Theirs to Pleasure: a Reverse Harem Romance

by Stasia Black

  “Are you saying Goodwill isn’t good enough?” Her eyes narrow. “That there’s something wrong with people who shop at secondhand stores? Because let me tell you, mister, not only is it a great way to reuse resources, but they give jobs to the mentally ill and economically downtrodden. As well as having some killer duds. I’ve shopped there my whole life and I love it.”

  Her eyes light up and she leans in over the center console. “Plus, it’s like going treasure hunting each time. You can find all these amazing expensive brands but get them super cheap. Like Banana Republic shirts for four dollars. People waste so much money on clothes.” Her hands flick in disgust. “It’s crazy.”

  Then she shakes her head, laughing to herself. She puts her hand to her mouth, eyeing me up and down. “Sorry. No offense.”

  “None taken.” I grin. “It’s a point of pride with me that I spend more on shirts than regular people make in a month.”

  Scarlet’s mouth drops open. Like in a perfect O.

  I crack up and reach over, putting a forefinger underneath her chin and closing her mouth with a click of her teeth. I pull away quickly because even the briefest contact with her skin sends a jolt down my forearm.

  “I was just joking.” I clear my throat and start the car. I glance sideways at her before pulling out of the spot. “Most the time, it’s just half a month’s salary.” I give her a wink and then press the pedal to the floor as I speed out of the parking garage.

  She lets out a little yip of surprise at the sudden acceleration and her hands go to steady herself by holding on to her car door. “Crap,” she squeals. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’d like to come out of this car ride with all of my organs intact.”

  I laugh out loud at that, speeding through a light right before it turns red. Christ, when was the last time I laughed like this? I literally can’t remember. It might have been years. It’s a fucking high.

  “You like a strong cup of coffee in the morning.” I stroke the wheel of my car. “I like to let my baby here free so she can eat up some asphalt.”

  “Oh my God, I bet you’re the kind of guy who names his car.” I feel her stare on me when I don’t say anything. “You totally did! Come on, let’s have it.”

  There’s traffic as always, since it’s San Francisco, but it’s midmorning, so it’s fairly light. I keep my attention split between the road, the cars around me, and Scarlet. I glance over at her and smirk. “Who? You mean my sweet Queen Victoria here?”

  Her head, which seems like it’s perpetually shaking in my presence, returns to bobbing back and forth. “Ha, that sounds about right. Hey, do you even know where you’re going? Don’t you need to get the address on your GPS or something?”

  Another short silence from me. “I know where one is.”

  “No way. The Kennedy Benson knows where a Goodwill is off the top of his head?” She laughs in disbelief.

  I smirk at her. “I do have eyes. I’m not oblivious to my surroundings.”

  And there was a time I shopped here. Not that she or anyone else will ever know it. Once the habit of learning how to spread a buck gets ingrained in you, you always notice thrift stores and grocery outlets.

  Scarlet looks around us at my words. “Come to think of it, I’m shocked there’s a Goodwill in the nice part of San Francisco at all.” Then her face brightens. “I bet there will be some awesome picking in this neighborhood.”

  “Treasure hunting, huh?”

  “You have no idea.” She rubs her hands together and sounds as excited as a little kid about to go trick-or-treating.

  Then her attention is diverted as she starts messing with the controls beside her seat. A look of consternation comes over her features.

  “What?” I ask.

  “How do you make this thing recline? Why would they replace the nice little lever with all the buttons when it just makes it so confusing? A lever is nice and easy. Logical. You want to lean back, you pull the thing and voila.”

  “It’s the diagonal arrow button.” I stifle my amusement at her mini-rant.

  A soft buzzing fills the otherwise quiet car and Scarlet’s seat starts to recline. “Ah, there we go.” She lifts her arms and crosses her hands behind her head. Then she props one of her Converse-clad feet up on my pristine dashboard.

  A noise somewhere between a dismayed groan and a startled grunt escapes from my throat. Which only brings Scarlet’s amused gaze back to me.

  “Oh no, don’t tell me you’re one of those people. What’s the point of a luxury car if you can’t even get comfortable in it?”

  So now probably isn’t the right time to give her my Three Strict Rules for Riding in the Queen.

  One, no food.

  Two, no liquids except bottled water.

  And number three and probably the most important, no feet on the dashboard. Ever. By anyone.

  I’m a man who appreciates the finer things. This is Italian leather. We’re talking the highest end luxury stuff on the market.

  “Oh my gosh,” she says, perking up again as we pull into the parking lot, “everything in Pacific Heights is fancy, even the Goodwill.”

  Then she claps her hands together really quickly in front of her and does a fucking adorable little dance in her seat.

  “Okay.” She looks over at me with a grin. “I’m going to totally girl out on you now because I am sort of excited about this. If you couldn’t tell.” She laughs self-deprecatingly. “I just haven’t gotten to go shopping in forever.”

  Did I think I minded her feet on my dashboard? Screw the dashboard. I can get my car detailed any time. I just had to do an emergency session at the dealer to get the spray-paint taken care of. A few footprints are nothing. Not when Scarlet’s this happy.

  I pull into a parking spot as I realize that I don’t want this to be the last time that Scarlet rides in my car. The more that I look at her, the more it seems she belongs in that seat beside me, looking so fucking delighted about a goddamned Goodwill trip.

  But she’s not going to be in your car after this little shopping excursion. She said yes to the clothing. Nothing more.

  No. That’s unacceptable. The answering thought is swift and unambiguous.

  I frown to myself.

  “Um. We’re here.” She waves a hand in front of my face. “You can stop staring at me now. Come on, let’s go.”

  She beams at me and then opens the door, popping out of the car before I can say anything else. I hurry to follow her. I lock up and have to jog to catch up with her because she’s already at the door to the store. I swear I’m always chasing this girl.

  I’m so intent on following her that I only give a cursory glance around the parking lot. Yeah it’s the Pacific Heights, but still. All San Francisco neighborhoods are packed so close, we’re only a mile away from the Tenderloin District, one of the most crime-ridden spots in the city. The problem with having an expensive car is that it invites people to fuck with you if you don’t stay places where they have valet parking. Such as the Bentley getting tagged outside the soup kitchen in the Mission District.

  Scarlet seems to have no worries in the world, though, as she pushes through the doors. She appears immediately captivated by everything she sees. Her head swivels left then right, then left again. It’s a large store with several circular racks at the front, shoes off to the right, and then rows and rows of clothing, with what looks like furniture and other household items at the back.

  Scarlet heads toward the closest circular rack and walks around it, her hand grazing the fabrics of different garments, eyes alive as she takes in everything. She doesn’t take anything off the rack or slow down to really examine anything. Instead she’s reveling in the different textures, rubbing silks between her fingers, sliding her thumb back and forth over a velvet dress, running the back of her hand down a faux fur coat.

  Then she leaves the rack of clothing and heads over to where purses hang on the far wall. I think she’ll head for the large tote carriers or the backpacks han
ging to the far right of the rack.

  Scarlet, of course, defies expectations. She’s drawn instead toward the tiniest little clutch purses, the kind that women I’ve been with can only manage to stuff a credit card and lip gloss. Again, she seems fascinated by textures and textiles, caressing little pearl buttons, gaudy rhinestones and soft leather.

  I move closer, wanting to study every line and curve of her face as she lifts and examines each little clutch that catches her interest.

  She looks up and blushes when she notices my attention. “I know it’s silly. I shouldn’t be wasting time looking at these. They’re so impractical.” Her voice is wistful.

  “Not at all,” I rush to say. “Every woman I know has one of those. Please, I’ll be offended if you don’t go home with one.”

  She smirks at me with a lifted eyebrow. “I’ll bet you have known a lot of women.”

  “I’ve— I, well—”

  Her musical laugh cuts me off and she waves a hand. “Sorry, you walked into that one.” She picks up another tiny purse and runs her index finger along a black-beaded outline of the Eiffel Tower that’s been stitched into the maroon silk purse. “Fancy ladies in movies always carry these around. When I was a kid, my brother and I would pretend we were those people.” She smiles, but for the first time all day, I can sense a well of sadness behind it. “He always wanted to be James Bond and I of course would be his female counter super-spy.”

  She fingers the clutch again. “I’d make little purses like this out of construction paper and they would always have that one item I needed—you know, the lipstick or perfume where you screwed off the bottom? And it would hide either a deadly poison I would sneak into somebody’s food or it was actually a disguised USB drive where I would copy all the secret information.” She gazes outward like she’s looking into the past, a nostalgic smile on her face.

  “My brother was only interested in pretending things were blowing up. And guns. He was very fond of pretending things were guns. Anything he could get his hands on. The remote control. My hair dryer. Dad’s electric shaver.” The smile on her face gets that sad, lost quality to it again.

  “Where’s your brother now?” I ask.

  She sets the purse back on the rack, face still clouded over. “Anyway, it was silly.”

  She turns away, never addressing my question. Before I can say another word, she takes off toward the long racks of clothing that take up most of the store.

  Okay. I can take a hint. The brother is a sore subject.

  I follow behind her, intentionally trying not to look like I’m hurrying even though all I want to do is run after her and…hug her. A very foreign impulse for me. Kennedy Benson doesn’t do hugging. But it’s almost an overpowering urge. I want to hold her and say that whatever happened with her brother, it’ll be okay.

  Which is obviously bullshit since I have no clue what went down. Is he alive? Dead? Or is it something as simple as they had a falling out and aren’t speaking to each other anymore?

  When I catch up with Scarlet, she’s shoving hangers to the side as she forages through a section of dresses. One goes over her arm, a light gray summery looking thing with pink polka dots, then another, this time of a golden yellow with white flowers.

  I smile at her and try to catch her eye, but her face is knitted in concentration as she shoves hanger after hanger to the side. She gives each garment half a second of observation, then moves on to the next one. Even when she adds an item to her arm, she never holds it up against herself to ooo and aaah like girls have done on the handful of occasions I’ve let myself be dragged figuratively kicking and screaming along on shopping trips before. No more fabric caresses or secret smiles either.

  No. It’s like a switch flipped. Occasionally she checks a label or the Goodwill price tag that’s attached to the sleeve, but those and the quick cursory glances are all the consideration she gives a piece of clothing.

  And I want to know why, damn it.

  When she moves on to shirts and begins sifting through them in the same way, I reach out and put my hand on hers as she shoves the hanger of another rejected shirt to the side. “Did I say something wrong?”

  She freezes under my touch and glances up at me quickly, then away.

  “Why would you think that?”

  I feel my mouth tense into a straight line. “Because it feels like you’re not enjoying this anymore.”

  Her eyes narrow and she starts to respond. Then she stops herself and looks to the floor. She drops her head briefly and her whole body sags for a moment, like she feels as beat down as she looked when I saw her on the ground across the parking lot.

  I flash back to her limp in my arms as I carried her to my car. She was so light. Fragile.

  Funny feelings start to warm my chest. They’re so foreign I don’t even know how to categorize them. It feels like…like I want to go fight someone. The whole world. Anything to bring the smile back to her face. To make things better for this beautiful blonde fairy girl. She deserves so much better than the shitty hand life has dealt her. It’s not fair.

  “Scarlet—” I start, not even knowing what I should say but still wanting to say something—anything—to try to make it better.

  But then she shakes her head and stands up straight again. Like she gave herself some internal pep talk maybe? She physically squares her shoulders and straightens her posture. Her head comes up and her chin goes out.

  I’d give an obscene amount of money to know what just went on in her head. Was it something bracingly practical? Is she religious? Does she ascribe to inspirational sayings? She’s been homeless for who knows how long but all day she’s been smiling, and that brief moment I just saw was the only glimpse she’s given of just how much the obvious hardships in her life affect her, even after I saw her get beaten up by those thug bastards.

  My childhood was shit and I take it as license for every lousy thing I’ve done as an adult. The corners I’ve cut. The compromises I continue to make. But Scarlet, she’s—

  “You’re right.” When she looks back up at me, her eyes aren’t exactly flinty but she’s a little more closed off than she was earlier. It doesn’t stop her from sharing, though. “A while ago I swore…” She breaks off and her eyes go to the ground before she takes a breath in and looks up. Her eyes don’t quite make it back to mine, but she continues, “I swore that I was never going to take any single day for granted. No fear. No holds barred. I have to live every second I have to the fullest.”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “That’s a really admirable way to look at—”

  “No,” she cuts me off with a slash of her hand. Her eyebrows furrow in frustration. “I’m not just talking bullshit platitudes.” It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her curse and I suddenly clue in. She’s saying something important here. If it was anyone else talking, these would just be words, but what she’s saying really means something to her. Something very real. The warmth in my chest gets tight. Because no one in my world talks like this. It’s all small talk and self-congratulatory B.S. Nothing that actually matters.

  “I lived when others didn’t. It’s criminal if I don’t live my life fully.” She’s staring at me with an intensity that I feel down to my bones. “Do you understand?”

  I don’t. Not really. Especially the first part. She lived when others didn’t. What does that mean? Just like in general—people die every day and we’re alive? Or did she survive some kind of plane or car crash and has survivor’s guilt?

  But I nod like I do get it. Because in a way, I do. Or at least, I remember the feeling.

  She’s saying she has to live each day like she’s fucking alive. And I’ve felt that drive before, though not in a long, long time, and probably not in the same way as Scarlet. But there was a six-month period when I first got free from New York. From my mother. I was living in Europe and I’d gotten into a premiere French chef school on scholarship. I was making friends for the first time. Learning how to talk to girls. I lost my virgini
ty to a very lovely French girl in my class who couldn’t cook for shit but who loved fast cars and the fact that I was American.

  Everything was amazing and I felt this duty to live the fuck out of every molecule of every second. It was before… Well, before.

  But Christ, I don’t want to think about any of that.

  I want to be in this moment. Completely here in the present, in this millisecond with this amazing girl.

  I open my mouth to say something, I’m not sure what. Gibberish about how beautiful she is and how I didn’t think people like her actually existed—you know, people who are truly as lovely on the inside as they are on the outside?

  “Come on,” Scarlet says suddenly, grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me after her as she marches us down the row between racks of clothes.

  “Where—?”

  “No talking.”

  I raise my eyebrows but she can’t see me, intent as she is on wherever the hell it is she’s going. She takes us down another row of clothes and then makes a beeline for the furniture section.

  Okay. Maybe she suddenly feels very passionate about acquiring an end table?

  She drags me all the way to the corner where several big cabinets stand, the old wooden kind that are heavy as hell, made before they started making everything out of particle board. There’s a glass door on the one she stops in front of. Inside the cabinet are several display shelves and it has a mirror on the interior back wall.

  I only notice the mirror because Scarlet looks into it and a sly smile comes over her face. Scarlet’s a smiley person, but this is one I’ve never seen on her before.

  She drops the clothing she had over her arm on a home entertainment center that’s off to the side and then her eyes come back to the mirror.

  Her eyes are bright and cheeks flushed. What is she so excited about? It’s contagious even though I’m standing here like an idiot, confused. But I can’t stop watching her watch herself in the mirror. Then her eyes move up and meet mine in the reflective surface.

  “Cover me,” she whispers, her voice at a lower register than normal. “I’ve always wanted to do this.”