A real job.
With benefits.
And a salary that would allow me to live on my own, to be completely independent.
Until that happens, I’m stuck living under their roof and respecting their rules, however asinine and archaic they may be.
Lifting myself off Madden’s taut torso, I slink out of bed and search the dark apartment for my dress, panties, and bra.
“Where you running off to?” he asks, sitting up on his elbows.
“Home.” I glance at him for a second, long enough for me to spot the disappointment that registers on his face by way of a frown and furrowed brows.
He checks his phone. “It’s ten thirty-four.”
“I know.” I shimmy into my panties, almost immediately regretting the decision because the gusset is still slightly damp from before.
While he whisked me away from the party and we sped through the streetlamp lit streets of Olwine to his apartment, the man couldn’t keep his hands off me.
The roar of his GTO’s engine, the vibration of the seats, and his hand down the front of my panties as I leaned into him, tasting his skin and breathing in his intoxicating cologne—I’d never been so turned on in my life.
The anticipation heightened everything tenfold, and by the time we got to his apartment door we were both half-naked and in the midst of stumbling backward into his bed.
“You can stay,” he says, “if you want, I mean.”
“I know.” I give him a knowing smile.
“Got big plans for tomorrow?” he asks, his tone casual enough to make me think he doesn’t care all that much when I know he does.
“Nope.” I trek to the kitchen table, locating my bag right where I dropped it when we barged in here like wild animals in heat.
“O … okay.” He sits up, tosses the covers off his legs, and climbs out of bed to slip on a pair of navy boxers. “Is everything okay?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” I slip my purse over my shoulder after locating my keys.
“It’s just … last time you stayed and we ...” He stops talking and studies me instead.
If I knew him a little better, I might give him the full rundown on everything, but honestly, I doubt he’d care. I’m just some girl he likes to screw and he’s just disappointed that we won't be beating our high score tonight.
“All right.” He walks me to the door. “You want to do this again sometime?”
“Do what?” I ask, playing coy. “Have sex?”
“Obviously. That’s kind of what we do ...”
“Have you given any more thought to what I said earlier? About the exclusivity thing?”
His hands rest at his hips and his chest rises and falls, slow and deep. “I thought we were on the same page with the whole not-dating thing.”
“We are,” I say. “I don’t want to date you. I’m not here, with you, doing this, because I expect anything magical to come of this. But I refuse to be told that I’m not free to sleep with someone else, that I’m confined to the moral and ethical restraints of a relationship … without actually being in one. You see how that’s not fair, yes?”
His lips move to one side. “Yeah, but ...”
“So that’s where I stand.” I smooth the wrinkles from the front of my dress.
That was another thing—he tried to tell me what to wear tonight, so I showed up in a dress to spite him; a pale pink number with a fitted bodice that accented my breasts while nipping my waist and showing off just enough leg to draw the eye.
If he’s smart, he’ll never tell me what to wear again.
“So it’s the label you’re wanting?” he asks, scratching the side of his nose. “Because I don’t understand the difference between what you’re asking for and two adults agreeing to be monogamous fuck buddies.”
“There is a difference.” All screwing around aside, I need to come clean with him. “My mother found out I lied to her the night I stayed with you.” I lift a hand because he looks like he’s going to cut me off and I want to finish. “And I know what you’re thinking … I'm twenty-two. I’m a grown woman. It shouldn’t matter what my parents think or say. But my family is a bit more complicated and this is how it is for reasons I’ve never really gotten into with you. Anyway, my point is … if we’re going to keep doing this, if I’m going to keep spending time here. With you. My parents are going to want to meet you. I'm going to have to tell them we’re dating.”
“So you want me to be your fake boyfriend, in front of your parents, so I can keep fucking you.”
“I know how it seems—”
“—okay,” he interrupts me.
I’m speechless for a second. “Really? That’s it? Okay? You’re in?”
“Yes,” he says. “But I have a couple of conditions. First … don’t ask me to change. Don’t ask me to put on a polo shirt or fucking boat shoes. Don’t ask me to pretend to be anything that I’m not.”
I draw in a breath. He’s not exactly parent-charming material and far from the kind of boyfriend my parents likely had in mind for me, but this might be good for them.
“And the second?” I ask.
“Don’t fall in love with me.” He keeps a straight face, though I’m positive he’s joking.
I laugh.
He doesn’t.
“I’m being serious,” he says. “All this spending time together, all this pretending … it could get confusing. Lines might get blurred. If at any time you start feeling a certain kind of way, we need to stop and get off the ride.”
“Fine,” I say.
“I need you to promise me.”
I lift my pinky. “I’ll do you one better. I’ll pinky swear you.”
“I’m not kidding, Brighton. I need you to promise that if you start feeling something toward me, we’ll end this. Immediately. No questions asked.”
“I promise,” I say. “And for the record, I’ve kept every promise I’ve ever made.”
He exhales, almost as though he finds relief knowing there’ll be no love, nothing real between us.
And honesty, I find that a little sad.
While I’ve never been in love in the romantic sense, I imagine it could be quite nice if the circumstances were right for it. If he denies himself this sort of thing, he’s only punishing himself.
“What do we tell Devanie?” I ask. “If she finds out we’re spending time together, she’s going to ask questions.”
“We’ll just tell her we’re dating. We’ll tell everyone we’re dating, just to make it easy. Only we’ll know the truth.”
“Okay, so then it’s official now?” I ask. “You’re my … boyfriend?”
I plaster the cheesiest grin on my face, hunching my shoulders as I wait for his response.
“ … yeah …” he says, watching me.
Throwing my arms over his shoulders, I squeeze him tight and bounce on my toes, pretending to be over-the-top excited. When I peel myself off of him, his expression is frozen.
“I'm messing with you,” I say, returning to my usual calm and collected state.
His chest deflates.
“You should’ve seen your face though.” I reach for the door knob, give him a wink, and with that, I’m gone.
I drive home with the windows down and the music loud. Maybe this little arrangement is ridiculous and over the top, but so is my life. And if this is what it takes to break free, then this is what I'm going to do.
I’ll embrace the good and the bad, the highs and the lows, and the pleasure and the pain with open arms.
I want to experience all of it, full throttle.
No looking back, no regrets, no matter what.
24
Madden
The dining room at the Karrington Estate is so massive, every clink of silverware on china, every cleared throat echoes off the walls. The ceiling drips with crystal chandeliers—five in all—and the chairs are comically oversized and better suited for royalty.
I was only ever joking when I called Brighton a princess.
But apparently the Karringtons live like actual nobles.
“So, Madden, our daughter tells us you own your own business,” her father, Charles, says between bites of beef Wellington. “What is it that you do exactly?”
“I own Madd Inkk,” I say. “It’s a tattoo and piercing parlor.”
Her parents exchange looks. Brighton reaches beneath the table, resting her hand on my knee for a half second. But I don’t need the reassurance. I couldn’t care less what the Karringtons of Park Terrace think of me.
After all, I get the satisfaction of fucking their daughter and at the end of the day, that’s all this is about.
“Must see a lot of interesting people,” her father says, jaw jutted forward. His hair is equal parts brown and gray and he’s the quintessential embodiment of an old-moneyed, upper crust white male.
“Every day.” I reach for my water glass, which appears to be some kind of etched crystal and heavy as hell. Props to them for making the ordinary task of drinking water a luxurious experience.
“So how did the two of you meet?” Her mother wears a smile as fake as the tits protruding from her bony chest. I keep catching her scanning my arms and neck and any bit of exposed flesh, like she’s searching for any trace of tattoos, but she hasn’t asked about them yet. “I don’t believe Brighton has told us that story.”