Текст книги "ARROGANT PLAYBOY"
Автор книги: Winter Renshaw
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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 43 страниц)
CHAPTER 2
WAVERLY
“Kath said he was beat up pretty badly.” My older sister, Bellamy, whisks scrambled eggs over the stove as I’m stirring two pitchers of orange juice. “Don’t stare, or anything.”
“What happened?” I ask, replacing the lid on the pitchers and carrying them to the table. Going to school every morning smelling like a restaurant is one of the worst things about my life right now, but I could have childcare duty. I’d much rather smell like bacon and eggs than spend all morning wiping snotty noses and getting the kids dressed.
“We don’t know, and it’s none of our concern,” Mom interjects. Her voice is hushed, which is her way of telling us to stop talking about it. Summer—my dad’s second wife—and her three kids shuffle in from the family room and take their places at the table. One more year and our half-sister, Justice, will be old enough to help out with meal prep. For now she gets the easy chores like emptying trash cans and dusting blinds.
Those were the days.
“You’re going to burn those,” I tell Bellamy. “You know how Dad gets about his eggs not being fluffy.”
Bellamy sighs and clicks off the burner. Ever since she took a job working at some financial corporation in Salt Lake City, she’s been zoned out on autopilot. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s met someone, but she won’t tell anyone anything. She’s secretive like that. She scrapes the eggs into a ceramic serving bowl. There must be a dozen scrambled eggs in there, all mixed in with her secret spice, which we all know is really just dill.
We set the table and bring the food over. Dad sits at the head of the table, reading the paper and squinting hard. Mom tries to tell him to get his eyes checked out, but he refuses. Everything has to be his idea or it’s not worth entertaining.
Four empty chairs take up the space across from Bellamy and me. We had to make room for the fourth one. It’s a tight squeeze, but we made it work. It just means the twins will have to sit closer together, which should be fine because they’re pretty much inseparable.
“Sorry we’re late.” We all glance up to the doorway where Kath ushers in her kids like a mother goose and her goslings, only one of the goslings is dark and huge and stands out like a sore thumb against the bland Americana we have going on in the Miller household. “Everyone, this is Jensen.”
Summer’s kids, Justice, Honor, and True, stare at him with blank faces. Mark folds his paper, Summer offers a distracted “good morning,” and Mom welcomes him into the main house.
He doesn’t say anything, only nods. His eyes are mildly swollen with dark purple rings underneath them. There’s a gash on his cheek that’s begun to scab over. Even with his face all mangled, it’s plain to see he’s attractive. I forget to breathe for a second and snap myself out of it with a giant gulp of orange juice.
He takes a seat across from me, his eyes traveling across the table and rising until they lock with mine. My heart beats so hard I can’t think straight for a second. I don’t understand what just happened or why my palms are suddenly sweaty.
I rub them against my jeans and reach for my orange juice cup a second time. It’s empty. I look like an idiot.
Jensen reaches for a pitcher of juice and pours some into my cup without saying a word. His lips are full and arched, the corners seemingly drawn into a permanent smirk.
“Thank you.” I brush the sandy-blonde hair from my face and take a sip.
He says nothing, releasing me from his gaze as Kath begins to go around the table and introduce everyone. I’m dying to know what’s going through his head right now. This would be a lot for anyone to take in, but I’m hopeful I’ll get a chance to explain to him that we’re a family just like any other, only we have a few more layers. I’m sure, as time goes on, he’ll fit right in.
Though judging by the way he wears his ripped up jeans and those faded t-shirts that cling to his body, I don’t think he’s someone who cares too much about fitting in. Everything about him says he’s comfortable being in a league of his own.
“Jensen, good to have you with us.” Dad lifts his juice glass as if he’s making a toast. “You’re a part of the family now. I plan to sit down with you after dinner tonight so we can lay down some of the house rules.”
I’m rolling my eyes on the inside. Jensen’s going to hate Dad’s house rules. Eight o’clock curfews. No loud music after dinner. Mandatory, bi-weekly family meetings and Family Home Nights. He’s going to swear him to secrecy about our lifestyle, too. We’ve managed to blend in in this little Utah town, but if we were ever publicly outed, it would destroy my dad’s pharmacy business—our only means of survival—in two seconds flat.
Jensen still hasn’t said a single word.
“We won’t send you to school until the bruising on your face goes away,” Dad says. “I know it’s hard enough being the new kid.”
He shrugs. He doesn’t care.
“As soon as you’re ready, Waverly here will take you under her wing.” Dad sips his juice and smiles at me. I was the first baby of the family until he married Summer. I was six years old. I hardly remember what life was like when it was just us four. “You two are both seniors. How about that? Got any big plans for this fall? Got your sights set on any particular colleges?”
I glance at Kath, who’s cutting up pancakes for the twins. Something about her is a bit more radiant today. Her shoulders are more relaxed. She’s less twitchy.
“Jensen, care to tell us a little about yourself?” Dad stares down his nose at Jensen, saying his words in a huff. I can tell he’s growing tired of Jensen’s quietude. It’s a sign of disrespect, and my father does not tolerate that kind of behavior in his house. My fingers cross under the table. I hope he’ll give Jensen a break, especially since he’s been through a lot.
Jensen shrugs, pushing the food around on his plate. “Not much to say.”
Kath flashes a look toward Dad, as if to ask him to leave him alone this once.
Dad inhales his final bite of breakfast and stands up, jingling his keys in his pocket like he always does to signal his departure. He makes his way around the table, kissing the little kids on the tops of their heads and kissing the cheeks of his three wives. When he gets to Bellamy and me, he kisses our foreheads. He’s always had a way of making each of us feel special, which means a lot when there are so many of us.
Bellamy eyes the clock. She has to leave for work soon. I have to go to school. The good thing about weekday breakfasts is we get out of cleaning up. Usually two wives will clean up while the third runs the little kids to school after Bellamy and I leave.
I wonder what Jensen’s chores will be. True was the first boy to come along and he’s only eight. The hardest part of his day is remembering to put his dirty clothes in his hamper each night.
“I’m leaving,” I announce.
“Enjoy your day, Waverly,” Mom says. “We’ll see you tonight. Don’t forget, you’re giving Honor her piano lesson before dinner.”
I’m shuffling about, grabbing my car keys and backpack and making sure my homework is in there. I swear I feel his eyes on me, though it could easily be my imagination. The room feels weightier with him in it, or maybe there’s an electrical charge. Something’s off today.
My stomach grumbles. In the midst of everything, I’d hardly touched my breakfast. Anything I did eat, I certainly didn’t taste.
I remind myself Jensen is my stepbrother, and that any curious thoughts I might have are an inappropriate waste of time and energy, and I sling my bag across my chest. My hair gets caught beneath the strap and I yank it out. By the time I look up, Jensen has risen from the table and is carrying his plate in my direction.
My heart jolts and my breath quickens. He’s charging at me, the corners of his lips curled up and his golden eyes holding mine. Jensen nods toward the sink behind me and lifts his plate.
“Oh,” I say, “you can just leave that at the table. Whoever’s on clean up duty today will take care of it.”
“I can’t take my dish to the sink?” His dark brows arch. His shower-fresh scent invades the close space between us. “My legs aren’t broken.”
“Yeah, but,” I start to say, “in this house, the men don’t work in the kitchen.”
I realize how dated I sound to someone from the outside, and maybe it seems ridiculous, but it’s always how it’s been in our house. It just works. Besides, it’s very important that we all walk a straight line here. Every day is a struggle to balance the equilibrium.
He ignores my warning and reaches behind me, his arm grazing mine as he sets his plate in the sink.
Just like that he defies me, our house, and our family rules. Like it’s nothing. Like he’s above us. All I want is to leave for college in the fall, and that won’t happen if I step out of line or upset the peace. Jensen’s going to make things difficult for me. I can feel it already. I’ve known him thirty minutes and he’s already testing my patience.
“Next time, please leave your dish at the table. Someone will take care of it for you.” I lift my head high. I’m not sure who he thinks he is. “We thank you for your cooperation.”
He snickers. “What is this, some kind of restaurant? Do you even hear yourself?”
“Rules are rules.” It’s the best comeback I can muster given the fact that the way he looks at me turns my brains into mush. “We have a system. It works.”
“Are we really making this a thing right now?”
“It’s only a thing because you’re making it a thing.”
Jensen reaches around me again, taking his plate and walking it over to the table, returning it to his place setting. When he returns, he bows down, rolling his wrist as if I’m royalty.
“That was rude,” I mutter under my breath, my eyes darting into the dining room to make sure my father didn’t hear me. I’m supposed to be sweet and kind, void of opinions and allergic to conflict. I’m not that way, so I have to pretend.
He leans forward, bringing his lips to my ear. “I can already tell I’m going to have a lot of fun with you.”
I release the breath I didn’t know I was holding. My cheeks burn red, caused a confusing blend of unfamiliar sensations. I push past him, my hands tightening around the straps of my bag, and rush out the door.
I have no idea what just happened in there. All I know is I met Jensen Mackey today, and my world tilted on its axis.
CHAPTER 3
JENSEN
“Waverly, would you mind passing me some of those gender rolls, please?” There’s a smirk on my face as I reach across the table at dinner Monday night. I’ve just been given an all-access, VIP backstage pass to the greatest fucking circus on earth. All these wives and kids and systems and checklists, and nobody wears a goddamned smile or shows a hint of rebellion. They go about their daily routines like micromanaged employees.
Waverly places a white bowl of warm, buttered rolls into my hand and pinches her face. I take a one and bite into it, chewing slowly like a kid in a crescent roll commercial.
“Mm, mm. These gender rolls are delicious.”
She kicks me under the table, hard, but I don’t flinch. I’m not sure how I ended up sitting across from her at the table again, but here I am. Mark is at the head of the table yammering on about some boring pharmaceutical legislation. Waverly flashes me a look as if to warn me not to mock him, but I won’t be ordered around by some angel-faced goody-two-shoes who lives and breathes to make Daddy happy.
“Gender rolls are the best kind of rolls,” I continue. “You should make these for me again sometime, you know, since I’m not allowed in the kitchen.”
“Stop,” she whispers, throwing me a sharp look. Her eyes are the lightest shade of baby blue, clear almost. They’re hardly threatening. Everything about her is prim and proper and mind-numbingly perfect. We are night and day, she and I, and I get the feeling we’re going to butt heads a lot.
But it could be fun.
“So, Jensen,” Mark calls from the head of the table. Summer and Kath rise from the table and start cleaning up as the little kids scatter. “Why don’t you head down here so we can have a little chat?”
I peel myself up from the chair, making a point to slide my dishes into Waverly’s place setting, and take the seat beside Mark. I sit up straight and look him in the eye, the way I used to when my father would give me one of his lectures. As long as I appeared to be listening I’d get off without being called a “worthless piece of shit.”
“You any good with fixing things?” Mark asks.
“What kinds of things, sir?” I throw a ‘sir’ in there for good measure. It always worked on my father.
“Cars, trucks, motorcycles,” Mark says. “Grease monkey type things.”
I repaired an old Toyota Celica back home. My father wouldn’t buy me a car when I turned sixteen, so I found one in the paper for $500 that didn’t run. A few minor parts and it got me where I needed to go.
“I am.”
“One of my friends is looking for a gofer for his shop. You probably want some walking-around money,” Mark says. He’s pretending to be cool, pretending to bring himself to my level as he tries to figure me out. I’m one step ahead of him though, and his attempt is laughable at best.
“Gofer?”
“Yeah, you’d go-for stuff. Parts. Errands. Maybe work yourself up to minor repairs.” Mark clears his throat and squares his shoulders with mine. It’s a manipulative technique he’s using—mirroring his body language with mine in an attempt to make me more comfortable around him. My father used it on people at church all the time and they’d walk away thinking Josiah Mackey was their best friend in the whole wide world. I swear to God, if Mark Miller is as cunning and manipulative as my father, I’ll…
“You done with this, Dad?” It’s Waverly. She reaches for Mark’s plate, happy to serve him, like he’s the fucking King of England.
“Sure am, sweetie,” he says with a warm, Leave It to Beaver smile that makes me my stomach churn. This can’t be real life.
“She sure is a great help in the kitchen,” I say, catching myself before make some snide remark about the convenience of breeding built-in help. I get it. Teaching kids to have chores and responsibilities is part of parenting. Using them to wait on you hand and foot because they weren’t born with the almighty cock and balls is disgusting. That’s some Josiah Mackey-level thinking right there.
“She’s going to make a fine wife someday,” Mark says in a way that creeps me the fuck out. Is that what he was raising his daughter to be—a good wife for some polygamous asshole? “Anyway, as I was saying. The job at the shop. You interested?”
Whatever gets me out of this warped little universe for a while is cool with me. “Yeah, I’ll take it.”
Mark proceeds to gloss over the house rules. I hear him use words like “curfew” and “quiet time” and “expectations.” I get it. He’s a control freak and he wants me to know he’s the man of the house. I listen just enough to get the gist, but every time Mark looks away, I find myself glancing in the kitchen toward Waverly. She’s towel-drying dishes and smiling as she chats with her sister. Our eyes meet, but she looks away instantly.
She probably doesn’t know what the fuck to make of me, and that’s exactly the way I prefer it.
“Oh, and I discussed this with Kath earlier today,” Mark says. “Since her house is the smallest of the three, and I doubt you want to share a room with a six-year-old, we’re going to move you into the main house. There’s an extra room next to Waverly’s. I think it’ll be a better fit for you. Give you a little privacy.”
I’m grateful for the privacy, but I know what’s going on here. He wants his little princess to keep an eye on me when he’s not around. That little snitch would rat me out in a heartbeat, too. Not that I plan on faltering from my straight line while I’m here, but I’ve already lived life under Josiah Mackey’s microscope. I was hoping for a break from the constant scrutiny, but I guess it was too much to expect the universe to throw me a fucking bone once in a while.
“Thank you, sir,” I say through gritted teeth and a phony smile. “I certainly appreciate it.”
“Waverly, show your brother to his room,” Mark commands, his voice acting like the snap of two fingers. She dries her hands on a dishrag and motions for me to follow her to the stairs. I wonder if she’s always this docile or if her obedience is only for him.
We climb the creaky stairs to the second level and turn down a long hallway. There are tons of doors. This house is huge. Must be why they keep calling it the “main” house.
She doesn’t speak until she stops short at the last door on the right. With her hand on the knob, she says, “Room’s a little stale. It’s a guest room, but we never use it.”
A cloud of musty air greets us as we walk in and she reaches over to flip on the light and ceiling fan. A double bed sits against the wall along with an oak nightstand and dresser with brass handles circa 1982.
I plop down on the bed and run my hands along the country blue quilt, which I definitely won’t be using. “This’ll do.”
“I’m right next door, if you need anything.” She points to the wall to her right.
“What would I need from you?” I’m fucking with her. I’m bored, and she seems easily excitable. “A bedtime story? A glass of warm milk?”
Her jaw slackens and she takes a step back. I wait for her to come at me with something, to put me in my place, but she doesn’t.
“Dad says you’re going to school with me tomorrow,” she says instead. “We leave at seven thirty. Don’t be late. Bathroom schedule is outside the door.”
Of course there would be a bathroom schedule. All these bedrooms and people and you’d think someone would’ve added a few extra bathrooms.
“You’re sharing the green bathroom with Bellamy and me,” she says. “Two doors down. I shower at six. She showers at six fifteen. You shower at six forty-five.”
“Six forty-five. Got it.”
“Bellamy put a hamper in the bathroom for you,” she says. “You get your own.”
“Our clothes can’t touch?” I laugh. She doesn’t. “Okay.”
“Dad’s rules. You can take it up with him.” She sighs, like she doesn’t have time for my shenanigans a moment longer. I’m guessing she’s itching to get back to Bible study, or whatever she does at night.
Waverly nibbles on her bottom lip. Her innocence is sexy in the most inappropriate of ways. I’d find her utterly fuckable, if she didn’t have such a big stick shoved up her ass. She reminds me of the girls at church who’d stare at me like I was the world’s most eligible bachelor because I was the preacher’s son. In that world, my father was a king and I his princely heir. They looked at me like I was changeable, someone they could mold and shape into their perfect future husband. The joke was always on them. Many have tried, many have failed. No one has ever been able to change Jensen Mackey.
She drinks me in, a soft sigh leaving her lips.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I’ve never been one to beat around the bush, and I sure as hell won’t start now.
“Like what?” Her nose wrinkles like a bunny. Like a sexy, church-going bunny.
I smirk. “You can leave now, Waverly. Report to your daddy that all is good here.”
“What are you talking about?”
I lean back on the bed, folding my hands behind my head and staring up at the ceiling fan and the dust speckles that swirl in the dim light. “See you in the morning.”
“Breakfast is at seven,” she reminds me as she slinks out the door. “Please try to be on time.”
I cross my feet at the ankles. “Don’t usually eat breakfast. This morning was an exception.”
“It’s not an option here. We eat as a family.”
“Then save me a seat across from you.” Two can play this game. If she wants to keep tabs on me, then I’ll smother her so hard she won’t know what to do. It’s not like I have anything better going on.
She closes the door and I’m left alone in a boring room with bare, white walls and a single window with a view of the backyard. I pop up to inspect my surroundings. A white privacy fence connects the main house with another house. My mother’s colonial is two doors down. From the street, they look like three neighboring homes. From the backyard, they’re all connected. I’d say the fence is at least eight feet high. There’s a covered, in-ground pool behind Summer’s house as well as a whole host of children’s toys. The backyard reminds me of a daycare center, only with better landscaping.
A light rap on my door pulls my attention that way. I don’t get a chance to tell my visitor to come in before the door swings open. It’s Kath.
“Oh, good,” she says. “Found you. Just wanted to tell you goodnight before I head home.” She glances around, tilting her head. “We can spruce up the room, if you’d like. I know you’re only here a few months, but there’s no reason you can’t personalize your space a little. Just, you know, keep things appropriate.”
“No naked women. Got it.”
Her cheeks blush. “What kinds of things do you like?”
It’s odd to be standing across from my flesh-and-blood mother and realize we’re complete strangers.
“Do you like music?” she asks.
Do I like oxygen? “I doubt Mark would allow my kind of music in his home.”
“What do you like, Jense?”
Oh, now we’re on a nickname basis? I vaguely remember her calling me “Jense” as a kid, though I could never tell if those memories were real.
“I like to sketch. Give me some pencils and some sketchpads. I’ll do the rest.”
Her face lights up at the revelation that my hobby is something she can be proud of. Kath’s hand covers her heart. “You used to draw me pictures. I knew even as a small boy that you had talent.”
“Pretty sure you’re supposed to say that.”
She walks toward me and cups my cheek. “Swelling’s going down. You okay with going to school tomorrow? If you’re not ready, I can talk to Mark about waiting a bit longer.”
“I’m ready.”
Anything’s better than sitting in this boring-ass compound all day. No cable. No internet. No music. No transportation. I literally loafed on Kath’s sofa and stared at a wall for four hours today between naps. It’s not healthy for a man to be alone with his thoughts for too long. I may have rubbed one out too, thinking about this girl I used to fuck in Charter Springs. She was a raging bitch with perfect cantaloupe tits, and I was horny and bored.
“You can hardly see the bruising,” she says, squinting. “We can cover it up with a little makeup, if you’d like.”
“No. No makeup.” Juliette tried to do that shit to me once after my father beat me for coming home three minutes past curfew on a Friday night. He claimed he smelled alcohol on my breath. He was right. I’d just rinsed my mouth out with Scope before coming in to hide the menthol cigarette I’d smoked to calm my nerves.
“What do you think of Mark so far?” Kath asks. I straddle the line between giving her the truth and telling her what she wants to hear, but I’m not quite sure she’s the kind of person who ever wants to hear the truth.
I shrug. “Don’t know him yet.”
Her eyes shine. “He’s a good man, Jense. Give him a chance. He loves us, and he means well. Everything he does is for the greater good of our family.”
She calls it “our” family like I’m a part of it. As far as I’m concerned, I’m just biding my time until August comes, and then I’m gone. Goodbye, Kath. Goodbye, Mark. Goodbye, wives one and two. Goodbye, Children of the Corn. Goodbye, suburban compound.
And goodbye, Waverly, with your weird stares and those fuck-me-all-night-long lips.
God, she has the most fuckable mouth I’ve ever seen. I wait until Kath leaves before hitting the lights and shutting the door behind her. I fall back on the bed and unzip my jeans, my cock instantly swelling in my hands at the thought of Waverly’s full lips wrapping around it. I grab at the country blue quilt, imagining I’m grabbing fistfuls of her long, sandy hair as her tongue runs the length of my shaft. Shit, I bet she’s never seen a grown man in his fully-erected form before. I concentrate on my Waverly fantasy, my eyes scrunched and my cock hardening so fast it aches.
I’m all kinds of fucked up. I know that. Wrongs and rights have never made sense in my world, and I’m a product of that.
None of it matters, though, because I don’t give a flying fuck about any-damn-thing.
Never have.
Never will.
