Wicked Grind

by J. Kenner

  "Are you thirsty?" he asked after a few moments. "I can get us something."

  "My hero," she said. "I could drink a gallon of soda."

  "Anything you want." He hurried to pull on his jeans and shirt, then slipped out the door, looking back at her once before closing it behind him and heading downstairs.

  Since he'd forgotten to ask what she wanted, he grabbed a Diet Coke and a Sprite Zero from the giant ice chest on the back porch. He was about to go back inside when Patrick waylaid him.

  "Where've you been? Grace has been looking for you."

  "Then it's good that you couldn't find me."

  Patrick rolled his eyes. "You might as well ask her out again. She's still got it bad for you, and it's not like you're seeing anyone else."

  "True," he said, because even though it seemed like he was with Kelsey constantly, they'd tried to be less than obvious so that her father wouldn't find out. "But I don't have it bad for her."

  Patrick cocked his head, and Wyatt felt like a bug under a microscope. "Is this about the landscape guy's daughter?"

  "What are you talking about?" Wyatt asked, but at the same time he was kicking himself because he sounded so damn guilty. Apparently, he'd make a lousy spy.

  "Just a guess. Is she here? Is that why you've been hiding?"

  "Don't be an ass."

  "In other words, you're just really thirsty." Patrick grinned as he nodded toward the soda cans.

  "I'd flip you off, but my hands are full."

  "Whatever, dude. Have fun hanging out in your room by yourself."

  Wyatt rolled his eyes. And then, because it was worth it, he tucked the second soda under his arm to free his hand, then thrust his middle finger in the air.

  "Rude," Patrick said, then laughed.

  Wyatt laughed, too, and he was still grinning as he climbed the stairs back to the guest room. He tapped on the door, and was surprised when it swung open a few inches. Well, damn, he'd probably forgotten to shut it all the way, which was a total dick move, since she was undressed and in bed.

  Idiot.

  "Hey, sorry it took so long," he said, as he slid inside, and this time closed the door firmly behind him. He glanced toward the bed, expecting that she'd still be under the covers. But the bed was empty. And, he noticed, her clothes were gone.

  What the hell?

  The room had an attached bath, and the door was cracked open. The light was on, though, so he hurried that way, a ball of chiseled stone now rolling around in his stomach. "Kelsey?" He peeked his head in, then pushed the door the rest of the way open.

  She wasn't there, either.

  Seriously. What the hell?

  Panic welled inside him, and he hurried from the room, almost running over one of the guys he recognized from the club. "Did you see a girl? She was in here earlier. Do you know where she went?"

  "Dark hair? Pretty? She hauled ass out of here about five minutes ago." He whistled. "Her dress was still half unbuttoned. What? You two have a fight or something?"

  "Or something," Wyatt murmured, his panic giving way to confusion. And, yeah, to an increasingly growing anger.

  Had she really run out on him? Why the hell would she have run out on him?

  But she had. Less than five minutes later he was certain of it. At least four people had seen her flee the house, and two of them said her eyes were red and swollen.

  He'd left her alone, and she'd started crying, probably mortified by what they'd done. She was such an innocent, and maybe he'd pushed her. Pressured her when she wanted to say no.

  He'd been an ass. A bastard. A complete loser.

  And because he wasn't man enough to wait until he was certain that she was really and truly ready, he'd not only broken her, he'd lost her.

  Fuck.

  For days, he tried calling her, but she never answered or called back. He wanted to drive by her house, but he didn't know where it was, and by the time he got someone at the club to look at her father's records and give him the address, the place was vacant.

  "Yeah, my dad was pretty pissed," Patrick told him. "I guess old man Draper was lining up another gig, and didn't bother to tell anyone. Just waited until the last minute and flew the coop."

  "That doesn't make any sense. He already had a job lined up in LA after the summer. You told me so."

  Patrick shrugged. "Maybe they needed him early. Or maybe that was bullshit. All I know is he split."

  That sucked, but if it was the same job, at least he was in LA. And Kelsey would be with him. He could drive down and see her before he moved to Boston. He had to find her. Had to see her. Had to know what the hell had happened.

  Had to apologize for pushing her.

  Except try as he might, he couldn't reach her. And when he tried calling again a couple of days later, figuring that you could never grovel too much, the message said the phone number was unassigned. Which meant she'd turned it in and gotten a new number.

  It really made no sense, and he wanted to talk it over with his dad. But he and Wyatt's mom had gone to LA for the premiere of his mom's latest film. Even though Wyatt usually blew that stuff off, this time he was lonely for his parents. So he sat in the media room and watched the coverage of the premiere on one of the entertainment channels.

  His mom looked incredible in a form-fitting sequined dress, and his father looked dashing in a tux. At the same time, though, he couldn't help but feel sorry for his dad, who was practically getting shoved aside so they could talk to Lorelei and take pictures with her and the muscled up action star who'd just signed on to play the lead in his mom's next movie, a family drama that the actor surely hoped would make him look like an Oscar contender, and get him off the spy-and-car-chase hamster wheel.

  One asshole reporter even went so far as to ask Carlton Royce to step out of the shot, because he was just the husband. And from the angle of the camera covering the channel Wyatt was watching, he could see both fury and hurt flash across his father's Ivy League features.

  Wyatt grimaced, then clicked off the television as soon as his parents disappeared into the theater. He considered calling Jenna for advice, but his sister was eleven years older than him, busy twenty-seven hours per day, and would just tell him that if the girl wasn't answering his messages, then he needed to take the hint and leave her the fuck alone.

  Since he really didn't need to hear that, he decided that he'd wait another day or two. After all, things could only get better.

  At least, that's what he thought.

  When he went to the club the next morning to get in a few laps and burn off some of his nervous energy, he learned just how wrong he'd been.

  "I always knew she was a little slut, but I never thought she'd take me seriously." The voice belonged to Grace, and even though the last thing in the world he wanted was to get back on Grace's radar, he couldn't stop himself from eavesdropping.

  She was perched on the edge of a chaise lounge, leaning forward as she talked animatedly with Marsha and another girl he didn't recognize. She glanced up as he settled into a chair to eat some pancakes and try to get his mind off Kelsey by reading a mystery. As he settled in, he thought Grace smiled at him. But when she didn't look his way again, he decided that she'd simply been looking his direction, but hadn't actually noticed him.

  "So what did you say?" Marsha asked.

  "I told her it was a hundred bucks and our undying respect and devotion for any girl to bang a celebrity or celebrity spawn. Extra points if she managed it first."

  "You're serious?" Marsha asked. "This is like a real thing?"

  "Oh, please. Sleeping with the stars is the only thing. You want status anywhere in SoCal, then you either need to be a celeb or be screwing one."

  "Have you?"

  Grace giggled as her hand flew to her chest, Southern Belle style. "A lady never kisses and tells. But it's so much more fun not to be a lady. Of course, I have. My point is that I didn't think she would."

  "How'd she even know? I mean, she cleans tables
." Marsha's nose wrinkled.

  "She overheard me and Amy talking," Grace said, nodding to the blonde pixie.

  Amy nodded. "She was wiping down a table, but I could tell she was listening to us."

  "She came up to me later," Grace said. "She was all shy at first, just saying how nice it must be to be a member and how she hated being invisible because, you know, she was staff."

  Wyatt's stomach clenched as he recalled his conversations with Kelsey about how she felt invisible, and how even though celebrity was a pain, at least people noticed him.

  "She wanted to hang with me. Asked if I wanted to go to a movie after work or something." Grace raised a shoulder. "I told her I really couldn't, and she asked if there was anything she could do to change my mind."

  "What did you say?" Marsha asked.

  "Well, I said I couldn't think of a thing, but she kept pestering me, so I told her about the contest. I guess she thought it was a good idea. I mean, you heard about what happened at Patrick's party, right?"

  "No!" Marsha leaned in closer. "What happened?"

  "She fucked Wyatt Segel!"

  Amy and Marsha's eyes went wide. "Seriously?"

  "Mmm-hmm." Once again, Wyatt thought that she glanced his way, but he couldn't be sure. And he looked down at his pancakes before she clued in that he was listening. "I met her on the stairs as she was leaving. Came flying down. Said that she was in now, and wanted to know if she got a trophy. Honestly, I was too shocked to answer. I just watched her race out the front door. I guess little Miss Young and Innocent was too embarrassed to stay with him after she banged him."

  "He's sitting right there." Amy's low whisper was barely audible.

  "Oh, shit," Grace said, though she didn't sound too perturbed. "Do you think he heard me?"

  "He's not looking," Marsha said. "And there's a book by his plate. I don't think he heard a thing."

  "Oh." Grace paused. "Well, that's good, then. We should go. I reserved a court for nine."

  They stood up en masse and headed through the gate, their continuing chatter like so much noise in his head.

  What the fuck?

  What the horrible, awful, wretched, humiliating fuck?

  He waited until he was sure they were gone, then he stood up, intending to leave. But he was too messed up to leave, so he sat back down again. Patrick saw him and started to walk toward him, but Wyatt waved him off, afraid that he'd fly into a rage if anyone came near. Or, worse, that he'd start crying like a baby.

  She'd played him. She was just like all those girls his dad warned him about. The girls who only saw celebrity, but never saw him.

  But no. Was she? Not Kelsey. Not really.

  He couldn't believe it. He wouldn't believe it.

  And yet all the evidence pointed that way. She'd disappeared on him. And she damn sure wasn't going out of her way to let him know where she was.

  He closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose. He was seventeen years old and he was leaving for Boston in just over a week. He was practically an adult. And yet instead of handling this like a grown-up, all he wanted to do was have his mom hold him and his father tell him it was going to be okay.

  Well, fuck it, then. He was just going to have to go to LA.

  "I'm so glad," his mother said when he called to tell her he was driving down that morning. "We're stuck down here for at least three more days, and I was afraid we wouldn't have enough time together before you had to pack and head for Massachusetts."

  "I'm just going to grab my backpack. I'll be there in time for a late lunch. Can we maybe go to Gladstones?" The Malibu restaurant was touristy, but he was in the mood to sit by the ocean.

  "Why don't you go with your father, and we'll all three go somewhere tonight. I'm going to be stuck on the lot until tonight. The producers have notes." She sounded less than thrilled, and he supposed he understood that. She loved writing, but hated revising to please the corporate know-it-alls.

  "Sure," he said, trying to sound like he didn't care. "Dad and I will just gossip about you."

  "You do that. It'll be good for him. He's been in such a funk lately, and I hate that I've been so busy with work."

  "He knows, Mom. But I'll entertain him. I'll drag him out for a walk or something."

  "You're a good kid, Wyatt. Love you, baby."

  "You, too, Mom."

  He called his dad next, but there was no answer. He left a message, knowing his dad never answered the phone if he was reading or working on a client's spreadsheet. Then he went home, told his grandmother he was heading to LA for a couple of days, and hit the road.

  He spent the drive trying not to think, and mostly managed that task by shoving a constant stream of CDs into the player. And whenever one of the songs touched on relationships or breaking up or broken hearts, he just pressed the button to pop to the next song.

  By the time he reached their house in Beverly Hills, his mood had actually improved.

  He left his car in the drive just past the gate, then walked to the front door. As far as Hollywood families went, the house was relatively small, but that was because his mom preferred cozy. Probably because she'd grown up in a mansion that required a map and a compass. They also didn't have live-in staff, though his mother kept a chef on call, and a housekeeper came in every morning when the house was occupied.

  He entered through the kitchen, and saw the note from Tilda on the island outlining what she'd done and when she would be in the next day. "Hey, Dad! It's me," he called, as he punched in the code to deactivate the now-beeping alarm. "You busy?"

  No answer, but sometimes his dad wore headphones while he worked, and so Wyatt headed out of the kitchen and through the living area to the dark-paneled office that his father had claimed when his parents bought the house six years ago.

  The door was shut, which was unusual, as Carlton usually kept it open when he was alone. Wyatt knocked twice, got no answer, and pushed the door open.

  Or tried to. It moved about a half an inch, then stuck.

  Annoyed, he shoved harder. The door gave, and he lost his footing and tumbled into the room, hitting his head on something in the process.

  He broke his fall with his hands before twisting around to see what the hell had assaulted him.

  His father's feet.

  Immediately, he leapt up, the sound of his own scream ringing though the room.

  He'd hit his head on his father's feet.

  Carlton Royce had hanged himself.

  Wyatt's father was dead. He was really dead.

  And behind him, a white note was taped to the door, the words printed large with black marker.

  I'm sorry. I couldn't take it anymore.

  12

  Wyatt looks up at me from where he's adjusting his camera on a tripod. It's aimed at a corner that's draped in white cloth and illuminated by lights of differing intensities.

  The middle drape is long and flows out onto the ground, forming a silky floor upon which sits a four-poster bed, perfectly made with deep red linens and at least a half-dozen decorative pillows. A matching side table is next to the bed with two half-full wine glasses and a bottle beside it.

  It looks like something from a high-end hotel suite. Actually, it looks like a honeymoon suite. It's a space made for romance, and my heart skips a beat as I look from it to the man behind the camera.

  "You came."

  I swallow. "Did you think I wouldn't?"

  "Honestly, Kelsey, I didn't have a clue what you would do. I don't know you that well."

  He says the words blandly, but I hear the anger buried inside, and I force myself to stand up straighter. It doesn't matter what he thinks. I'm only here for the job, after all. The more distance there is between us, the easier it will be to walk away once it's over and he pays me.

  "Well, you didn't give me much of a choice. I need the money. So that means I put up with your demands." I try to mimic his tone, keeping my voice emotionless. But I can't help the way my eyes dart to the bed, or the sma
ll trill of excitement that shoots through me as I wonder what it is that he intends to have me do there.

  Stop it, Kels, I order. Don't even go there.

  I slide my hands into my pockets, wiping the sweat off my palms in the process. "So is that where you want me?" I tilt my head toward the bed, my voice as casual as I can make it.

  I draw two breaths before he answers, and when he does he looks right at me, his gaze never wavering as he answers, "Yes," that simple word about as loaded and dangerous as a word can be.

  For a moment, I'm lost in the past, remembering a time when there was nothing harsh between us. When it was just longing and sweetness, conversation and desire. When it was all new and full of possibility. When we hadn't hurt each other.

  Before I hurt anyone at all.

  I take a deep breath for courage and start to walk to the bed, but I stop when he holds up his hand. "Not yet." He steps back from the tripod and heads toward the far side of the room, indicating that I should follow him.

  He's all business now. Any heat that might have been in his voice earlier has either vanished, or I was imagining it all along. "You need to understand what I'm doing. These images aren't for shock value any more than they're meant for some prurient purpose." As he speaks, he begins pulling the drapes off the covered images that line the walls. "I want to tell a story as much as I want to make a statement."

  "What kind of statement?"

  "About the strength of women. About beauty and sensuality. About how women are seen and how they see themselves. And," he adds, as he pulls off the last drape and looks directly at me, "about the freedom and power of acknowledging that sexual allure."

  I bite my lower lip as I look back at the images. I'm not entirely sure I understand what he means by all that, but I know that I like the pictures. There's no shame on these walls. No fear inside these girls that they're being naughty. That they're breaking the rules.

  Not one of them is hiding the secret fear that the universe will punish them because they've been so bold as to flaunt their sexuality. And looking at them, I can even believe it myself.

  I want to believe it. And most of the time, I really do believe. But then my old fears seep into my mind. My father's voice telling me that bad girls get what they deserve. That being bad ruins everything. That it's like a curse. On me. On my family. On everyone I love.

  I turn away, blinking rapidly to stop the tears that have begun to prick my eyes.