Текст книги "ARROGANT PLAYBOY"
Автор книги: Winter Renshaw
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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 43 страниц)
CHAPTER 16
WAVERLY
I’ve never snuck out in my life, but here I am, ten o’clock on a school night, walking toward a twenty-one-and-over bar in downtown Whispering Hills. Music travels down the street with a steady thumping that beats in time with our footsteps.
The beating in my chest coincides with the music, giving me an adrenaline rush. My body’s been tingling with raw dynamism since the moment we snuck out of the house and dropped my acceptance response in a nearby mailbox before cruising across town.
“Welcome to the dark side.” My cousin, Liberty, opens up the alley entrance in the back of the place a moment later. She’s always been my rebellious older cousin—the one my father would keep at an arm’s length because he said she would be a bad influence on us. “Jensen, how goes it?”
She slaps his shoulder and gives it a squeeze before leading us down a long, dark hallway. The music grows louder as we pass door after door. My shoes stick to the floor when I walk, making a Velcro noise with each step. It smells like alcohol and cigarettes.
“Come on.” Jensen slows down, slipping his hand across my lower back. He leans into my ear so I can hear him above the noise. “Tonight’s all about you.”
His words warm my soul more than he’ll ever know. I rarely feel special, especially growing up in such a large family.
Liberty takes us to a VIP area with a bunch of low-to-the-ground seating and a blue velvet rope separating us from the rest of the bar scene. A fancy looking bottle of clear alcohol sits on a bucket of ice surrounded by several bottles of beer.
“Kian’s headlining tonight,” she yells. “So we get the VIP treatment.”
Everywhere I look, people are dancing, laughing, drinking, touching, feeling, kissing, partying. I’m surrounded by everything I’ve been led to believe is evil. But it can’t be evil. Everyone’s having so much fun.
“I’ll be right back.” Jensen taps my leg and exits the VIP area, coming back a few minutes later with a cup for me.
“What is this?”
“Sprite.”
I laugh.
“What’s so funny?” He hands me my cup.
“If you’re going to be bad, Jensen Mackey, at least invite me.”
I feel it—that rebellion in my marrow that creeps up from time to time. I’m feeling good, my freedom just two months away. Jensen says no one can take it from me, and I’m finally beginning to believe he’s onto something.
And that calls for a celebration.
“You feeling all right?” Jensen grabs a beer from the ice bucket and twists the cap off. He promised to take me under his wing tonight, swearing on his life we won’t get caught.
I swipe the bottle from his hands and take a swig. It’s disgusting. It tastes like watered wheat. My face puckers instantly as I was not expecting the bitterness. Jensen studies me, watching as I take a second drink and a third. It tastes better with each swig, the distinct bite subsiding.
“Okay, then.” Jensen grabs himself another beer, uncaps it, and then clinks it with mine. “To Waverly and her bright future, whatever it may entail.”
“To the University of Utah.” I take another drink.
Liberty stands up, whistling through her fingers as a new band takes the stage. It must be her boyfriend. He takes a seat on a bar stool, his guitar slung around his chest. She is glued to him, a smile claiming her red lips. A tattoo vining up her forearm reads “wild thing” in ornate, cursive letters. I admire her ability to not care what anyone else thinks, to be her true self and to live a life that’s all her own.
He strums and then tunes his guitar and the crowd cheers. The rest of his band takes the stage. He’s wearing aviator sunglasses and a tank top, his arms covered in tattoos much like Liberty’s. His hair is long and mangy, and yet he’s somehow still a striking man. Anyone with half a brain can see he and Liberty are cut from the same cloth.
I finish my beer just as they finish their first song, so I help myself to another. A few songs later, I’m working on my third beer. My face is numb, my body relaxed. I’m sitting here, but I may as well have melted into a puddle of tranquility.
“Hey, slow down,” Jensen says, counting the empty beer bottles that line the table before us. “I’m not here to babysit you tonight.”
I wave my hand in his face, though my depth perception is way off. I end up sliding my fingers across his mouth. His lips are warm against the pads of my fingers, and my belly zings as I think about how they might taste.
But he doesn’t want me. He made that abundantly clear. And things have been good between us ever since we decided to be friends.
“You’re not as fun as I thought you’d be in this setting.” I’m slurring my words, though they’re clear as a bell in my head. “You just sit there like a… like a bump on a log.”
I giggle like I’ve just said the funniest thing in the whole entire world. Buzzing Waverly is much more carefree than her sober counterpart.
“Waverly.” He cocks his head at me, grabbing my wrist with his hand.
“Oh, no,” I laugh. “You better let go of me. I’m not in control.”
He cracks a sarcastic half-smile and releases my wrist. “Just cool it, okay? We’re underage. Last thing we want is to attract any attention. Liberty’s doing us a solid here.”
“I have to use the ladies’ room.” I stand up way too fast, toppling over into his lap, my behind in the air.
My father would be so proud right now.
“Let me walk you.” He helps me up and rises beside me.
I shake my head, my hair falling into my face and sticking to my forehead. The bar feels like a sauna now or maybe it’s just me. “No. I’ll be right back.”
I push through a sea of mostly college-aged people and find the line for the bathroom. The one bathroom door has a man symbol next to a woman symbol, and there are both guys and girls waiting in line.
I sigh, counting ahead to figure out where I fall in line. I’m sixth. It might be a while. Glancing around the room, I watch a rail-thin woman make out with a big, bearded guy. I listen to the girl in front of me yell into her phone, telling her babysitter she’ll be late tonight. The guy behind me has bloodshot eyes and a droopy face. I think he’s on something. I’m in a strange, new land, and I’m still learning the culture, but I kind of like it.
Autonomy is the greatest feeling on earth. Mix that together with a little rebellion and a taste of inhibition, and I’m scaling heights I never knew existed.
I bob my head to the music. It’s deep but catchy, like the voice of a sad man singing happy songs. Liberty’s boyfriend is ridiculously talented.
“Excuse me, miss.” I spin around, finding myself faced with a broad-shouldered man donning a black t-shirt with SECURITY written across it. “I’m going to need to see your ID.”
CHAPTER 17
JENSEN
“You’re lucky your friends are covering for your punk asses,” the owner of the bar scolds us outside in the alley. His finger is pointed at my chest, inches away from poking me. He’s lucky he doesn’t. “You’re eighteen-goddamned-years old. You should be at home, in bed. You’re lucky I don’t call your parents.”
We stand there and take it, waiting for him to calm down so we can leave. I’ve only had one beer, and it’s been well over an hour, so I should be okay to drive us home.
“Get out of here.” The owner waves us away. “And take care of her. She’s drunk off her ass.”
He would be correct. Waverly is sloppy drunk from the three beers she chugged on an empty stomach. That, and it’s her first time drinking. She has zero tolerance. I should’ve kept a closer eye on her.
I slip her arm around my shoulder and wrap my arm around her back, leading her to my truck.
“Sorry I ruined our night,” she sighs.
“You didn’t ruin anything. You just happen to look young and they happened to notice you.”
“I had fun celebrating,” she says when we reach the truck. I fish for my keys as she leans against it, staring at me like she’s lost in thought. “Thanks for celebrating with me. It means a lot.”
I slip my key into the passenger door and yank it open for her like her own personal coachman. “Hop on in. Let’s get you home.”
She doesn’t move. “I mean it, Jensen. Sometimes I think you’re the only person who actually gives a darn about me.”
I smile. Even when she’s drunk, she can’t bring herself to swear. Her hand lifts to my face, her fingertips tracing my jaw as her eyes narrow and attempt to focus on my mouth.
“That’s not true.”
“The way you look at me.” She exhales her words. “It’s different. No one else looks at me the way you do.”
I shrug. Sure, I think the world of her. She’s pretty much the only person I’ve ever known that I don’t completely dislike. But we don’t talk about how we feel about each other anymore, not since that first week when we both made it clear we shared a mutual attraction. Shit got weird, and it’s been smooth sailing ever since we got past that.
“You’re imagining things. Get in.”
“Am I?” She still won’t move. “Am I imagin-in-ing-ing it, Jensen?”
She’s had too much to drink. Her filter is loose, if not missing altogether. She’s speaking whatever’s on her mind, and she’s going to regret it tomorrow. I opt not to engage in this drunken conversation in lieu of getting her home safely.
The second we pull up to the main house, I make sure the lights are out and Mark Miller’s not lurking in the shadows somewhere. She’s passed out beside me, her head pressed against the condensation-covered glass of the passenger window. The coast is clear, so I climb out, grab Waverly, hoist her over my shoulder like a rag doll. Inside, I quietly carry her upstairs, where I deposit her gently into her bed.
She stirs slightly, then makes a faint humming sound as she breathes. “Jensen?”
She’s awake.
“Yeah?” I whisper.
“Now will you kiss me?”
She’s drunk. She’s just saying that. She doesn’t mean it.
Fuck, do I want to kiss her.
But that ship has sailed.
Not that I haven’t thought about it every single day since I’ve lived here.
Besides, she won’t remember it in the morning, and I won’t forget, and that’ll be a problem for me.
***
“We’re having company over for dinner tonight.” I overhear Jane talking to Bellamy and Waverly in the kitchen as they prepare breakfast the next morning. Fridays usually mean cinnamon French toast and scrambled eggs. This place is a tightly run ship with intricate routines and a careful balance of customs and schedules.
Company?
I’m surprised they’re having someone over given the fact that they live their lives in secrecy. Must be another poly person.
Summer labors over a hot skillet, minding her own business. It’s like she’s not even there.
“Please wear your Sunday best,” Jane says. I glance over to see her pointing to both her daughters.
Why would they need to dress up for a Friday night dinner?
“Should I dress up too?” I interject facetiously from across the room where I’m finishing up some homework before breakfast. Three sets of eyes dart toward me.
“I can’t make it tonight,” Bellamy says casually. “Work thing.”
“You didn’t mention that before. And it’s not on the family calendar. You’ll have to reschedule it.” Jane says it in such a way that Bellamy doesn’t bother arguing. “Our guest is coming from out of town. Your attendance is mandatory, and Waverly, why on Earth do you look so tired this morning? You feeling okay?”
“Are you going to tell us who’s coming?” Waverly asks, blinking bloodshot eyes. She massages her temples as soon as her mother looks away.
“Your father will talk to you this evening.” Jane leaves it at that, walking off to set the table.
Tonight must be when they drop the bomb on Waverly about her college plans, but why would they do that with company coming over?
This family is so fucking weird.
CHAPTER 18
WAVERLY
“You know what’s going on, don’t you?” Bellamy’s somber words send a chill down my spine, settling the anxiety that’s been coursing through my body all day into a pool of liquid nerves.
We’re standing in front of the bathroom mirror. I’m curling my hair and she’s slicking on a couple coats of mascara. Conservative dresses cover our bodies. She leans forward, turning her head from side to side and then up and down as she inspects her lashes.
“No, I don’t. Care to enlighten me?” I run my fingers through my warm curls, breaking them into loose waves.
Bellamy, normally a vision of coolness, is shaking like a poodle.
“No, I’m asking,” she says. “You know what’s going on?”
“Of course not,” I huff.
“Something’s up.” She clicks her blush compact open and grabs a brush, taking her sweet time as if she’s trying to prolong the inevitable.
“Obviously.”
“Last-minute dinner guest. Us being told to look good.”
“Maybe it’s someone from the UAB? Dad’s always trying to get on their good side. They don’t like that he left the old community and moved us all out here.”
Mom always said he didn’t like being financially dependent on the UAB back in Scottsbluff, and when he found a pharmacy for sale here, he jumped at the opportunity. They didn’t like that, and he’s been trying to redeem himself ever since.
“Could be a friend from work?” I suggest. “Maybe he’s just being sociable? I heard there are secret poly families all over Whispering Hills.”
Bellamy clicks her compact shut and turns to me. “Stop being so naïve, Waverly. He’s trying to marry us off.”
I resent her tone. “You don’t know that.”
“It’s the only logical explanation.”
“Dad wouldn’t do that. I just got into Utah. I’m going to college in a couple months.” My heart breaks for my sister. If she is right, she’s way more likely to be married off than me.
She turns to her reflection, her shoulders tensing as she grips the ledge of the counter.
“I thought you wanted to get married soon?” I say. “You’re almost twenty-two. You’re done with school. Aren’t you just waiting for—”
“No.” Without any further explanation, she exits the bathroom.
As the oldest of the family, Bellamy carries a great burden. She’s to set an example, be a shining image of perfection in our father’s eyes. She’s supposed to set the precedence and we’re all supposed to follow it.
The hard knot in my stomach tells me life as we know it is about to change.
Several slow, intentional steps carry me downstairs to where my mothers are preparing a feast fit for Christ’s second coming. That, coupled with the fact that Bellamy and I were excused from kitchen duty so we could get dressed up, tells me my sister’s suspicions might be founded.
Dad leads the younger kids in from the family room, and Jensen struts down the steps a moment later. I take my usual seat, twirling the stem of the iced tea glass between my thumb and forefinger.
Stiff silence fills the air. No one dares to speak.
There’s an extra chair between where my mother and father usually sit. A cool sweat glazes over me. I try to tell myself that Bellamy got me all worked up. That this could be nothing. It all might be in our heads. I’m ninety-nine percent sure that if my father was going to marry one of us off, it’d be Bellamy. She’s ready. She’s smart and pretty and she can cook and sew. She’s great with kids.
I continue listing off all the reasons Bellamy would make a better wife than me, but then I remember her face in the bathroom. She doesn’t want to be married.
But neither do I.
I’m not ready.
The doorbell rings, sending my heart galloping like a runaway horse. Dad rises from the table and heads to the foyer. A second later I hear voices—both male. I watch, breath suspended, for them to emerge from around the corner.
And when they do, I know.
CHAPTER 19
JENSEN
Mark grins from ear to ear, his hand on the shoulder of a man with gray around his temples. The man smiles and gives a friendly wave before Mark points for him to take a seat at the head of the table next to him.
Bellamy stares at her plate. Waverly watches, still as a statue.
“Everyone, I’d like you to meet Mr. Waterman.” Mark seems proud of his buddy, and judging by their matching Polo sweaters, I’d say they’re two of a kind. Mark gives another quick wave, the glint of his gold wedding band catching my eye.
“Oh, you can all call me Bruce.” Mr. Waterman—Bruce—flashes a crooked smile, his two front teeth overlapping just enough to be noticeable from a safe distance. He lowers himself into his chair and proceeds to make small talk with Mark as food is passed around.
A moment later, Mark goes around the table, calling out the names of his litter of children and three wives, and tells us all Bruce is a new colleague of his at the pharmacy who just so happens to be one of the seventy quorum members of the priesthood.
Whatever the fuck that means.
Our end of the table is alarmingly silent, like someone hit the mute button and sucked all the sound from the room. Mark doesn’t notice, though. He’s too busy bragging about his perfect AUB family to his buddy, and by the end of dinner, he suggests we head into the family room for some socializing. He even tells his wives cleanup can wait.
“Waverly, why don’t you show Bruce here that lovely hymn you play on the piano.” Mark motions toward an old oak upright in the corner of the room. “You know the one. Father Is My Favorite Friend.”
“Aw, I was hoping for Take Me to Church,” I dig.
Mark’s eyes snap to me for a mere second and then dart to Waverly, who takes a seat on the bench and lifts the lid to the piano, spreading her fingers across the black and white keys. He slips his hands into his pockets and stands next to Bruce, a big smile on his face like he can hardly wait to watch Waverly’s performance vicariously through his buddy.
She’s like a monkey on a leash, performing because Mark told her to. This really is a fucking circus.
“Jensen?” Gideon comes out of nowhere and tugs on my hand. “Will you help me with my puzzle?”
A thousand-piece puzzle is scattered all over the coffee table with a few rogue pieces littering the ground beneath. It’s way above his skill level, but I’m not about to rain on his parade. Little dude’s life is already hard enough, even if he doesn’t know it yet. I’ll help him with his puzzle.
“Sure thing, buddy.” We take a seat on the sofa. He tries to force random pieces together and I search for the edges, simultaneously keeping an eye on what’s going on in the far corner of the room.
I snap three edge pieces together, glancing up as the sound of some boring ass hymnal I’ve never heard before fills the confines of the crowded family room. The wives are perched on edges of furniture, still as mannequins, and the younger children play quietly.
Bellamy is seated on a big armchair to my left, away from the rest of the group. It’s almost as if she’s trying to blend in. She sits politely, her legs crossed at her ankles and her hands folded in her lap, like she’s sitting in a church pew.
“Bellamy,” Mark turns around and calls at her. “Come. You can sing while Waverly plays. Waverly, can you two do Thy Servants Are Prepared for our guest here?”
She groans just enough that I hear it and peels herself up from the chair.
Mark flashes a huge smile at her. “Bruce, I don’t think you’ve been formally introduced yet to my eldest. Bruce, this is Bellamy, my firstborn daughter. She’s twenty-two.”
I don’t know what the fuck her age has to do with anything. Most people stop broadcasting their kids’ ages once they’re past, oh, I don’t know, elementary school.
Bruce’s smile widens. Mark doesn’t notice when his narrow eyes wash over her from head to toe. She squirms and focuses on the floor. I can imagine his gaze must feel disgustingly invasive to her. He’s easily twice her age, and he’s wears the same delusional confidence as Mark.
“All right, Waverly,” Mark says. “We’re ready.”
The sisters perform with stoic faces and tight postures. Waverly knows her way around a piano keyboard and Bellamy doesn’t miss a single note. Mark stands proud, observing Bruce as he watches the girls perform.
“Jensen, you’re not helping!” Gideon nudges my arm.
“Sorry, bud.” I work on my edge pieces until the song is over. No one applauds, which is appropriate. Church hymns aren’t meant to be entertainment, regardless of the fact that Mark seems to think they are tonight.
Waverly shuts the piano lid and stands up from the creaky wooden bench. She stands next to Bellamy as if they’re about to be auctioned off, their gazes submissive and low. It physically pains me to see her that way. I’ve gotten to know her a little more over the past several weeks, and I know she’s got some fight in her. She’s a tiger, caged and subdued, behaving exactly the way she was raised to behave.
“Waverly, you’re a beautiful pianist.” Bruce’s compliment is meant to sound sincere, but his mouth-watering delivery lends creepy undertones. He’s salivating, and I don’t understand how Mark doesn’t pick up on any of this. I’m pretty sure if I checked out his pants—which I’m not going to do—I’d see the early formation of a raging boner.
Bruce steps in closer to Waverly, and as of that moment, Bellamy may as well be chopped liver. He takes her hand in his. “Your father tells me you’re a virtuous, yet spirited girl.”
Waverly nods, like she’s afraid to speak. I get that this jackass is in the priesthood or whatever, and Mark acts like the guy is a damn prophet, but I seem to be the only one noticing the way her hands shake and her eyes dart around. Her full lips part as she swallows, her face void of color. She’s fucking terrified.
I’ve seen a lot of shit in my day, and I’ve done a lot of questionable shit, but this fucking takes the cake. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand here and watch Mark pimp out his daughters to what is clearly a fellow polygamist shopping for a new wife to add to his collection.
I don’t care what anyone says. Waverly and Bellamy are victims, and as far as I can tell, I have a couple different options. I can speak up now, make shit super awkward and risk getting kicked out of Mark’s house, and spend the next two months homeless.
Or…
I can take matters into my own hands, in my own special way.
Either way, I refuse to allow this. From here on out, no one gets to use religion as a weapon to control another human being.
Not while I’m around.
