And I just don’t know if I can put myself through that.
“I think,” I begin, my voice low but unwavering. Firm. “For the sake of our agreement, we should keep things professional…and stick to the rules as they are.”
Blondie must hear the finality in my tone because she doesn’t argue, though the daggers she shoots at me from those lovely eyes cut through me just as easily as any words. With a delicate sniff, she takes a step back, widening that berth between us once more, then she lifts her hand to the neckline of her costume…and starts to unzip it.
“What are you doing?” I nearly shout, keeping my eyes locked on her face so I don’t ogle her. Despite my efforts, I’m all too aware of her black lace panties and bra and all that skin, which is now exposed to the elements.
“Returning your costume,” she answers simply, “and reminding you what you’re missing out on.”
She steps out of the outfit, picks it up off the ground, and hurls it at me before storming up the porch stairs and slamming the front door behind her.
I glance at the bundle of fleece in my hands, then over at the spot where Blondie last stood, unable to find the strength in my legs to move. Well, I guess I was right about one thing when I woke up this morning.
Blondie is definitely going to kill me.
One family divided by an unspoken secret + a tension so thick I can practically taste it = an unexpected empathy I never expected to feel.
November
When Damian picks me up Saturday morning, I’m forced to acknowledge that the past thirty-one hours were not some lucid fever dream. Nope, that was really me getting drunk in a monkey costume and riding on Damian’s back through the streets of Newport. That was really me digging out my passport (which—for someone who has never left the U.S.—I only have as a second form of identification and because my mom said I should have one “just in case”) and packing my bags for this insane trip to Guadalajara. A trip I had to lie through my teeth about to explain why I won’t be home again until tomorrow evening.
Luckily, Ronnie—albeit reluctantly—agreed to help cover my lie. As far as Mom and Gina are concerned, Ronnie, Andie, and I will be spending the night in Providence to celebrate the end of midterms. And to avoid my mother or aunt finding out that I’m actually out of the country, I will conveniently forget my phone on my desk, half obscured by a few shirts that I “decided against bringing with me and had haphazardly tossed to the side when packing.” You know, should either of them ask.
It’s definitely not the smartest move I’ve ever made, but in terms of deniability, it was safer to leave it behind, what with modern technology and its ability to track people. My mom might trust me, but she does have a habit of checking the tracking app at random to make sure I’m alive (and where I said I would be), and her noticing I’m not in Providence but in freaking Mexico is a risk I’m not willing to take.
Ronnie’s only demands in exchange for her complicity were that I put her number in Damian’s phone (so that, if somethingdoeshappen, one of us can get in touch with her and let her know what’s going on)andthat I check in with her via said phone once every six hours with the exception of the time I spend sleeping. I had tried to tell her that I’ll be out of the country for less than a full day—not even one complete rotation of the Earth—and the odds of anything bad happening were practically zero, but she insisted, and I wasn’t in the mood to argue.
I had asked Damian to wait down the road so Mom and Gina wouldn’t see him parked outside the house, but I still glance over my shoulder as I speed-walk toward his car to make sure they aren’t watching me through the windows, either to wave goodbye or just to make sure I get there safely. Although it’s fairly early, and the coast seems to be clear, I don’t dawdle; I quickly throw my bag in his trunk and then hurry over to the passenger door.
“Dornan,” he says by way of greeting when I climb into the seat beside him. I avoid his gaze, but to my unending annoyance, I can see the smug grin tugging at his lips out of the corner of my eye.
Keeping my own expression drawn, I respond with a curt, “Fuckboy.”
He barks out a laugh. “Well, that answers that question. You aren’t a morning person.”
I can feel his eyes burning into the side of my face, and the silence between us swells with a tense sort of anticipation as if he’s waiting for me to speak…or just to look at him. I can’t bring myself to do either. Partly because I have no idea what to say, but mostly because I don’t want to see it—the memory of how I acted the other night reflected in the depths of his eyes.
While certain parts of that night are spotty at best, I unfortunately wasn’tquitedrunk enough to wipe the full recollection from my brain. And even more unfortunately, the segments I remember the clearest are the most mortifying.
Me, propositioning Damian since my raging libido apparently knows no bounds, and it seems I am incapable of going nine months without getting dicked down.
Me, stripping to my underwear when he refused in the hope that seeing me (almost) naked would overwhelm him with such insatiable lust he’d change his mind.
Spoiler alert: it didn’t. And now, I just feel like an idiot. Again.
Damian pulls away from the curb, and we drive in silence for a few minutes, the quiet stretching until it’s like an overinflated balloon about to pop.
“You know, you’re going to have to look at me sometime this weekend,” he says. “And exchange more than one word with me. Ideally.” When I don’t respond, he adds in a soft voice I barelyrecognize, “It’s not too late to back out. If you want me to take you home, I will.”
I have to resist the temptation to look at him—to gauge if he’s actually being honest with me or if he’s only saying that to get me to crack. It would be so easy to brush off the sentiment, to assume it’s just another lie, but…the sincerity in his tone tells me it’s not.
A flush creeps up my neck, and I can see my cheeks burning scarlet in the side-view mirror. “It’s not that.” The words tumble out in a rush.
“Then what is it?” Damian asks.
I slump in my seat, lifting my shoulders and tucking my chin into my chest, like I’m a turtle trying to escape into my shell. “I’m embarrassed.”
Damian considers that, and I wonder if he’s going to press the matter—if he’s going to make me spell out what I’m embarrassed about (despite knowing damn well what I’m referring to) just to torment me for his own entertainment.
