by Amo Jones
“Shut up, freak.”
“Madison!” my mom yelled out from the porch. She was holding a tray of little pirate-shaped cupcakes and wearing a yellow and white sundress. She looked beautiful. I wanted to be as beautiful as her one day. I skipped toward my mom, wiping the tears out of my face. Mommy wouldn’t be happy if she saw me crying, and I didn’t want to get the boy into trouble. I didn’t know why; he was not a very nice boy. I should’ve wanted to get him into trouble.
“Brantley,” my mom said once we both reached her, bending down to my level while still balancing the tray with one hand. “This is Madison.” Brantley must’ve been at least two years older than me. He wore a baseball cap and had an angry scowl on his face. I didn’t know why, but I instantly liked him.
“Hi!” I smiled, holding my hand out to him. Maybe if I introduced myself properly, he would like me better. Mommy always said people liked good manners. “I’m Madison. Are these your cupcakes?” I looked up to my mom. “Are these his cupcakes? Is that why they’re blue and why I’m not allowed to eat them?” My mom looked at Brantley and me nervously.
“Mom?” I asked again. She was starting to fidget, which she only did when she’s nervous.
“Yes, dear. Why don’t you and Brantley go play while me and Lucan have a quick word.” I must’ve been confused. Lucan? Bringing my eyes to the new body that stood beside my mom, I looked up the black suit pants, until I finally found ice-cold blue eyes, tanned skin, and blond hair. The man was looking down at me with a dirty stare that made me cuddle into my mom’s legs. He kneeled in front of me.
“Well hello. You must be Madison.”
I nodded, wrapping my hand in my mom’s frilly dress and using it to cover my mouth. “Yes.”
“I’m Lucan.”
“Hi, Lucan.”
He leaned forward, his eyes squinting. “I think I’ll call you Silver.”
I suck in a breath. Brantley? What the fuck? I remember part of that day now. I recall it so vividly it scares me a little that I didn’t remember it until this point. Brantley and I had met? I was at his birthday party? The rest of that day is a little blurry, but there was so much more, because I remember driving home with my mom and dad later that night. So there’s still a whole day unaccounted for.
Maybe I could ask my dad.
I frown, grasping the glass bottle. There’s no way I can trust my dad with anything now. Can I trust anyone? I know I can trust Tatum, I think, but then again, at one point, I completely trusted my dad. I would have trusted him with my life—and I did on multiple occasions, but yet, he still let me down.
Can I trust anyone?
Can I trust myself?
My brain fuzzes as white noise rings through my ears.
Something has happened. Something has switched inside of me since Bishop asked that question. It has triggered a dark part of my soul I never wanted to acknowledge again.
Have I ever really been safe? Even as a little girl, it seems the adults I trusted and the people I was supposed to be safe with let me down. Feeling more than overwhelmed with my thoughts, I bring the rim of my bottle to my lips, pounding down another couple of mouthfuls until I can’t feel the burning sensation in my throat and everything turns numb.
“Trust no one. Fear no one. Fuck everyone,” I whisper to myself, pushing my long hair away from my face. grinning, I walk toward the stairwell and climb up two at a time. I hope Tatum doesn’t take too long to get here, but then again—can I really trust her?
Pushing open my bedroom door, a sense of power rushes over me. I trust no one, and that means no one can hurt me. No one can touch me. I’m untouchable because of this revelation. I can’t be hurt again. I will fight for my control and my freedom for that little girl. For that broken part of me that yearns for it. Slamming my bedroom door, I take another pull of JW and look toward my closet.
Smirking, I place the bottle on my dresser and make my way to my closet. Flicking on the light, my eyes find my black skinny jeans. They’re ripped at the knees and stick to me like a second skin. Grabbing them, I run my fingers over all my crop tops, opting for the most revealing one I can find. A straight across strapless crop top that shows all of my toned stomach. Looking at both items, an idea clicks in my head. Taking the clothes back to my room, I toss them onto my bed and pull open my underwear drawer, taking out my fishnet stockings. Yes, so much yes, this is perfect. Taking everything to my bathroom—and the bottle of my old pal Johnny Walker—I lock Nate’s side and my side and turn on the shower. Slipping under the hot cascading water, I take my bottle in with me and sit on the bathtub floor. Hugging the whiskey, I squeeze my eyes closed as the first teardrops. The beading water trickling over my flesh, down my arms like an assault, reminds me of Black Friday’s touch.
His rough, aged hands squeezing my nipples tightly.
His rough bearded face scrapping down my delicate chest.
A sob escapes me before I can stop it and I scrub my face angrily. Angry that he’s getting tears and hurt so many years later. Bringing the bottle back to my lips, I take a few long pulls of the liquid until I no longer feel like crying. Then I get to my feet and turn off the faucet, the condensation a reminder of my surroundings, bringing me back to the now.
I’m here.
Now.
At home.
Safe.
Safe? Am I? My sanity is because I trust no one. No one will have the power to let me down. I’ll expect the worst in people to save disappointment. Wrapping my towel around my body, I quickly dry myself and slip into my little Calvin Klein G-string and then into the fishnet stockings and black jeans. I pull the fishnet waistband up to my ribs so you can see it ripple over my flat stomach and everywhere my jeans are ripped, before sliding on the little crop top boob tube. Smiling down at my outfit, I run the towel through my hair. I look hot and I feel reckless, a toxic combination for me.
I blow out my hair and throw on makeup. Going heavy on the eyes and bright red on the lips. Well, Dad would be proud of the look I have going on right now.
After battling over how to do my hair, I settle on a high messy bun that sits like a bundle of brown curls on the top of my head and grab my bottle. I’m slipping my original Adidas sneakers on when my bedroom door swings open, and Tatum walks in fully dressed in a tight little skirt and heels, clutching a plastic bag in her hand.
“Now, I got Absinth and a couple of kegs,” she murmurs, rushing into my room without looking at me. She places the drinks on my bed and finally turns toward me. Her face changes, a small smile creeping onto her mouth. “Well holy shit who fucked on a stick. Where is my friend? And please, don’t bring her back.”
I roll my eyes and take another drink. “She’s gone.”
Tate looks impressed. “Well, I like it. Totally digging this look. Carter is downstairs with Ridge starting the music. I hope that’s okay, by the way. I saw both of them in town while I was getting alcohol and sort of dragged them with me. But I kind of got the impression you wanted a full house tonight so you wouldn’t mind.” She adds a cheesy smile.
“Of course I don’t mind. A thick bass line starts thumping against the walls as the alcohol warms my blood even more. “I want to dance. Let’s go.” I pull her toward the door and she pulls back.
“Wait!” She reaches for the plastic bag again and smiles. “Okay, now I’m ready!”
We pound down the stairs, me with my bottle of whiskey clutched between my fingers and Tatum swinging the plastic bag. Hitting the bottom of the stairwell, Carter whistles at us, a mischievous grin on his face.
“Damn, mami….”
“Hey!” I smile. He pulls me in for a hug, and I slouch into him, my muscles slightly relaxing for the first time since this afternoon. Inching back, he pushes a couple of loose strands away from my face and smiles his boyish grin.
Pressing back softly, I look over his shoulder at Ridge, who looks like he has almost finished setting up the little makeshift DJ booth area in the sitting room. I point to the f
loor-to-ceiling doors and nudge my head at Tatum. “Open up the doors and turn on the Jacuzzi and pool lights. Tonight is going to be a long night.”
“Long night, huh?” Tatum wiggles her ass, sliding open the doors. “Well, as long as I get fucked, I don’t care.”
“All class, Sinclaire,” Carter murmurs.
Tatum flips him off. “Never claimed to be classy, Mathers.”
I roll my eyes, leaving the two to banter between each other and making my way toward Ridge. “Hey!”
He looks over his shoulder, putting all the wires and cords back into the little black boxes.
“Hey, Madi. Hope it’s okay. Your friend,” he looks over at Tatum, “is a little persistent. Anyway, she somehow knew I DJ’d at one of the underage clubs in town, so here I am.”
I laugh, not surprised that Tatum knew that information about Ridge. She probably knows his address, birthplace, birthdate, and blood type too. “No, please, you’re doing us a favor. It was sort of an impulse idea.”
Ridge chuckles, walking behind the DJ setup and putting on his headphones. “The best nights start with that line right there.”
“I hope so.” I smile at him and tilt my head. He’s cute, in a boy-raised-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-tracks kind of way. He has a sort of swagger to him that makes him even more appealing.
“Sorry about her.” I laugh, looking toward Tatum, who has opened out the ranch slider doors. “She’s a little—”
“Intrusive?” Ridge interrupts, smirking at me.
I laugh, my eyes locking with his. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. But she means well.”
“Yeah.” Ridge winks, his arm wrapping around my waist as he pulls me into him. “So tell me—”
“No,” I cut him off, looking up at him. “I don’t want to answer any questions tonight.” I bring my hands up to his chest and press lightly. “I just want to forget everything.” He steps back and searches my eyes.
“Everything okay?”
Smiling, I nod. “Yeah, everything’s fine.” He turns back to the DJ deck and flicks on some sort of remixed, hard, house song, and I turn around, finding Tatum straight away. She wiggles her eyebrows at me suggestively, and I roll my eyes. I swear, only Tatum would take me talking to a guy the completely wrong way. Walking up to her, I squint my eyes. “What?”
“Oh, nothing.” She grins, dancing around in a circle just as the doorbell rings. “Oh look, the party is here!”
I smile, shaking my head and taking a long pull of the whiskey again, relishing how it numbs everything inside of me, physically and mentally. The more I drink, the more I forget. With that thought, I take another sip just as the song changes to “Where the Girls At” by David Guetta. Tatum lifts her drink in the air, and with a whole bunch of people walking in behind her, she screams, “Let’s get fucked up!” at the top of her lungs.
I raise my bottle in the air in salute, grinning at her. Spinning around, I start dancing in the middle of the floor, grinding and pressing against the sea of bodies. The song changes to “No Promises” by Cheat Codes and I spin around, lost in the numb feeling the whiskey has given me.
Until my eyes lock onto Bishop, who is standing in the entryway of the sitting room with Nate and the rest of the Kings in formation behind him.
Bishop’s scowl deepens when he sees someone rubbing up behind me. Rolling my eyes, I walk toward them, an innocent smile on my face. “Hi, boys!”
“Madison!” Nate snaps at me. “What the fuck?”
“What?” I slur, my head swimming in a deep pool of whiskey. “Like I can’t throw a party, what?” I laugh sarcastically. “I’m not Nate Riverside.” Nate grabs my arm, but I yank it away from him. “Screw you, all of you. Leave me the fuck alone.” Then I push through them and make my way toward the kitchen. Leaning down into the cabinet, I pull out a glass and fill it up with water. Turning around, I find Bishop leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed in front of him.
“Why throw the party, Madison?”
“Why not, Bishop?” I retort, matching his tone. I tip my water out and go to walk out the door, only his hand catches my arm.
“Why you acting out?”
I pull my arm out of his grip. “Why don’t you mind your fucking business?” Then I walk back onto the dance floor, snatching a bottle of whatever the fuck it is out of someone’s hands. Cisco Kid from Redman starts pumping through the speakers, and I let go. Dancing and riding the beat, I grind up on the closest person near me. Turning around and wrapping my arms around his neck, I bring my eyes to—
“Brantley?” I go to pull away, but he grips onto my arms, locking me there.
“Nah-uh, you ain’t going anywhere. You don’t grind up on a man’s dick like that and expect to walk away.”
I narrow my eyes, the room spinning. “I can do what the fuck I want.”
He laughs, a menacing chuckle that vibrates against my chest—a tone I know I should run from, because this is freaking Brantley. Though Bishop is just as terrifying as Brantley—if not worse—I know Bishop on a level I don’t know Brantley. I know how far I can push Bishop for him to not hurt me. Do I think he could still hurt me and probably would if I push him far enough? Abso-fucking-lutely.
I search Brantley’s eyes, lost in the music and intoxicated by whiskey. I lean my body into his a bit more and bring my hands down his sharp jawline, running my index finger over the bottom of his plump lip. He catches my index finger between his teeth, and I give him a menacing grin. Wrapping his lips around my finger, he unlatches his teeth and sucks on my finger; it comes out of his mouth with a pop. Closing my eyes, I ignore the way my nipples are pushing against the cups of my bra, or the way my flesh has come alive.
Before I know what I’m doing, I come up on my tippy toes and kiss him. He opens his mouth, letting my tongue in as his arm hooks around my bare waist and his finger dips into the band of my fishnet tights, flicking at it. I lick his tongue, pulling on it slightly before he bites down on my lower lip. Pulling back, I bring my nose to his and search his eyes. His eyes that are lit with lust—dark, domineering, and powerful lust. Do I dance on this line? This dangerous line of something I know I could never come back from?
Yes.
“Go upstairs?” I whisper against his lips.
He smirks, the curve of his mouth pressing against mine. His dimple pops out and I groan like an unhinged horny teenager.
“Naw, babe. That’s too mainstream for me.” He takes my hand and tugs me toward the open doors. “Come.” I take another drink and go to place it on the countertop, only for him to pick it back up. “We’re gonna need this.”
We pass Tatum briefly near the stairwell, and she looks at me, eyes wide. “What the fuck?” she mouths, shock evident on her face.
I shrug and follow Brantley anyway. Stepping outside, he pulls me again, tucking me under his arm and leading me toward his RT Dodge Charger. I pull open the passenger side and slip into the dark leather seats. The car is nice, sort of looks like the one Vin Diesel drives in The Fast and the Furious. Brantley gets into the driver seat and roars her to life, the deep V8 engine vibrating underneath me.
“Where we going?” I ask, turning to face him.
He smirks. “You have no idea.” Then he floors it out of the driveway. As we pass all the streetlights and overgrown trees, I begin to sober a little. “Brantley?” I whisper as he drops it down to second gear and accelerates. I look toward him. “Brantley, where are we going?” His face straightens, all playfulness that I saw earlier gone. That’s when realization sinks in. I just got into a car with Brantley—thinking I was going to fuck the shit out of him, only now I’m fearing for my life. I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, but I have a feeling this one is going to take the cake. My phone vibrates in my back pocket, and I sit up, pulling it out and opening the message from an unknown number.
Riddle me this…
FUCK!
I look toward Brantley. “What the fuck is this?”
Brantley la
ughs and floors it forward. “As I said—you have no idea.”
Slamming my eyes shut, I squeeze my phone in my hand, ignoring the text and not wanting to read on. Brantley must sense this because he decides to take over.
“Riddle me this, Kitty. What happens when you drink from poison, thinking it’s love, but when you get hit with the buzz, things start to fuzz, until you can’t breathe, and your suffocating becomes the release?”
Fear prickles over my skin and I shake my head. “Nate said he was done fucking with me. Bishop wouldn’t do this to m—”
“Oh, but he would. You see…” Brantley grins, dropping gears and driving us onto the highway. “Human emotions are a fickle thing. They can blind even the smartest of people and make them think that someone won’t do bad, but people will always do bad. There’s no stopping that. So tell me, Madison.” He looks at me now as he applies more pressure on the accelerator.
“Brantley, your speed.”
His eyes stay on mine, the darkness of them sucking me in like sinking sand. “Don’t care. But tell me,” his smirk deepens as he puts his attention back to the road ahead of him, “what makes you think Bishop really gives a fuck about you?”
“He does, a little bit,” I murmur, realizing how deluded I must sound. This is Bishop Vincent Hayes—king of no emotions and zero fucks given. Why am I cocky enough to declare he gives more than a fuck about me?
Brantley laughs. “Oh, Madison. There’s so much you don’t know, and won’t know. But one thing you should know is that Bishop has no feelings for anyone. He plays the game right, draws them in enough to think he gives a fuck, but ultimately, he doesn’t. There’s a reason why he’s the king of the Kings, Kitty, and it’s not because of his overwhelming river of feels he pours upon girls. It’s because he ends lives without flinching.”
I swallow past the ball of fear that has developed in my throat. “You won’t win this round, Brantley.” I look at him, really regretting the alcohol consumption and inwardly declaring I will never drink like this again.
