11
THEO
I stayed outside Abigail’s room well into the night, not putting a toe past the bodyguard line, but I watched her. She’d been weird all day, ever since brunch. Jumpy and skittish. I played it off as what had happened between us.
But something in my gut said otherwise.
She was atop her silky white sheets now, with some kind of mask on her face, in an oversize shirt that read ADULT-ISH and black satin sleep shorts, her long sable-brown waves tied in a messy bun atop her head.
Beautiful.
“This is the Abigail I know,” I said, leaning against the door. “All her pretty makeup and lies washed away to show the troll beneath.”
She looked up, surprise flickering in her clay eyes before disappearing into a glare. “Shouldn’t you be barking at a car or something?”
She flipped a page in her book, ignoring me.
Abigail masturbating.
That’s an image I won’t get out of my head… fucking ever.
Before, I was never allowed in her wing. Didn’t mean she didn’t sneak me in. Let me lie on her bed with her in the glow of her lamp as I waited for her to fall asleep. We’d talked into the night, about anything and everything. What food we liked (she liked Crowne Drive-In Diner burgers, I liked licorice ice cream), our favorite movies (hers was Silent Hill, oddly enough), or just how much she wished her mother would love her. She never said it aloud, but it was obvious by how often she spoke of her.
Back then the farthest we went was holding hands.
Hers were always too small in mine.
I made her promises, though. Whenever we played our game, she never promised, but I made so many.
I promise someday I’m going to kiss you, Abigail.
I promise someday I’m going to fuck you, Abigail.
I’d whisper dirty promises along her neck as she gripped my hands. She always responded in the same way: Please.
Abigail looked up. “What?”
I cleared my throat. “You owe me.”
I walked into her room and threw myself on her bed. Her book went flying. Abigail bounced. She looked at her fallen book, then at me, as if deciding which problem to deal with first. She decided on me.
“Uh, get the fuck off.”
I threw my arms behind my head, situating myself against her quilted satin headboard.
She ground her jaw. “You could at least take your shoes off.”
I put one leg over the other, really rubbing my shoes into the comforter as I went. “As I was saying, you owe me. Truth or Promise?”
She scrunched her nose, and I could tell she wanted to fight it.
But she said, “Truth.”
“Why did you look so freaked out earlier today?”
Her eyes grew. “I…” She bent over the bed, busying herself with the fallen book. “I don’t think I looked freaked out.”
“Not what I asked.”
“Well, I don’t think I look freaked out so I obviously can’t answer that question.” She sat upright, placing the book in her lap, fixing the mask on her face.
I zeroed in on her nervous hands, the way she chewed her bottom lip and wouldn’t look me in the eyes.
“What book you reading?” I asked, deciding to push it off.
Abigail Crowne was stubborn and trying to force something out of her was generally fruitless.
“It’s a romance novel. You probably haven’t read it, because your brain is small, unlike mine.”
I bit back a smile. “Right, that’s it.” I shifted, throwing one of her ridiculously sized pillows off the bed. “What’s it about?”
There was so much tension in her eyes, a needling mistrust. She eyed me like I was a lion being nice to a mouse.
I was beginning to wonder myself why I wasn’t eating the mouse.
But that was a problem for another night.
“A guy,” she finally said.
I couldn’t halt my laugh. It came out of me, real and genuine. I was brought back to the old nights, when we would laugh until the black night faded into sun.
“No fucking shit, Abigail,” I said. “What’s the story about?”
Another one of her side-eyed uncertain glances, but she started telling me all about it. How she’d just started it yesterday but was almost finished. How the hero was so hot (her words) and the heroine kind of annoying, but the hero made up for it.
Romance isn’t my genre. When I read, I tend to gravitate toward nonfiction, horror, or classics. But Abigail Crowne was a romantic, and she got lost in her stories. As she told me the story, I got lost with her.
I used to read every story she loved, because I loved talking to Abigail, so it didn’t matter the subject. When we were teenagers, she got into Twilight, which meant I read four books about a sparkly vampire and had to deal with Abigail being Team Jacob.
Team fucking Jacob.
I eyed the forest green book in her hands.
She sat up straight, looking at me funny. “Why do you care?”
“Maybe I’m in the mood to read some, what was it? Stepbrother alpha…”
“Stepbrother alphahole,” she enunciated.
“Right.” Another grin I couldn’t stop. “That.”
Fuck, she was cute. It got under your skin.
Her shorts were too fucking short, showing too much of her silky thighs. The memory of her coming on my finger blasted into me. She was tight, so fucking tight. Just the thought of what she’d feel like wrapped around my dick had me shifting.
Our eyes connected.
“Theo, this morning—” she started.
A timer went off, and she peeled off the cottony mask, dropping it into her porcelain trash can. Now her skin glowed; she was too damn pretty.
I’d wonder forever what she was about to say.
“How did you do that thing to Geoff and Alaric?” she asked suddenly. “With the arm.”
I shrugged. “Training.”
She moved her mouth around, not happy with the answer. Her lips looked poutier tonight, I don’t know if she’d added gloss or what. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. Moving them around didn’t help.
I wanted to bite them.
First the top one, then the bottom.
“Do you ever wonder about your mom?” she asked, dousing my fantasy in ice water. The fuck? Could she stay on one topic?
“Is that my truth or promise?”
“No,” she said. “Just a question.” She picked at the forest green spine of her book. “I know you were in foster care for a while, and then you were on your own… before me. But your mom’s alive somewhere. What if she wants to know you?”
“She doesn’t.”
I could tell she wanted to say more. She kept picking at the green edge of her spine, watching me like a turtle was in her mouth trying to burst out.
I exhaled. “Speak.”
“I’m just saying.” She dropped the book entirely. “Your mom was so young when she gave you up. She’s an adult now. You’re an adult now. What if she’s tried to contact you?”
I was dropped at a fire station with my mother’s diary and only a name—Theo. There is no record of my mother. My last name came from the firefighter who found me. His favorite Sherlock Holmes’ novel was The Hound of Baskervilles.
Abigail fucking knows this.
“Maybe she gave you her diary for a reason… I’ve never seen anything like it. The beautiful red-leather and tree burned into the face is so beautiful. I’m positive it’s custom.”
This was classic fucking Abigail. She lives in a fairy tale, and has had a fairy tale image of my reunion with my mother ever since she learned I wasn’t an orphan, but was abandoned at birth because my mother was too young to raise me.
Some days I regret showing her my mother’s diary. For me, it was something to remember her by. But romantic-fucking-Abigail had stars in her eyes from that point on.
Abigail continued. “We could hire a private investigator to find where it was mad
e.”
I narrowed my eyes. “We?”
There is no fucking we anymore. I moved to get off the bed. I don’t know what I was thinking, coming in here in the first place. Acting like it was five years ago.
She grabbed my arm, stopping me, eyes wide. “Do you still have it?”
“Have what?”
She rolled her eyes. “The diary.”
Of course I still had it. If Abigail had her box of secrets, her jewelry and dreams she thought I didn’t remember, then I had my diary.
Everybody has a dream; mine is finding my mother. But more important than having a dream, is hiding your dream, putting it in a box or in my case, a black backpack under the couch I slept on, so you don’t fall to pieces when it inevitably doesn’t come true.
It was my most valued possession, and Abigail was the only person I’d ever let know it existed.
“Why do you care?” I asked.
She dropped my arm, turning away. This was the moment I should have gotten up and left, remembered why I’d come back in the first place.
“Maybe I just want to know if there’s any of the old Theo left…” She started out strong, then trailed off.
An odd ache clutched my chest at her words and the soft way she spoke them.
A dangerous part of me wondered if there was any of the old Abigail left too. The same part that couldn’t get the way she felt coming on my fingers out of my head, and couldn’t stop wondering what she would feel like around my dick.
But I couldn’t wonder that.
I couldn’t let her get close.
Not again.
Because you can’t be left if you never let them stay.
Our eyes were locked, and she mashed her lips together, as if deliberating something. The air felt too still, too hot.
“Theo, I’m sor—” she started, but before she could push it further, I grabbed her by the arm, spinning her and pinning her to the mattress. She was beneath me before she could blink.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was breathy, a whisper against my lips.
I liked that. Way too much.
“Showing you how I did that thing to Geoff and Alaric.”
“You’ve learned a lot.”
Those bitable lips were only a breath away from me.
I had it in my head to tell her about the years I spent doing nothing but training. About my awards and how I knew all kinds of fighting styles, from Krav Maga to jiu jitsu to line to Muay Thai. I wasn’t the boy she’d sent away.
But I was focused on her lips. The way her tongue darted out to wet them and her chest pressed against mine. My knee separated her thighs. Her sleep shorts had ridden up, and I was insanely distracted with what her bare skin would feel like if I wasn’t wearing jeans.
So all I got out was, “Yeah.”
“You’re like this badass bodyguard dude,” she breathed. A smile flickered against my lips at her wording. “I remember when you used to get in fights for no reason.”
My brow furrowed. “No reason, Abigail?”
She shrugged. “I guess not. They’re dicks. They deserve it.”
Every single fight had been for her. There was a reason they called me her dog.
“Just when I think you can’t get any stupider, you say shit like that.”
Abigail glared. “Fuck you, Theo.” She got redder, trying to squirm her way out. I pinned her harder, drinking in each slight movement. Her furious breaths, the way her hair fell out of her bun and across her eyes, her shirt riding up, her hot slice of skin pressed against my abs.
“One minute I think you’re going to be nice to me,” she huffed. “But that’s like impossible for you now. You’re such a—”
I cut off whatever she was about to say with my lips.
ABIGAIL
I don’t move. I don’t even breathe, eyes wide and stunned. Theo is kissing me—again. This kiss is different. Still bruising and brutal, but not nearly as mean. It almost feels… worshipful.
My anger quickly gave way to white hot heat as Theo deepened his kiss, slanting his mouth, tongue searching.
I parted my lips, surrendering too easily.
He grasped the back of my neck, lifting me, and suddenly we were spinning. I was no longer beneath him but on top as he lay against the headboard. His hands were all over me—on my back, my neck, my thighs, along my arms. Goose bumps echoed their path.
I should push him away. He’s the boy who calls me Reject and made it clear he wants nothing but my tears. But his kisses feel like devotion, and his touch is close to reverence. I’d dreamed of kissing Theo on this bed. When I was a teenager, it was all I dreamed about. He’d hold my hand, and I’d wish for courage to make a move, fulfill his dirty promises.
Theo wasn’t a teenager anymore.
He was a man.
He bit my top lip, the hand not anchoring my neck sliding under my shirt, up my stomach, stopping just beneath my breast. I arched like I could force him to touch me. Theo can’t be forced. He just thumbed the curve beneath my breast in a tortuously slow and gentle rhythm.
Next his hungry mouth came for my bottom lip, this time more furious, dragging it out.
Ravenous.
His desire was hard against my thigh. I rubbed. I moved. I was rewarded with a slight groan, the tightening of his grip against my neck, biting my lip harder.
I wonder if I’ll bruise. I hope I do.
His hand on my neck pinned me in place for his carnal assault. I couldn’t move, only grind harder as his tongue dove deeper and he fucks my mouth.
Then I heard it.
Abigail.
My name from his lips against mine. It was so quiet, barely a night breeze. Maybe it was just a hope sprung from too many jagged memories, but his barbs on my heart tighten anyway.
“Please,” I begged.
It was like icy water was dropped on his head.
He threw me off him, and I bounced on my mattress with the force of it. Theo was off the bed before I could even brush the hair out of my eyes.
I was still so hot and bothered. I must look a mess. My shirt rode up and so did my shorts. My hair was tangled, my bun fell out. He was putting so much distance between us, and this should be the moment I come back to my senses.
When I realize Theo is not the boy who used to hold my hand on this bed, but the man who calls me Reject.
Instead, I held my arm out to him. “Theo?”
Theo paused. He was still hard, distractingly so, the outline rigid and mouthwatering in his jeans. His bedhead hair was even more messed from our make-out, falling across pale hazel-green eyes churning with a storm of emotions.
Then he shook his head, looking a little spooked.
He turned, walking out of my room, making sure to slam the door in his wake.
12
The next day, Crowne Hall was bustling with energy for our Fourth of July party. Our Fourth party is world famous. Everyone who is anyone is in attendance. I’d had my hair and makeup done, and across my vanity gilded and silver makeup cases were scattered and catching sparkles of morning light.
Tonight I would meet my fiancé, Edward.
I touched the orange sea-glass pendant on my neck, another one of my originals, as a shadow formed behind me in the mirror.
Theo.
I hate that the first thing I think of is kissing him. It’s like a brutal flashback, a car crash I can’t escape. His lips on mine.
It’s fucking distracting.
I looked away.
I knew I’d have to marry someday. For a Crowne, it was just like everything else in life, perfunctory. It never made me feel any sort of way. Yet for some reason the idea of meeting my future fiancé has my heart aching.
“Time to go, Reject,” was all Theo said.
I saw Mrs. Harlington and my mother talking, but there was no man with them. I slouched, hiding behind a hundred-layer croquembouche with sparklers jutting from the hilt, hoping they didn’t see me.
I wasn’t going to g
o out of my way to find my future husband. I have my entire life for that.
“Poor lonely Reject,” Theo said. “Don’t you know you’re hiding from a family who couldn’t give a shit where you are?”
I stood up straighter, glaring. “At least I have a family to hide from.”
As if I need a reminder the kiss meant nothing, Theo is making sure to be a complete and utter asshole. He was in a suit again too. A deep, charcoal gray that somehow brought out the vivid green of his eyes and seemed to magnify the sharpness of his cheekbones.
Why couldn’t he be hideous when he was being such a dick?
Theo was so confusing. He’d been worshipful. Reverent. Kissed me like he was dying of thirst and I was water. I was learning to dread his moments of affection, because they quickly led to this. Complete indifference.
Who actually has the power here? I thought it was me, but all I can think about is Theo. What he says. Thinks.
He’s inside me.
He’s my guard, but I feel like his slave.
I touched my lips, still remembering him.
As if he knew, he laughed. “Someone on your mind, Reject?”
I looked away, pulling out my phone and pretending to be busy on it. The sun was a citrine line on the horizon, casting the revelers in its hazy glow. Theo was at my back the entire time.
Unlike my siblings who keep their finstas—our secret Instagram accounts—updated, I don’t really have anyone to talk to. The hashtag fourthofcrowne is being used and easy to track if you’re in the know. Somewhere my sister was skinny-dipping with a prince off the back of his boat. My brother had his arms around this year’s Victoria’s Secret runway models. There was a whole, separate world happening right around me, a party filled with fun and depravity. I was supposed to be part of it, instead I’m more separate than someone who wouldn’t know it didn’t exist.
This is the party of the year, and I don’t want to be here.
I stuttered on one of the photos. A—a rose?
It was, under the hashtag, and I was in the background out of focus. I snapped my head up, looking left and right, trying to find who took the photo.
Vote Then Read: Volume II Page 193
