Frost (EEMC)

by Hunter, Bijou

  Except she died, and I didn’t. His love for me ended that day. Uncle Clive is cold like that. He once killed his friend for stealing a tiny bit from the business. No warning or second chances. Clive loves but only on the surface.

  That’s why if he finds me, I won’t be able to sweet-talk my way out of the situation. He might let me live if I marry the dork in Bismarck, so he can save face. If not, I’m dead. A part of me respects how heartless Clive can be, but another part wishes I burned his house to the ground before leaving. He isn’t the only one with a temper and no expiration dates on grudges.

  My temper threatens to awaken when Topanga shows up at the salon. I don’t dislike the woman, but I sense her maneuvering me even before she speaks.

  “I hoped to catch you,” she says, guiding me away from the bunnies. “I wanted to talk. Have you had lunch?”

  I ought to weasel out of leaving the salon. Conor, though, warned me how Topanga can be a force of nature. She nags and compliments people into submission. The only tactic to stop her is to walk away and ignore her following. Well, that or throw a punch. He claims his mother is prone to the latter. Having met Barbie in passing, I believe him.

  I can’t run away from Topanga. Where will I go? How long can I dodge her? Obviously, throwing a punch isn’t an option. If I appease her, Topanga could gain whatever she wants from me, and then she’ll go away on her own. Hell, maybe I can be the one to go on a charm offensive? No, probably not.

  We walk to a pizzeria where she orders a big salad, and I get a slice of pepperoni. Without any distractions, I really see Topanga. Her shiny blonde hair hangs loose yet sits perfectly. Her long legs are on display in a short hot pink skirt, and her sizable boobs are shoved into a pushup bra hidden under her pale pink shirt. Every inch of her face is perfectly made up. Her smiling lips shine with gloss. Though effortlessly beautiful and confident, I sense Topanga puts a fuck-ton of effort into her looks. Is she worried Lowell will dump her otherwise? Is that the kind of relationship they share? Are they superficial people? Is that why he was so grossed out by me? Am I not up to his highfalutin standards? Okay, I’m probably reading too much into shit.

  Across from me, Topanga never stops talking. She says so much, so fast that I find myself missing most of the details. We’re twenty minutes into lunch before I realize she isn’t talking as much as hitting me up for information. I don’t catch on until she follows up praise for my mom raising me alone with a casual question about how Needy is doing these days.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You said she was missing,” Topanga replies in an offhanded way. “Did she run off, or did someone take her?”

  The stubborn part of me refuses to respond to the question, let alone trust Topanga. Grudges come naturally. Especially when someone puts their hands on me. I always file away those offenses in my “Hard Feelings” mental file cabinet. Then, if I see a chance to exact revenge on that person, I pull out my reason and let my temper take over.

  But Topanga is putting tremendous effort into being nice. Sure, she’s also fishing for dirt. I don’t know what I have to lose by telling her the truth. I assume anything I end up telling Conor will eventually end up back with his bosses.

  “Earlier this year, Needy and Immee went to Branson for a sisters’ retreat. My aunt returned alone, claiming my mom met a guy and wanted to spend extra time with him. Weeks passed. Mom finally wrote a message from a new email address and told me that she wanted to start over fresh. She promised I would be okay. Since then, I’ve only gotten three messages from her and one phone call. I refuse to believe she ditched me for a man.”

  Topanga pats my hand. “You know your mama better than anyone. Trust your instincts.”

  Yeah, Topanga is completely full of shit. However, I still appreciate how she didn’t second-guess my opinion. Too many people in Minton claimed my mom had me young and worked hard to care for me. Now an adult, I ought to stop being selfish and let her start fresh with a new love.

  Except plenty of men showed interest in Needy over the years. She always put me first. That’s why we lived with Aunt Immee and Uncle Clive. Mom hated being dependent on her sister, but she knew we’d be more comfortable there.

  “My mom was my best friend,” I tell Topanga, who watches me with her big blue eyes. “If she fell in love with someone, she’d tell me everything. I’m the person she trusted most. Instead, she just cut me off. That’s not her.”

  “Do you know where she’s living?”

  “In Kansas, but I’m afraid to contact her. I considered going there and spying on her until I saw a chance for us to speak alone. But I don’t know much about the town. Maybe I’d be spotted right away. Then, Uncle Clive would send men to Kansas, and I’d have to run.”

  I realize Topanga’s chattiness has rubbed off on me. That was her plan, no doubt. Jena warned how of all the old ladies that Topanga was the one to worry most about. Her warmth was a trick. Whatever anyone told Topanga, she reported back to her man.

  “My parents are treasures,” she says after I fall silent and wonder if what I’ve shared already will put my mom in danger. “They supported me in whatever I decided to do. But my paternal aunt was a nitpicker. She bullied everyone. Is that how Uncle Clive and Aunt Immee are?”

  Shrugging, I tear at the napkin. “Immee married a strong man with money, but none of his family likes her. They’re not mean, but they aren’t warm, either. They made comments about how she came from mud and her family was trash. Having her sister around helped Immee, but Needy and I were saving up to move away.”

  “And Uncle Clive?”

  “He owns that town. Like how the club owns Elko. If you wronged him, annoyed him, inconvenienced him, he could do to you what I assume the club would do to their enemies. People knew to behave. But, sometimes, behaving isn’t enough.”

  “Well, then, it’s good that you left. Now, you’ve found a new family,” Topanga says as if she’s completely unaware of Lowell’s desire for me to go away. “And I wouldn’t worry about your uncle. Like you said, the Executioners own Elko. This is your home now, and Clive isn’t welcome here.”

  Nodding, I try to focus on the meaning behind Topanga’s words. But I’m feeling salty. And hyper-aware that I’ve shared too much. I need to be more careful. Not only for Needy’s safety, but I’m also dating a criminal. I need to learn to keep my mouth shut. I never had anyone pushing for answers in Minton. Good thing, too, since I seem to be a blabbermouth.

  “And you found Conor,” Topanga says, proving she’s an ace at reading people. “He’s a good boy.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Not every young man handed the keys to money and power will turn out like Conor.”

  “You mean they normally become shitheads like Wyatt?” I ask, feeling self-destructive again.

  Topanga smiles wider. “He’s awful, especially since he’s started accepting how he’ll never be president. I don’t know what’ll satisfy him now.”

  “I don’t want to leave the Overlook,” I say, taking charge of the conversation. “I’m uncomfortable around Lowell. He doesn’t want me in your house. Conor and I are way too early into our relationship to think about living together. The Overlook offers me independence while also keeping me under the club’s protection. Plus, I like having Amity as a roommate. She’s the kind of calm, cool friend I wanted growing up. So staying at the Overlook is what I want, but I know it’s not what others want. Can you help them understand?”

  Topanga studies me. Holding her gaze, I wonder if she’ll admit she’s the one with the problem with me living at the Overlook. Or will she pretend Lowell and I are meant to have the best daddy-daughter relationship ever?

  “I’ll talk to the men in charge. I can’t promise anything long term, but they should back off for now,” she says and then throws in the price for her assistance. “There’ll be a party at the Woodlands’ clubhouse this weekend in your honor. It’s important that you come.”

  “Is it reall
y in my honor, or is it about kissing Lowell’s ass?”

  “The second one. No one cares about you,” Topanga admits, hitting me with the truth. “But Lowell is the Executioners’ vice president, and you’re his daughter. They need to publicly kiss your ass to stay in good graces with him.”

  “Do I have to wear a dress?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do I have to smile?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do I have to make a speech?”

  “No.”

  “Can Conor be my date and stay with me the entire time?”

  “Yes, but you two can’t sneak off and hump in a closet. Lowell is having a difficult time adjusting to the thought of having a daughter. He might feel the need to go papa bear and beat up Conor.”

  “As if he could,” I mutter.

  Topanga narrows her eyes at me, wanting to go wifey bear in her man’s defense. “Do we have an agreement?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want me to help you with your mother?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because your meddling could get her killed. Based on how guilty you feel about slapping me, I don’t know how you’d rebound from triggering my mom’s death.”

  “Fair enough,” she says. “However, you’re wrong about Lowell. He seems cold right now, but only because he isn’t sure how to act with you.”

  “Thinking of me as the club’s piece of ass messed with his paternal instincts.”

  “You’re fun,” Topanga lies while smiling brightly. “Lots of witty banter. We’re having a great girls’ lunch.”

  Grinning at her expression, I throw her a bone. “Needy was a great mom. Then, I lost her. My best friend was a great best friend. Then, I lost her. They were all I had, and then they were gone. You seem nice. Dunning’s snarky teenage crap was fun. I had big dreams about Lowell. Conor is sexy as fuck. The bunnies are sweet. There are people here that I could care about. I’m trying not to view living here as temporary. So, I’m glad we had our girls’ lunch. Maybe you and I can understand each other better than Lowell and I ever will. And that’s good. Because he’s still my father, and I know he leans on you a lot. Having us get along is good for everyone.”

  Topanga’s face twists up, and she gets teary-eyed. “I’m going to hug you.”

  “Or not.”

  “No, too late,” she says, standing and walking around the small table.

  I get up and let her hug me. Topanga pats my back, whispering how everything will work out. I stroke her head and promise to be open-minded about the party and other stuff. We choose to keep our promises vague enough to ensure we seem as if we’re on the same page.

  CONOR

  I always figured falling in love was like going down the stairs. Each step took a man closer to becoming one half of a pair. Creating a relationship was a process. Sure, you could skip a step, maybe even two. However, falling in love didn’t happen all at once.

  If that stairs thing is even half right, I must have fallen down a whole flight. Within days, Monroe and I have gone from horny strangers to inseparable lovers. That whole “it’s only been forty-eight hours” bullshit I spewed at my uncle and the club bros was to keep them off my ass. I don’t need people knowing my heart, so I certainly wasn’t explaining how Monroe owns it now.

  And loving her is so fucking easy. We skipped the flowers and awkward dates and jumped right to the hot sex, followed by shuffling around in our underwear and having conversations while the other is in the bathroom. I feel like a married man, and I don’t even know her middle name.

  “Mulan,” she announces while we sit on the rooftop deck one evening.

  “Why?”

  Smirking, she says, “I’m kidding. I don’t have a middle name. I come from a long line of lazy namers. I think my mom wore herself out with picking the perfect first name.”

  “My middle name is William after my father, despite his name being Billy. I think they wanted to class shit up for me.”

  “From now on, when I’m coming, I plan to scream out ‘Conor William.’ You know, to class up our fucking.”

  Monroe does indeed use my middle name in bed. Well, of fucking course, she does.

  My honey is like a favorite pair of jeans. She’s comfortable, sexy, and makes my ass look great. Those things new couples usually avoid—bedhead, morning grumpiness, snort-laughing, lame drunk dancing, all the smells—don’t matter.

  “My favorite color is brown,” Monroe randomly blurts out one night. “It’s also my least favorite color. It can be an old worn jacket or the shit on your boots. I both love and loathe brown.”

  She shares this tidbit after we dye her hair to a shade close to her natural color. As sexy as she is as a blonde, Monroe fucking rocks her darker locks. Plus, she looks far less like my mom.

  “I’ve never dyed a woman’s hair before,” I warn while she tears open the boxes of color.

  “I have,” Amity assures me.

  “I paid someone to bleach my hair,” Monroe says from her spot on the toilet seat. “I didn’t know how to get all the color out without completely frying it. I figure coloring my hair should be easier.”

  Amity turns on “The Ballad of Jayne”—remembering how I once said I liked the song—and slides on a pair of plastic gloves from one of the color boxes. I shove my hands in the other set.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Monroe asks me while nursing a wine cooler.

  “How is coloring your hair while you sit half-naked not the sexist thing ever? Plus, I’m looking forward to an artistic menage with this hottie.”

  Despite smiling at my comment, Amity remains very focused on the task. I suspect she worries she’ll get color all over the walls or Monroe’s face. She obsessively checks for misplaced drips.

  I’m far less careful. I just slop that shit on and rub it around. Monroe doesn’t help by moving her head to the song’s beat as if she’s not sober enough to stay still.

  An hour later, Amity ditches us to play ping pong with Roni. Meanwhile, I enjoy a naked brunette bouncing on my dick to a Metallica song.

  “I think Amity knew I was rocking a boner after seeing you in the shower,” I tell Monroe, who grinds her hot, wet pussy down on my cock.

  “How can fucking feel this incredible?” she asks, tugging at my hair as she moves faster.

  My hands grip her waist as she rocks her hips to the point of no return. I come so hard that my ears ring. Sex has never been this mind-blowingly hot before. And it’s not as if we’re doing any Kama Sutra shit either. We’re just fucking and sucking like God intended.

  “I’ve been with two other guys, and they had decent-sized dicks,” Monroe shares later as she stretches out naked on the couch.

  Getting a beer from the fridge, I mutter, “Thanks for that visual.”

  “I have pictures of them on my phone if you want to see.”

  “No, I’m good. I don’t want to know about the hearts you’ve broken before.”

  “No hearts involved. No oral either. All pussy-dick stuff. But it was only okay. Of course, they weren’t as hot as you. Apparently, visuals are a very vital part of a good fuck. Looking at a well-toned sex machine,” she says, waving at my naked body walking toward her, “supercharges my pussy.”

  “Let me see that pussy you keep talking about,” I say and twirl my finger. Monroe flips over on the couch, displaying herself for my inspection. “Yeah, I can see what you mean.”

  My fingers slide inside her, finding her pussy already wet. “You got it bad, Monroe. How can I deny such begging?”

  Glancing at me over her shoulder, she sneers dramatically before squeezing her pussy around my fingers.

  My dick feels right inside Monroe. Everything about us just clicks—from shopping for groceries to watching a shitty old action flick while she traces the lines of my shoulder tattoo. I can’t get enough of Monroe, and she keeps applauding me. I even got a standing ovation after eating her out one night.

  “
I’ll save my encore for later,” I promised before tackling her back onto the bed where my dick could find relief.

  For weeks, I’d been so fucking terrified of Monroe failing to live up to my expectations that I wasn’t really prepared for how she might exceed them. Despite her secrets and rough edges, she’s fun and strong. And unlike most women, Monroe isn’t intimidated by my mother.

  This proves fortunate since Mom makes her feelings clear when she finds me out back in the pool with Monroe.

  “I don’t believe you’re my son’s honey,” Mom announces while frowning down at us from the patio. “I think you’re the whore he uses for his last wild fuck before he finds his honey. That’s why I have no interest in knowing you.”

  “Very interesting, Beekeeper Barbie,” Monroe says, tightening the straps on her bikini top. “Well, I happen to believe you’re not Conor’s real mother. In fact, I suspect you’re one of those pod people. Since I don’t mingle with aliens, I have no interest in knowing you, either.”

  “Smartass,” Mom growls.

  “Our children will be able to snark people to death from across the room,” I brag to Barbie while snuggling up behind Monroe and giving her ass a little underwater slap.

  “People today have no respect.”

  “Said the lady who spit at a pastor.”

  “He started it.”

  “They always do.”

  Barbie flips me off and hustles into the house. Leaning her head back against my chest, Monroe grins up at me.

  “Pod people are the worst. I wonder what your real mom was like.”

  “Probably highly emotional, not like my fake robotic mother.”

  Monroe smiles wider. “Pod person or not, she’s beautiful.”

  As first meetings go, I thought that one went well. Mom didn’t go apeshit, and Monroe didn’t take the “whore” thing personally.