Handcuffs (6 page)

Dad lost his job.

Yeah, it’s really time for something good to happen.

9

“I’
ve missed you, Parker Prescott,” he says into my hair. When he kisses me he bites my bottom lip, and my stomach clenches up so hard that I almost start to cry. Maybe it isn’t my stomach.

I lean back into him, willing myself to relax. “Why are you here?” It’s only four days after Christmas, only three days since I saw him in the mall. He didn’t call, just showed up. It’s Saturday morning, and we are sitting in my father’s office. It’s this small room right at the top of the stairs that’s just big enough for the desk where my dad sits to fill out bills and, before he lost his job, to talk on the phone to his boss. Besides the desk and the office chair, there’s a love seat and a bookshelf, and that’s pretty much it.

He is on the black leather minisofa (for some reason Dad won’t call it a love seat) and I am sitting in Dad’s high-backed leather office chair with the tiny little wheels.

I was working on Dad’s computer when he knocked, and I went back to it after I let him in, to minimize everything I’d been working on. Raye laughs at me for being so secretive, but I just don’t like people reading over my shoulder.

Before I could look up he grabbed the arms of the chair and pulled me forward, so that I am right in front of him, where he can kiss me, if that’s what he wants, and if I let him.

“Where else would I be?” He grins. I bite back any and all comments about Kandace Freemont.

“You never even came over here when we were together,” I say.

“Your family was always here doing family stuff. You know how I feel about the whole family routine. Anyway, you always came over, then. If you don’t come to me, I have to come to you.” I kind of like the sound of that, like he needs me. It makes me feel, well, elated. I douse this crazy, out-of-control feeling by turning to him and saying,

“You know, you don’t have to talk in really short simple sentences with me.” It’s a jab. A direct reference to Kandace and her stupidity. I need to talk about her because I can’t stop thinking about what might’ve happened between them.

But he laughs. I’ve turned my anguish into a joke and he thinks it’s funny.

“Are you jealous, Parker?” His voice is so warm, his eyes intent. This is how it used to be before I freaked out and messed everything up. I would so love to go back in time and not let myself get scared. I would love for things to be like they were before.

“Should I be?” Damn, how does he always get me to walk into his trap? The pain that shoots through me is real. He puts his hand behind my head and caresses me softly, like he’s massaging my neck, but so gently it’s really just a stroking motion.

“There is nothing between me and Kandace Freemont.” He says this as he looks directly into my eyes. “There is something between you and me. There’s something about you, Prescott, that I can’t get enough of.” I hold my breath. Is he going to say it?

He kisses the side of my face very softly. Then he kisses me again.

“Are both of your parents gone?”

“Yeah.” He kisses me again, more deeply. I relax into him just a little.

“Little brother?”

“He’s at a birthday party.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, Ernie Libman’s little brother. His dad works with my mom.”

“Ernie Libman’s little brother’s having a birthday party. With cake and ice cream and all that?”

“I guess.” I let him unbutton the top two buttons of my shirt, and then I shift so that my chair rolls to the side and his hand falls away. He overwhelms me, and I’m not sure what I want. I pull away from him, so that maybe I can focus.

“You think they’ll have a pony or a clown or something?”

I push my hair back. “I don’t really know.”

“So what do we have, like half an hour, an hour?”

“We have all day. My parents will just be here part of the day.”

“Do you want to have some fun?” What kind of question is that to ask the girl who is panting with lust for you?

He pulls a pair of handcuffs out of the pocket of the oversized black jacket that Raye believes I hate. The jacket I secretly think is sexy as hell, in some weird, perverse baggy-and-faded way. Real handcuffs, shiny metal cuffs linked with a chain. Something in me surges toward him, opens to the challenge in his eyes.

“What did you have in mind?” My voice is steady. I don’t want him to think that I’m some silly Kandace-like girl giggling at his every word, but I do need to keep him interested. In me.

He puts one cuff around my wrist, and it is so big that it makes me feel tiny and delicate, like I’m made of porcelain. It tightens to grip my wrist and even bites into it a little. He runs his hand up my arm and shivers run through me. Then he pulls my other arm back around the chair so that they nearly meet. I have to wiggle around to get comfortable, and while I’m doing that, he snaps the other cuff. It’s cold and harsh.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

“No.” I want to. I’ve always wanted to trust him, more than anything. But I don’t.

“Good.”

He unbuttons my shirt the rest of the way. Making eye contact the entire time. It’s weirdly exciting, staring into his eyes and feeling his fingers carefully opening each button. I catch my breath, and in that second I hear the front door slam and the
creech creech creech
of athletic shoes on the stairs.

My mom throws the door open. My heart totally stops and I’m sure I’ve stopped breathing. I watch her like a person in a coma, a person who is already halfway dead. Mom is wild and disheveled, and I will learn later that the stain on her shirt is my brother’s vomit. There’s a towel in her hand. I don’t notice the shirt because I’m looking at her face. I do notice the towel because it falls to the floor and just lies there. It’s been several minutes. My lungs are collapsing. Finally, I gasp and take a long slurping breath. I’m alive. The horror begins to take over as my body goes back to breathing on its own. The whole thing seems to be in some sort of crazy slow motion.

“Jane, where’s that towel? The interior of the Jeep is going to be—Oh my God.” Dad is standing behind Mom in the doorway of the den.

My shirt is still on, pushed back and then scrunched above the elbows. My bra is just loose enough that it has shifted forward. They can’t see anything, but they have to realize that he can.

I can’t keep from looking over at him even though I’m about to faint. I would pretend to faint if I thought it would make them stop looking at me like this. He is balanced between the mahogany desk and the wall, where he stumbled when the door opened. He is very, very still, and his face is whiter than usual. He slides the tiny key to the handcuffs out of his pocket, moving delicately, holding it between his finger and his thumb.

“Oh, Parker,” my mom breathes. Her eyes move past me to him. “You should leave,” she says.

“Parker . . .” He reaches for me. But I’m in this weird position where the only place he could touch would be my face or, well . . .

“No,” my mother says.

“Get. Away. From. Her.” Dad’s voice is shaking. I can’t look at my dad. Mom is angry, and I can deal with that, but when I look really fast, I see that Dad’s face is totally ghostly pale, and I feel sick to my stomach.

Mom snatches the key out of his hand. For a second I imagine all the madness that would ensue if there were no key. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. Yeah, it’s like I’ve gone crazy or I’m delirious or something, and this will never be over. This weird part of me that has given up hope for the future wants to ask him if we are back together now, but I am mute. I watch silently as he slinks past Dad. I see my father take off his glasses, which he never normally does. My mom wraps her arms around Dad and pulls him away into the hall.

There is absolute silence, then a loud squeak as my ex hits the fourth step from the bottom. The dreadful squeak that is the reason all of us Prescotts hop over the fourth step. The reason I didn’t hear my mom coming until it was too late and her shoes were creeching right outside the door.

The screen door bangs shut. Mom and Dad come back in and we all stare at each other for a minute. The door creaks open again. She leans forward and unlocks the handcuffs. Her hands are sweaty, and I pull away from her because I feel as gross as her gummy hands. I want her to stop looking at me with the horrified expression. I want them to leave me alone so I can start working on pretending this never happened.

We hear two footsteps on the hardwood floor downstairs. Someone is in our house. The part of my brain that’s still working recognizes our neighbor Mr. Bronson’s quavery voice.

“Jane? Chris? Your son is out on the front lawn throwing up.”

10

I’
m in my room. It’s been nearly an hour. I can’t sit still. I walk over to my bed and pick up the little stuffed Siberian husky he gave me right after we started dating. I look at myself in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed. He says my eyes are cold, but right now they are just freaky, pupils dilated, glimmery. The way he looks at me makes me see myself differently, like there might be something attractive about me. It’s a good feeling to have.

I run a brush through my hair. Raye’s short hair has cool wild edges. Mine is wild in its own way; thick and just a little curly, it hangs past my shoulders. The combination of pale eyes and dark hair is striking. That’s what my parents always say, that I’m striking. When they say it, it doesn’t mean anything, except that I don’t look adorable like Paige. Sixteen long years of wishing for pretty, but what I see doesn’t bother me so much, not when I see myself through his eyes. If striking is what he likes, that’s good enough for me.

In my mind, I keep replaying every second we were together. The desire in his eyes, the intensity, the chemistry that crackled between us.

I go over to the window and run my hand over the cool pane. From across the room I hear the click of incoming e-mail and I dive across my desk to hit the mailbox icon, but it’s just my lab partner sending me notes about this project we’re supposed to do over the break.

Back to my door. I ease it open just a little.

My parents are fighting, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. Dad’s voice makes me kind of shudder as I remember his face, the way he couldn’t quite look at me. I push that thought out of my mind and go back to my own audacity.

Parker Prescott, the plain little good younger sister. Not so plain or good or boring anymore, huh? I would have let him do anything to me, I tell myself. I should be worried about this. I should try to keep my self-control. I shouldn’t let him take me over so completely, but he already has. Is it wrong to fight something that feels right and good? Should I just give up? I look at my bed with the fluffy pillows and imagine curling up and sleeping for a long time, like a fairytale princess or something. Snow White. I feel so tired and out of control and confused.

The phone rings twice, and suddenly I’m not so sleepy. I hold my breath. It would be too much to hope for that I might retain phone privileges. Mom already took my cell when she escorted me to my room. Would he dare call my house line? Is he thinking about me?

Mom shoves the door open.

“Raye is on the phone. She’s been calling your cell. I think she’s worried about you. You can talk to her for long enough to tell her you’re grounded and to cancel whatever plans you might have,” she says coldly.

“How long am I grounded?” I hold my breath and hope for a week. This is something I do when I know things are bad, I just hope for something—not that they won’t punish me, because I know they will, but for a punishment I can handle. Like in eighth grade when I got a B on my midterm in math, or last year when I forgot to tell them that I was going to Raye’s after school and they got all worried, but I only ended up grounded for like one day. I realize that my fingers are actually crossed, and it would be funny, acting like a four-year-old, if my situation weren’t so hideous.

“Indefinitely.” She hands me the phone and turns away quickly, like she can’t stand the sight of me. I don’t look her in the eye, because I don’t want to see her disgust and disappointment. And I don’t want her to see that beneath my shame, there is an undercurrent of excitement, a thrill from doing something so un-Parker-like. It’s a much better feeling than humiliated remorse, so I try to hold on to that, but it’s impossible when I look at my mother.

“What’s going on?” Raye sounds breathless. “I’ve been calling and calling. I wanted to tell you that Josh invited me to some kind of dinner party his parents are having. Do you think I should go? If I go, will it be like saying I want to be a couple with him? ’Cause I don’t know if I’m ready for that. Do you think he’s cute? I mean, I know you said you did, but—”

“Raye, I can only talk for a minute, to tell you I can’t talk.”

“What?” Raye sounds suspicious.

“I’m grounded forever and my mom is coming to take the phone back in just a few minutes.” I hate this; I would rather tell Raye face to face so I can see her reactions. This is really hard.

“What happened, Parker?” I hear curiosity and fear, and I know that she is worried for me. I want to make it sound thrilling, like it was before Mom walked in and it got so horrible, but I know Mom is right outside the door.