Pricked

She draws in a long, hard breath. “You slept at his house last night?”

I swallow but keep my head held high. “I did. We had a couple of beers and I didn’t feel safe driving home, so he let me sleep there.”

Her nostrils flare, but she maintains her composure like a good Karrington. A moment later, she rises, smoothing her hands over her thighs and tugging her lavender cashmere twinset into place.

“All right. Fine,” she says. “But let me just remind you one more time that living in this house is a privilege, and your father and I will not be disrespected by your late-night trysts. There will be no more coming and going and lying about your whereabouts, do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say. Because it doesn’t matter. As much as I enjoyed myself last night, I won’t be spending another night with Madden.

My mother leaves, gently closing the door behind her, and the sound of her footsteps grows weaker by the second. Swiping my bottle of lotion off my nightstand, I carry it back to the bathroom, placing it beside my phone on the counter.

Slipping out of my robe, I massage the rich cream into my soft skin as I stand before the mirror, in front of the image of a woman desperate to experience life in its fullest form—the good and the bad, the highs and the lows, everything she’s been shielded from her entire life.

And it’s then, in that moment, my phone vibrates with a text.

MADDEN: When can I have you again?

22

Madden

She made me wait eight whole hours before responding to my text Tuesday morning. And then when she agreed to see me again, she made me wait until Friday night.

I deserved that.

“We’re here.” I park my car in front of Pierce’s place, where we all tend to hang out on Friday nights after the shop closes. He’s got the quintessential bachelor pad set up and has no qualms about kicking people out if they start acting like morons.

This is the place to go after a long week, when all you want is to throw back a few beers, have some laughs with some people you don’t actually mind being around, and let your mind shut off for a couple of hours.

I made it a point to tell Brighton not to dress in her ‘country club best.’ I told her jeans and a t-shirt.

She showed up in a dress.

It’s like she gets off on defying me, proving me wrong. That or she hates being told what to do. I’m not quite sure yet. We didn’t talk or text at all after Tuesday, when she agreed to come to Pierce’s with me. So in a way, we’re still strangers. She knows very little about me. I know very little about her. And honestly, it’s for the best, especially if we plan to keep this strictly physical—and I do.

We climb out of the car, and I lock both doors with my key before joining her at the sidewalk. The house is lit like a Christmas tree, party lights, the flicker of the TV in the living room, the porch light on full blast so drunks don’t trip on the steps.

I take her in through the garage, where a couple of guys—Cooley and Brian—are smoking fat cigars and nursing whiskey neats.

“Hey,” I say as we pass.

The guys nod, and Cooley’s shameless stare lingers on Brighton, scanning the length of her before settling on her rack. She doesn’t notice. My jaw clenches and I move to her side, blocking his view.

Taking her in through the garage entrance, we end up in Pierce’s kitchen. A group of Olwine girls, same ones who show up every Friday, are gathered around the peninsula doing tequila shots. They’re laughing and chirping away until they see Brighton, and then they’re all silence and eyes.

“Hi,” Brighton says, offering a friendly wave and a smile.

I’m sure she intimidates the fuck out of them, with her long legs, shiny blonde hair, long, thick lashes, and million-dollar radiance. They don’t make ‘em like that around here.

“This is Brighton,” I tell the girls. “Brighton, that’s Tanya, Melissa, Gabby, and then you know Missy from the shop.”

The girls still gawk and gape but if it fazes Brighton, she sure as hell doesn’t act like it.

“Why don’t you go have a seat in the living room. I’ll grab us a couple of drinks,” I say, my hand pressing the small of her back.

The second she’s gone, Gabby shoots me a look. “Dude, Madd. What the fuck?”

The other girls simper and snicker. I know what they’re thinking, that we look ridiculous together, that I have no business bringing someone like that to Pierce’s, but I couldn’t care less.

“Something bothering you, Gab?” I ask, digging around in Pierce’s fridge until I find two of the better beer options. He’s on some Millennial craft beer kick lately, and half the shit in here is stuff I wouldn’t give my worst enemy. Beer shouldn’t burn going down. It shouldn’t make you gag either.

“What’s with the girl?” Gabby asks. “Quite a departure from, uh, Veronica.”

My ex used to be one of them. Back when we were together. She was the fifth member of their Olwine girl gang, all of them having gone to high school together, all of them having made the decision to stick around here and become what the locals call “lifers.”

Tanya punches Gabby’s shoulder. “You know we’re not supposed to say that word anymore.”

“What? Veronica?” Gabby asks.

Missy rolls her eyes.

Ever since Horatio-gate, the girls refused to talk to Veronica, opting to pick my side over hers. Though I’m sure some of that had more to do with the fact that there’s no better place to be on a Friday night than here and they didn’t want to lose their hangout spot.

That’s some small-town loyalty right there.

Uncapping the bottles, I pass the girls, stopping to add, “She’s cool, okay? Be nice to her. Or else.”

“You don’t scare us,” Melissa says with a wink.

When I get to the living room, I find Brighton deep in conversation with a local mechanic by the name of Cash McConnell. Or as some of us call him when he’s not around: Manwhore McConnell.

Dude looks like the reincarnation of James Dean, the take-no-shit attitude of Vin Diesel, and he’s good with his hands, which is apparently a thing that drives 99% of the female population wild.

Brighton smiles and nods, glued to whatever bullshit he’s feeding her. I stand for another minute, unnoticed until I clear my throat.

“Oh, hey,” Cash says, pretending he didn’t just ignore me for the last sixty seconds.

I hand Brighton one of the sweaty beers in my hand and she mouths, “thank you.”

“Anyway, that’s so funny that you say that because my brother actually lives in New York,” Brighton says when she turns to him. She’s angled in such a way that her back is almost to me.

I might as well be invisible.

A third fucking wheel.

“No way,” Cash says, as if she’s just revealed the most fascinating tidbit of information in the history of ever. “That’s crazy. Small world.”

“Do you think you’ll be going back soon?” she asks him.

“Shit. I go all the time,” he tells her. I brace myself for some shameless humble bragging. “I own my own shop, so I can usually just pick up and go whenever.”

“That really surprises me that you like Manhattan so much,” she says. “You know, if you’re a car guy.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you mostly walk or ride the subway there.” She takes a drink. “I’d imagine you miss driving when you visit.”

“Nah.” Cash flashes his trademark sexy grin. “I like to change things up every once in a while.”

Yeah. Which is why he has a different girl in his bed every single weekend. And this weekend? It sure as hell isn’t going to be Brighton.

“Hey, Cash, I think Cooley and Brian were looking for you earlier,” I lie.

“Oh, yeah?” he asks.

“They're in the garage.” I nod in that direction. “Smoking those Cuban Sugarfinas.”

“Sweet.” Cash rises from his chair, towering over Brighton, who gazes up at him like he’s some sort of marble Adonis. And then he winks before gifting her with a half-dimpled smile. “Brighton, it was nice meeting you. We can talk more later?”

“Of course,” she says, glancing up at him through her dark lashes. “Nice meeting you as well, Cash.”

As soon as he’s gone and we have the living room to ourselves, I say, “Don’t.”

Brighton gives me side eye. “Don’t what?”

“Cash … just ... don’t.”

“I’m going to need you to use your words, Madden,” she speaks to me like I'm a goddamned toddler.

“You don’t want him,” I say, taking a swig from my beer bottle. “Guy’s dirtier than an oil filter that hasn’t been changed in decades.”

“He seemed really nice,” she says.

“Yeah. You would think that.” I roll my eyes. In the entire time I’ve known Cash, I’ve yet to hear him ever speak of Manhattan. For all I know he’s never even been there—he was just pretending so he could impress her and keep the conversation going.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I shrug. “Nothing. You’re just a little … don't kill me for saying this … naive.”