorite little diner—is in sight when the sound of loud exhaust pipes and a growling engine fill the air. Instinctually, I glance toward the racket, my eyes landing on none other than Brock’s big beast of a truck. After last night and this morning, I can unequivocally say he’s not compensating for anything.
He slows as he approaches us, coming to a stop in the middle of the damn road. “Great. Just great,” I mutter as he rolls his window down.
“Are you following me?” I snap at him, ready and willing to settle for something else to eat if it means avoiding him.
He pins me with a hard stare, looking a little rumpled, but no worse for wear. “Nah, Abby Jane. Believe it or not, my world doesn’t revolve around you. I’ve actually got a life and responsibilities, not that you know anything about that.”
“Are you implying I don’t have responsibilities of my own?”
He smirks. “If the shoe fits…”
Ready to tear him a new asshole, I step toward his truck, but his next words stop me short. “Good luck on the quiz today, Abby Jane. Just so you know…I aced it.”
I stand there, gaping at him as he punches the gas, leaving me fuming on the side of the road. I swear to God, if thoughts of his stupid, smug self distract me from acing this quiz… At least he’s not in Professor Doss’s Friday class with me.
Stacia’s cheeks split into a knowing grin. “Well, y’all burn hot, that’s for sure.”
Shaking off the funk he’s left me in, I paste a fake-ass smile across my face. “New rule: we don’t talk about him or anything involving him.” I link our arms and drag her toward the diner that’s just across the street. “He’s nothing but a pompous, self-righteous ass.”
I can tell my bestie has more to say on the subject, but thankfully she holds her tongue. I make it through class, and I’m eighty-seven percent positive I aced my quiz. Lord knows, I better have, or I’ll ream Brock’s stuck-up, entitled ass clear into next week.
The rest of my Friday is pretty uneventful—you know, aside from me stressing out over that small thirteen percent uncertainty over my grade. Not in the mood to be social, I decide to stay home and enjoy a beer in the comfort of my jammies while curled up on the couch watching The Mindy Project.
I blink myself awake around noon, only to find myself still agitated. Desperate to shake off this funk, I invite Stacia over and knowing me the way she does, she shows up with a paper bag full of tacos, salsa, and cheese dip in one hand and a bag of fries in the other.
I immediately snatch both bags from her and set to work. Unceremoniously I dump the fries onto a large plate before deconstructing the tacos and sprinkling the meat over the fries. I then top it off with cheese dip and salsa, plus a dollop of sour cream from my fridge. Gah. If you haven’t gorged on taco fries, have you even really lived?
Once we’re settled on the couch, Stacia wastes no time starting in on me. “So, about Brock…” However, I’ve placed him in my mental no-fly zone. So, I quickly shut her down and redirect our conversation.
“Nope! More important things to discuss…like what we’re bingeing today.”
Stacia rolls her eyes at me but doesn’t press the issue. “New Girl?” she asks.
“Always,” I confirm, because good God, I love me some Schmidt.
We watch enough episodes that we have to confirm we’re still watching four times. On the fifth, we decide to break for dinner—Cup-O-Noodles for the win. We sit in silence, savoring our cheap-ass, quintessential college meal, twirling the noodles and slurping them
off of our forks.
“Fuck,” Stacia mumbles around a mouthful. “Why’s this shit so good?”
With my mouth just as full as hers, I reply. “Don’t know, don’t care.” I lift the Styrofoam cup to my lips and drink some of the spicy chicken broth and wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. “Oh, hey! Wanna stay the night?”
“Duh, bitch. Duh.”
After disposing of our dinner trash, we pop two bags of popcorn and continue our binge-fest until we both fall asleep on the couch. I wake up around three in the morning with a crick in my neck from laying my head against the armrest. Stacia’s legs are tangled together with mine, but she was smart enough to lay her head on a pillow.
Carefully, I slide off of the couch, and after a long stretch, I grab a quilt from the laundry room and drape it over her before heading back to sleep in my own bed.
Stacia, early riser that she is, wakes me up around nine, bouncing on my bed on all fours. “Wake up!”—Bounce—"Wake up!”—Bounce, again and again. I try to ignore her, hoping she’ll give up and go away, but no such luck. “Wake your ass up, or I’m gonna lick you!”
“Ugh. Fine. I’m up. Keep your morning-breathed tongue to yourself.”
“Yay!” she hoots.
I wipe the sleep from my eyes, expecting to see her still in the clothes she fell asleep in. But she’s not. Nope. That bitch is freshly showered and dressed in clothes from my damn closet. I quirk a brow at her, and she shrugs.
“Get showered and dressed, for today, we brunch!”
I cringe at her loud tone but shuffle to the bathroom all the same.
We settle on Bay Harbor—a cute little bistro down by the water. Over caramel-soaked French toast and mimosas, she tries once again to breach the Brock subject, but like before, I change the subject. I know she can see right through me, but I also know that she knows I’ll talk when I’m good and ready and not a second before.
After brunch, we hit the mall. A new pair of Nike SB sneakers and a few tops later, Stacia jets off to meet her parents for an early dinner, and I head back to my apartment. Thoughts of Brock threaten to creep in, and I’m almost tempted to text him, which means I need a diversion.
Even though I showered this morning, I run myself a bubble bath, determined to soak the thoughts of him away. While the tub fills, I lean my head over the side and wet my hair down so I can apply a liberal dose of my pink color-depositing conditioner. I comb it through and pile my hair on the top of my head, securing it with an alligator clip.
Stepping into the tub, I sink down into the hot, steamy water and grab my Kindle from the little table I set up next to the bath. I tap open my latest read—a sexy rom-com about a sex therapist who has a thing for young, William Levi lookalikes but finds herself falling for a slightly older single dad. I’m so lost in the pages of my latest book, I don’t even realize my conditioner’s been sitting for half an hour and my water’s cold.
After I drain the tub, I hop in the shower to rinse my hair and decide while I’m there that I may as well go all out on a full pampering session; I exfoliate, shave, and do a face mask. Hell, by the time I’m finished, my skin is tinged pink from the hot water, and I’m squeaky clean.
With my skin still damp, I massage my Love Spell lotion in all over. The sweet fragrance almost makes me think of Brock and his shower activities, but I stay strong and toss my hair up in a towel, resolute in my intention to think of anything other than him.
I throw on a pair of panties and a tank top and decide to tidy up my apartment. Once every surface is gleaming, I chow down on a bowl of cereal and crack open my laptop to work on getting ahead in a few of my classes—really all of them, except British Lit, because that class makes me think of you-know-who.
By the time bedtime rolls around, I’m proud as fuck of myself, because I haven’t thought of him not even once. Not really, I mean, until now. But this totally doesn’t count because I’m only thinking of him to congratulate myself for not thinking of him.
BROCK
Abby Jane and I seem to be stuck in a holding pattern, and to say I’m over it would be a gross understatement. The girl runs more and hot and cold than that damn Katy Perry song. Tonight, at tutoring, I’m putting an end to this stupid-ass game once and for all.
As if my stress levels aren’t high enough between my tumultuous relationship with Abby Jane, classes three days a week, tutoring two, volunteering one, golfing all fucking seven—and that doesn’t even count actual tournaments—Amanda blew up my phone all damn weekend. I managed to dodge her, but something tells me my luck is running out where she’s concerned.
Just gonna go ahead and add that to the list of shit I don’t want to think about. Other items on said list include my douchebag father and his expectations, and how the hell I’m going to continue at this pace. While I do my best not to show it, I need a break.
I’m heading out of the weight room when Coach Murphy yells my name.
I pivot in place to face him. “Yes, sir?”
“I trust you’re on track with that class of yours?”
“Yes, sir. Tutoring is helping. We had a quiz this past Wednesday—I killed it.”
“Good. Keep it up,” he says, turning and walking away, effectively dismissing me.
Like every Tuesday, I rush home and change into a pair of khakis and a polo before grabbing lunch and heading to the course. Unlike every Tuesday, today my phone pings with an incoming text from my father asking me to call him. Asking. Like I actually have an option. Fucking asshole.
Grudgingly, I hit the call icon next to his name and the sound of ringing filters out through my truck’s speakers. “Took you long enough,” he snaps in lieu of a normal, civil greeting.
“Less than two minutes, Dad. I literally just got your text.”
“I sent it five minutes ago, Brock.” He sounds so put out to have waited on me for three minutes.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Dad. But I have the time stamp on my phone saying when it came through.”
“Enough with this childishness. I need you to stop by the house when you finish at the links.”
I hold in my sigh, even though it almost kills me. “Yes, sir, but I can’t stay long. I have—”
He cuts me off. “Great. See you then.”
“Sure thing. Wasn’t like I was talking,” I mutter, even though he can’t hear me. God, he’s such a pompous, self-obsessed jackass.
My earlier phone call with dear old dad has me off my game. I’m shooting over par and landing my ball in every goddamn hazard on the course. After the first eighteen holes, I’ve had it, and decide to ride the cart as the guys work their way through the next eighteen.
Normally we would give a guy shit for sitting out, but I think they can tell I’m in no mood to be fucked with, because they don’t say a word, acting like it’s the most normal thing on earth.
I’m so busy obsessing over why I’ve been summoned to my childhood home, I don’t even realize we’ve made it back to the clubhouse. But the second I do, I haul ass from the cart to my truck, not even bothering to tell anyone goodbye.
On the drive from the course, dread sits heavy in my gut. The feeling only intensifies when the house comes into view. It looms on the horizon, big and imposing, a stucco mansion with oversized columns and a grand staircase. I roll to a stop at the iron security gate, waiting for it to pick up on my sensor so I can pass.
I creep up the steps, slightly nauseated, and knock on the front door. Promptly Marta—our house manager—swings it open and greets me. “Mr. Larson. Your parents are waiting for you in the family room.”
I almost snort at her use of the term family room, because fuck, you could hardly call us a family. All the same, I tip my chin to her and set off to meet whatever bullshit Dad has thought up for me now.
“Brock!” my father booms when I enter the room. “Just like you to keep us waiting. Sit. Let’s talk.” I clench my fists and jaw to keep from rolling my eyes as I walk over to the couch.
&n
bsp; “Where’s Mom?” I ask, but I already know the answer.
“She’s resting,” he says brusquely, leaving it at that. Except I know resting is code for avoiding his arrogant ass.
He stalks over to the beverage cart and pours two fingers of whiskey into his glass before raising the glass, looking at it from this way and that before sniffing. He’s so fucking pretentious, going through this entire charade, like his whiskey isn’t the best of the best—like he has to inspect it every damn time. Surprise, surprise, he finds it to his liking. He makes a big show of adding a few drops of water to it, but not once does he offer me a drink.
He positions himself in the wingback chair directly across from where I’m seated and rests his left ankle on his right knee, his posture ramrod straight. He keeps his eyes locked on mine as he takes a drink.
Finally, I get fed up with him and snap. “Want to tell me why I’m here any time soon? I have somewhere I need to be.”
“You’ll leave when I dismiss you, son, and not a second before.” He speaks with conviction, like what he’s saying is normal and acceptable.
“Dad. Why am I here? To talk about my grades? Golf? What?”
He shakes his head as if I’m amusing him. “Brock. I already know your grades and how you’re performing on the field. I have eyes and ears everywhere.”
I draw my head back and look at him. Eyes and ears everywhere…what kind of crazy bullshit is he spouting now.
“I’ve heard you’ve been…spending time with Charles and Elenore’s wayward daughter.”
I huff out a laugh. Funny how things change. From birth, our parents arranged play dates for us; yet now, in the eyes of Everett Larson, Abby Jane no longer measures up. Our families consider her a blemish on their reputations. How fucking archaic is that? A woman having her own style, thoughts, and opinions being frowned upon in this day and age—but, in the upper-crust-old-money-our-shit-doesn’t-stink-posse, it’s just a way of life.
