BAD WICKED TWISTED: A Briarcrest Academy Box Set (44 page)

I glanced over to see Nora Blakely, resident BA genius, National Belltone Spelling Bee Champion, and all around odd person. We didn’t talk much, but we’d grown up together here in Highland Park. And I liked her.

I nudged my head toward Ballet Girl and whispered, “Nora, who’s that girl?”

She arched a brow at me, and I played it up and grinned. “I mean, you’re gorgeous, of course, but just trying to place if I know her.”

She smirked, and I don’t think she cared one way or the other about who I was interested in. After a few minutes of looking at Ballet Girl, she turned to me. “Pretty sure her name is Dovey. I think she’s a scholarship student. Maybe from Ratcliffe.”

My mind raced. Dovey? Like the bird? And Ratcliffe? God, what a hell hole.

“Is she seeing Spider?” I felt silly with the hushed voices, but I didn’t want Ballet Girl to hear us. Because that would be weird.

She raked her eyes over the three of them in her wacky analytical way that most of us had gotten used to over the years. “Hmm. Not sure. His body is pivoted toward Dovey, and his eyes keep darting to her, like he’s checking in on her. It seems like he really likes her. It’s interesting.” She paused. “But the other girl has her hand on his crotch, and he seems to like it, so yeah, I don’t know what’s going on there. Lots of mixed signals.”

Well, that didn’t help. But I had a name.

“Thanks,” I said, straightening back up.

My phone pinged with a text from my mom.

You’re on my mind
.
I love you
, she said.

My heart dipped and from within, I got a burst of hope. The speaker and the gym zoomed away, making me forget about Dovey and if she had a boyfriend. Instead, I focused on my mom. It had been months since she’d texted me.

Did this mean she was finally moving on?

Was she ready to forgive me?

Love you too,
I typed out. And of course I wanted to type more, like ask her if she’d come to my game this week or if she’d hang out with me and Dad tonight. Maybe she’d cook us some fried yucca, a Brazilian dish a lot like French fries.

But I didn’t ask those things because I didn’t want to push her. If a text was all she could do, I’d take it.

I went home that afternoon feeling unsure about seeing Mom but still happy about the text she’d sent me. And I wanted to tell her my big news. A local television station was coming out to interview the team at our home game against Copeland Private, one of our biggest rivals. And even though I was a junior, the team had voted me to be the spokesperson. Maybe if she could just see how much they respected me, then maybe she would too.

But when I got home from practice, Mother wasn’t waiting for me like I’d built up in my head. She wasn’t downstairs, and when I got upstairs her bedroom door was shut.

I knocked. “Mom, you in there? I—I got your text. I love you, too.”

I waited, my hands clenched.

Shuffling sounds filtered through the door. “I’m here,” she said, the finality in her voice obvious. Like this was the last place in the world she wanted to be.

Frustration rose. Something had obviously happened between the text at school and me getting home. I sighed. I didn’t understand her sickness, the prison that was her depression.

“Are you coming out, then?” I asked.
Please.

Silence and then, “No. I—I just want to be alone.”

Oh.

I got worried.

“Mom, please don’t do anything stupid,” I begged through the wood, my voice gentle.

“I’m not. I’m fine. Just go,” her small voice said, the desolate sound in it breaking me into tiny pieces. Making me feel paper thin.

“Will you open the door a little? I want to see you,” I said. Because if I could just
see
her, then I wouldn’t worry.

She cracked the door, giving me a sliver of her beautiful face. She still had her pajamas on, but she’d combed her hair and showered. That was a big step. I smiled.

“See. All is well. Now go do your homework.” Then very gently, she shut the door.

And from behind the door, I heard her crying softly.

Dammit
.

I pressed my forehead to the door and fought my own emotion, feeling myself sinking into a bottomless pit, falling further and further. Defeat built in me, and I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to tell her to be strong and get over it and learn to live again and be a fucking mother to me, but none of those words spilled out of my mouth.

Because how could I ask her to be better when I felt so weak myself.

Fuck, fuck, fuck
.

I’d done this to our family.

After a while, I gave up on her opening the door. I shook off the darkness and drove the Porsche straight to Marissa’s apartment. An older girl who’d graduated from BA two years earlier, she was a dependable hook-up. Rich and vivacious, she knew exactly how to blow my mind. Among other things.

Loud music blared from outside the door but went quiet when I knocked.

She opened it, her eyes skating over my track pants and wife-beater. I leaned against the door jam and eased off my Ray Bans, cocking an eyebrow at her skimpy shorts and halter top, my eyes lingering on her ample tits.
That
was what I needed.

I grinned, turning on the charm. “Hello, Beautiful.”

She huffed, flicking a piece of blonde hair over her shoulder. “You didn’t call. You think I’m just sitting here waiting on you?”

“You want me to leave?” I murmured, biting my lip. Putting on a show for her.

She shivered, her eyes dilating, probably remembering the raunchy things we’d done in this apartment. In the kitchen, in the bathroom, in the bedroom, on the patio. Marissa was wild, and I ate that up.

She pouted at me with red lips. “You can come in, but you’d better be good to me.”

I didn’t know about being good to her, but I could sure as hell make her feel good.

I walked in and she shut the door.

“You’ve never had better,” I said, pushing her up against the den wall and framing her face with my hands. She gazed up at me in what looked a little like adoration, which slowed me down for a second, because I didn’t want any touchy-feely emotions involved in this.

I paused, leveling her with my gaze. “Hey, we’re just having fun, right?”

She swallowed. “Yeah, sure. No strings, baby.”

Good. I kissed her long and hard until we were both panting and ready for more.

“Let’s go to the bedroom,” she whispered, wrapping her arms snakelike around my neck.

I cupped her breasts and squeezed, tweaking the nipples through her tight shirt.

“No, babe, right here. Going to make you come,” I promised. Because I didn’t want to wait. I wanted this ache gone, and I didn’t mean the one in my pants.

Bending over, I sucked on her tits through her shirt, making her gasp and clutch me tighter. We kissed for a while, both of our hands rushing to get the other undressed. Forgetting the ghost of my mother, I pushed everything out of my head except for sex. And that got really easy when she fell to her knees and took me in her mouth while I watched, absently and with little attachment. She could have been any of the girls I’d been with in the past two years.

Being with her required no emotional investment.

Which was the safest thing with me.

After a few minutes of her going down on me, I picked her up, wrapped her legs around my waist, and took her against the wall. I grabbed her hips, tossed my head back, and before I could stop it, Dovey came to mind.

It slowed me down for a sec, and I tried to push her out … because what the hell was I doing daydreaming over some random girl who didn’t matter when I had this hot older girl?

But she wouldn’t get out of my head.

Fuck it
.

I gave in and went with it, imagining Dovey pinned against the wall, her legs imprisoning me. Yeah. So. Fucking. Good. I grunted and went with it, slamming into Marissa, but wanting another.

And it was wrong, so wrong of me, but I played my fantasy in my head again, of Dovey dancing for me, of her being in love with me, of her needing me with all my rough spots and flaws, and lastly, I visualized
me
loving her in return.

But then my dream took on another angle, sweeter almost, as I imagined me and Dovey at my lake house in White Rock. I made a bed for us out of quilts and pillows under the night sky, under the stars and moon. I made love to her again, this time gazing intently at her face to face. Because now I knew what she looked like.

I told her I’d love her forever.

And I don’t even know why.

“Love swallows up all the good parts,

but ballet gives it all back.”

–Dovey

SEPTEMBER DRIFTED INTO October.

I continued working on my performance pieces with Jacques. He kept asking me out, but I always said no. I mean, he was hot with his big muscles and French accent, but I knew I had to keep my distance. The loneliness ate at me, but I kept remembering my mother and how love had ultimately destroyed her.

I didn’t want that for me.

I was surprised Spider continued dating Becca. I began to wonder if maybe he’d finally fallen for someone. Nah. I laughed. Spider was just bidding his time until the next cute girl came along.

The first time I’d met him had been freshman year, and I hadn’t been impressed with him. Sure he was handsome and popular—with a hot English accent—but he’d had a rep as a trouble maker.

It had all began one day in art class when he’d looked across the row of space that separated our work areas and poked fun at my dandelion still life. In retrospect, my painting had been awful, but I didn’t need some smart-ass, cocky guy telling me. So after class, I’d followed him to his locker, determined to let him know he couldn’t trash talk me. I was only fourteen at the time, but being from Ratcliffe, I had a chip on my shoulders, and I was determined to not take his shit.

I’d eyed his tattoo and said, “Spider is a weird name. Did you know that spiders are almost all homosexual? The females rule and prefer each other, and the males are an afterthought. That’s also why the black widow kills the male after mating, because she views him as a genetic sacrifice. Not to mention, he’s a wimp, all weak and scared. He’s good enough to be her protein though.
Yummmy
,” I said, rubbing my belly.

He smirked. “Are you saying I’m gay?”

“Don’t care one way or the other. Lots of my friends are gay. The point is I may be a girl, but like the black widow, I will kick your ass if you ever make fun of me again.” Total bluff. I gave him a bright smile and turned to leave. “Cheerio, mate.”

He followed me. “How do you know so much about spiders?”

I gave him a haughty look. “Duh. I read.”

He lightly touched his tat. “So it’s true, then?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. Maybe the black widow lets the male live sometimes. If he brings her a tasty insect probably. Because females like to eat.” Yeah.

He blinked. “No. Are spiders gay?”

I tapped my chin, hiding my glee at his distress. “Meh, I made it up mostly. Just to get your attention and make a point.” And then I added, “It’s called hyperbole. Or a lie. Whatever.”

He’d smiled, his eyes crinkling and a dimple popping out on his cheeks.

I’d grinned back.
He liked me
. And there you go. I had a friend. “And by the way, your banana still life? It looked like a penis. So don’t give me grief for some dandelions.”

He’d barked out a laugh. “Yeah, the banana was
hard
to get right.”

And that had been the beginning of mine and Spider’s friendship.

The bell rang in algebra, pulling me from my memories. I rose up out of my desk and left, headed for lunch.

I turned the corner to go into the cafeteria when a tall guy with dark hair came out of the library, a pretty girl on each arm. Emma Easton and April Novak were the girls, mean ones if you listened to gossip, and each bookended Cuba Hudson, one of the most—no, wait,
the most
popular guy at BA.

I took him in, unabashedly, since Spider wasn’t here like he usually was, offering his critiques of the guys I thought were hot. There was no doubt, Cuba was the most beautiful guys I’d ever seen. Yeah, yeah, I know beautiful is a weird word for a guy, but when it fits, it just does. With a lethal kind of aura, he positively oozed sex, pulling your gaze into his magnetic vortex. The fitness side of me admired his physique with analytical eyes, ghosting over the broad chest and bunched muscles. But most of all, the dreamer in me got chills at his golden-yellow eyes, just like what I imagined an exotic jungle cat would have. I’d meet his gaze once or twice over the years and had shivered each time. With anticipation or heat—or dread? No idea. But his eyes did cause some kind of weird visceral reaction in me like no other, almost as if we shared a connection, like we were kindred spirits—