“Sorry, was my music too loud?” Lane grabs her cellphone and turns the volume down, looking bashfully at me.

  “Why the fuck are you in here? Did I say you were allowed to come in here?” The words come out before I can even catch them. My fists clench by my side, and my face becomes enflamed when I see that she’s moved the painting of the rose off of the easel and onto the floor in the corner of the art room.

  “I—I didn’t know. I’m sorry—”

  “Get out!” My voice echoes in the room, and fear replaces the confusion on Lane’s face. Without thinking, I stalk toward her and shove her painting to the floor, watching it clatter on the hardwood. “Get the fuck out!”

  Lane stumbles backwards, eyes sparkling with tears, before she turns and runs. I want to chase after her, shake her, and demand why she thought she was entitled to come into this room. I’ve given her everything, and it wasn’t good enough? She had to pick this room to investigate, of all places?

  I kick the stool across the room, trying to keep from breaking anything. My entire body vibrates with anger, and for a moment, I feel dizzy, unable to think straight. When I see the painting of the rose on the ground, everything snaps back into focus. I have to fix that.

  Quickly, I scoop it up, searching for any dust or dirt that may have gotten on it. Thankfully Lane didn’t get any paint on the picture. Carefully, I return it to the easel, setting up the stool exactly the way it was before Lane came into the room.

  “Sir,” Davis says from behind me.

  “What, Davis?”

  “You know I have nothing but respect for you, but…”

  I spin around and glare at him, daring him to finish the thought. “But what? Say what’s on your fucking mind or get out of my face.”

  Davis swallows hard and glances at Lane’s ruined painting. “You didn’t tell her not to come into this room.”

  “What?”

  “I know it’s not my place to say, but I don’t feel it’s right to scream at her when she couldn’t have possibly known what this room was or what it meant to you. She’s bored, but more than that, she’s been behaving ever since that first night.”

  “Suddenly you’re Lane’s biggest fan?” I ask sarcastically.

  “You know that I’ve always been loyal to your family. After everything your father did for me, getting me this job. He had a temper like you, though. Even nastier. It was my responsibility to make sure he kept it in check. I’m trying to talk you down, not take sides.”

  The most frustrating part is that Davis is right. He first started working for my family when I was a boy, and every time my father threw a fit or exploded in a bout of rage, Davis was there to whisper something in his ear. Like magic, that beast was tamed and my father was back to his normal self.

  But every time I think about taking a moment to relax, I see the rose painting lying discarded on the floor again and my body heats up like an oven. I can’t do this right now.

  Without a word, I push past Davis and return to my room.

  6

  Lane

  A fter the sixth time I try Mom’s phone, I eventually give up and throw my phone at my bed. There’s a stifled scream in my throat, and it’s all that I have not to let it out. Whatever Everett’s problem is, I’m done dealing with it. I’ve been on my best behavior since my first night two weeks ago, and the one time I make a mistake—I still don’t even know what I did wrong—he screams at me like I’ve just burned his house down?

  I can’t take this anymore.

  For a while there, I thought I could make this work. Sure, living with Everett is tough because of how strict he is, but every weekend with my friends, I get to unwind and enjoy my time away from him and school. I still make it home every night on time, and tonight, I was thirty minutes early.

  He’s a psychopath, that’s what it is.

  I’ve never seen someone get that upset about some stupid painting. Not only that, but his temper tantrum was scary. I’m not afraid of a lot of things, but something about a man yelling at me triggers something deep inside me that says it’s either time to fight or run away. Probably all the screaming my parents did before Dad moved out.

  Either way, I don’t deserve this. I’m a grown adult, and I can stay with someone else. Derek won’t be a problem if he can’t find me.

  Just thinking about him makes my blood run cold. What is it with the men Mom chooses to date? Between Dad being a bully, Derek being a drug dealing creep, and Everett going apeshit on me for deciding to sing and paint, I’m starting to think maybe it’s better to just stay away from older guys all together. Erica used to say that she only dated older men because they were mature, but from my experience, that’s not even close to the truth.

  Once I’ve calmed down, I take a seat on the bed and grab my phone, dialing Whitney’s number. She picks up on the third ring.

  “Hey, babe, what’s up?”

  “Hey. This is…really short notice, but do you think I could bum it on your couch for a little while? Just for a couple of days, until I get on my feet and everything.”

  “What’s going on with your mom? Is everything okay?”

  I haven’t told anyone where I’ve been staying, and it’s because I don’t want anyone asking what’s going on with Mom. I’ve always been ashamed of the guys she dated, even though Everett was arguably the least offensive. Something about having to tell my friends why Mom is always involved in messes makes me cringe, so I’ve avoided it for years.

  Rather than telling her that Mom essentially sold me to her ex-husband for money that she owed her criminal ex-boyfriend, I go with, “We’re just really not seeing eye to eye anymore. It’s nothing serious, I just… I need to get out and be on my own. It’s time for me to move on.”

  “Okay,” she says uneasily. “Yeah, I don’t mind you staying over for a few days, sure. I’ll get some sheets for the couch and everything.”

  “You’re literally the sweetest person ever,” I say, relieved that she said yes. I could probably scrounge up enough money for a hotel, but I don’t know how I’d pay for food or anything. All of that can wait, though. For now, I’m happy knowing that by this time tomorrow, I’ll be out of Everett’s house.

  The thought of freedom is the only thing that comforts me when I lay down to sleep.

  In the morning, I don’t even bother going down for breakfast. I decide to fold all my clothes and put them in my luggage, working like a machine. The only thing on my mind is getting away, and what finally breaks my train of thought and snaps me back into reality is the ruckus downstairs. I pause and look over my shoulder, straining my ears to pick it up better.

  There’s a scraping noise, like something heavy is being dragged across the floor, and I slowly open my bedroom door, unsure what’s happening. Tiptoeing down the stairs, I tug on the front of my sleep shirt so that it covers my legs just a bit more.

  When I don’t find the source of the noise, I turn to head back upstairs, but that’s when I hear it down the hall. I follow it, poking my head around the corner. In a room I haven’t explored, Everett is dragging a giant table across the floor and positioning it near the middle of the room. Once he’s satisfied, he places a tall stool in front of it. He also begins removing art supplies from plastic bags and laying them flat on the table.

  I try to step back and the floorboard creaks. When I look up at Everett, he’s staring at me. My instinct is to pull back and pretend like I haven’t been spying, but he calls my name, freezing me in my place.

  “Lane,” he says in a low voice. “Can you come here, please?”

  I want to tell him to go fuck himself with that rose painting. I want to tell him that he doesn’t get to talk to me after he flipped his lid and made me cry. Good guys don’t do that, and up until that point, I thought he was a good guy. Or, at the very least, not as awful as some of the other men in my life. Though I want to curse him out and tell him where he can shove it, I step out into the doorway, staring at him.

  “What?”

  “I…I need you to come here for a moment.”

  Reluctantly, I approach him, but I stare him down. I can’t show him that I’m still afraid of his temper.

  “I wanted to apologize,” he says. “Last night, I reacted poorly, and my behavior was unacceptable. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I shouldn’t have knocked your painting to the ground. I really shouldn’t have even been upset with you at all, because you didn’t know.”

  I crinkle my face. “I didn’t know what?”

  “That room… The reason why I got so upset is because that was my mother’s. Before she died, back when I was younger, I remember spending afternoons with her in that room, watching her paint. She was the most talented artist I’d ever seen. That still holds up now. She passed away when I was eleven, and we never touched her studio. For the past twenty-four years, that room has remained untouched aside from occasional dustings. I should have told you, but it slipped my mind. That’s why I’m sorry. You didn’t know how important that room was.”

  I stare at him intently, trying to decide whether or not he’s lying. The sincerity in his voice is what convinces me. The way he goes quiet when talks about his mother. The sadness in his tone as he explains that he occasionally considers entering the room, but second-guesses himself every time. He’s tortured over it, haunted by the hole in his heart that his mother’s absence left, and I’d be heartless to say it does touch me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, placing a hand on his arm. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “It’s not your fault,” he says. “If I had to be mad at anyone, it would be me for not asking you to stay out of that room. But that’s the past. All I can do is hope you’ll forgive me and take this room as a gift.”

  I blink in surprise, then look around. “What do you mean?”

  “Davis told me that you’re a creative person, and I wanted to give this to you. You must be incredibly bored all day, and I figured this could spark something for you. You don’t hate it, do you?”

  “No,” I say, laughing incredulously. “This is an amazing gift, Everett. You shouldn’t have done all this for me.”

  “Nonsense.” Everett waves his hand in the air. “I wanted to. Here, take a seat.” Taking me by the hand, he leads me to the stool, where he sits me down. In front of me is my painting from last night, and I smile when I see that he’s tried to use white to cover up some of the smearing that was caused when he knocked it to the floor.

  “Everett…” I start to say, but there aren’t enough words. No one’s done something like this for me in a long time. I know I shouldn’t forgive him this quickly, and the rational part of me is screaming not to give in so easily, but being in this house for the past two weeks, I’ve learned to take all the good I can get. Make the best out of this tough situation.

  When words fail, I wrap my arms around him and hug him, squeezing tight. Being around him is like having constant whiplash. One moment I hate the very ground he walks on, and the next, he does something small—or in this case, something big—that makes me appreciate him all over again. Is it healthy? Is this the kind of relationship that my psych major friends would consider ideal? No.

  But when I look up at him and see that for the first time, his hard eyes have softened and he’s not scowling at me, it makes my heart leap. Swirling with that is the combination of his masculine cologne and the heat of his body. Without a second thought, I sit up higher on my stool and kiss him, shocking even myself.

  The moment I pull away and cover my mouth, I know I’ve screwed up. I’ve done something terrible. All he wanted was to make my stay in his house more comfortable, and I read entirely too far into it.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, my face burning red. Everett stands stoically, looking at me with an unreadable expression. Just when the silence becomes all too overwhelming and I start to leave the room, he grabs me and pulls me flush with his body, his lips on mine again.

  There’s a hunger in his kiss that sends shivers down my spine. That unfettered passion from last night returns, only it’s not dangerous or violent. It’s possessive. Everett kisses me like he owns me, with his hands groping my body and his tongue brushing against mine insistently.

  I practically cry out in surprise when I feel the warm hand slip underneath my pajama shorts and panties. It’s all so much at once, and I feel my head spin. I grab at the front of his shirt to avoid falling over, and I’m grateful for the decision, because as soon as I do, Everett begins rubbing my clit.

  He starts with small circles, massaging me while we kiss, and I feel on fire once more. My body grows warm and sensitive to every tiny movement of his fingers. When he slides his fingers lower and presses two inside of me, I gasp and bite down on his lip. Everett hisses out a laugh. For a moment, all I can do is allow him to touch me, my head tilting back as he works his digits deeper inside, faster.

  “Ah,” I whimper, blindly searching for the stool. I take a seat, and Everett moves with me, his fingers never stopping.

  “Does that feel good, baby?” he asks, his voice right next to my ear. The hair on the back of my neck stands up in attention.

  “Yes,” is all I can force out. With his speed and precision, I can barely string together a coherent thought, let alone a full sentence.

  “Yes, what?”

  I look up at him, momentarily confused by what he means. But when I see that dark look in his eyes, the one that I recognize from the closet weeks ago, I know. I know as sure as I know my own name.

  I drag my tongue over my bottom lip, staring up at him, and say, “Yes, Daddy.”

  That title makes me weak, and I feel myself climax around him hard, gripping his shirt for dear life. My body vibrates and I’m overcome with inconceivable pleasure. Left whimpering as I ride out my orgasm, Everett approaches me for a slow, messy kiss. He dominates my mouth the same as he dominated my pussy. I don’t even have to think. I simply allow him, happy and willing to give him anything he wants.

  Finally, he pulls his fingers from me and sucks them clean, that dark look still burning in his eyes. Once he’s done, he turns around and strides out of the room.

  I want to call out to him, to tell him to come back and let me touch him, but I don’t think I’m currently strong enough.

  Instead, I stay seated on the stool, tremors still rolling through me long after he’s left my body.

  7

  Lane

  H ello? Earth to Lane?” Erica stands with her hand on her hips, shaking her head at me. For a moment, I forget that I’m sitting on a plush stool in the dressing room while she’s trying on clothes.

  “What? Sorry.” I flush, embarrassed that I spaced out so hard.

  “I asked if you thought this was cute for tonight.” She gives a little spin and shows off the little red party dress. In the lighting of the dressing room, I can even see the tiny sparkles at the hem.

  “Yeah, that’s cute.”

  Erica narrows her eyes at me. “You’re so annoying sometimes.”

  I feign offense by putting my hand over my heart. “Wow, what did I do?”

  “You’ve been in your own little world all week. What’s going on? Have you been smoking something?”

  “No, I’m not smoking anything! I’m just…” I can’t think of anything on the spot, so I just laugh, shaking my head. I can’t exactly tell her what’s on my mind, otherwise I’ll have to admit that I might have a sexual attraction to Everett, and I can’t imagine what either of my friends would say if I told them that. Erica would probably encourage it, but Whitney? She’d tell me this wasn’t a good idea, and I should stop before anything else goes too far.

  That’s why I’ve kept my mouth shut about him and only relived the experience whenever I’m alone in my room. I imagine the way his tongue felt against mine, or the way his chest heaved as he worked his fingers inside me, like he was straining to simply remain standing and not tear off my clothes entirely.

  No, this is a secret I’ve kept to myself, and a secret that’s made me blush nonstop since the moment it happened.

  “You’re just what?” Erica insists. “Is it school? Because you know I told you I’d help you with your work if you need it. I know things with your mom are rough right now, and if you need some help, you can always come to me.”

  I smile softly and stand up, pulling her into a hug. When I pull back to look at her, I say, “It’s not that. I’ve just got a lot on my plate right now with life. Life is hectic. But I promise, I’ll try not to daydream as much.”

  Erica’s green eyes crinkle when she smiles. “Good. I don’t want you daydreaming tonight, either. This weekly bar thing is fun, and I like when you’re not all the way up in this thing.” She taps my forehead playfully.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say, laughing and rolling my eyes. “I bet I’ll be fully present if I’m in a dress I like. Wanna help me find one?”

  “Of course!”

  Erica takes off the short one she’s wearing and drapes it over her arm, deciding that she’s going to go with that dress. For the next hour, the two of us search through the racks trying to find the perfect one for me. I don’t like anything too flashy or showy, at least not for the bar. All that attention from drunk guys has never been my thing. On a normal night, I’d wear jeans and a fancy blouse, but the girls have bar-hopping in mind, and one of the bars on the agenda is a bit classier.

  After searching for what feels like forever, I finally settle on a blush pink dress that cinches at the waist and hangs down just above my knee. With a pair of cute wedges, I can definitely see myself getting into the fancier bar, as well as not standing out too, too much at the average ones.

  By seven o’clock that night, Everett has thankfully left my mind and I’m given a break to think about something else. The girls and I finish getting ready, and Whitney’s on-again, off-again, kinda, sorta open relationship boyfriend Shane shows up at Erica’s house. We pile in and head out for a night on the town.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9