Wild Thing (Naughty Things 3)

But when I take another breath I see it another way. This place. That room. Those clothes, that food—it gives me a sick feeling inside.

“I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll… I’ll clean the dress. We can take it to the dry cleaners at the mall and—”

“Fuck that dress. It’s ugly as sin.”

“OK, well… I won’t try to seduce you anymore.”

I still don’t look at her but I do crack a smile.

“Please,” she says, scrambling off the bed to kneel at my feet.

Good God. Why does she have to do that?

She rests her head on my knee, wrapping her hands around my leg. “Don’t leave me here. I promise to do whatever you say.”

“Everything?” I ask, finally meeting her eyes.

She nods. “Yes. Everything.”

“You’ll stop swearing?”

“Yes.”

“And be polite?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“And respect yourself and others.”

“Um… yeah. Of course. But what exactly do you mean when you say respect myself?”

Is she kidding me right now? “Lyssa,” I say.

“What?”

“You know what I mean.”

“OK, so… I won’t take five years to finish college, or waste money, or wipe my face with my wedding dress, or—”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Jesus. How is she so clueless?

“I don’t understand.”

“Respect yourself. Don’t wear those clothes, or put your hair up in pigtails like you’re a little girl, or eat comfort food at every meal. You need to grow up, OK? You need to grow the fuck up!”

She stares at me for a moment. Shocked by my outburst. Hell, I’m kinda shocked by my outburst too.

“OK,” she finally says.

“You’ll do that?”

She nods. “I promise. I will.”

I close my eyes and wonder if it’s good enough. I feel like I’m losing myself by being around this girl. Like she’s twisting me into something I’m not. And I don’t like it. I like her… but I don’t like how she makes me feel.

It feels dirty.

She makes me feel dirty.

Wild Thing. She sure is.

“Mason,” she says.

“What?”

“Just… please. Can we go to the mall?”

We do go to the mall. There are three cars to choose from in the attached five-car garage and she shows me where the keys are. I still have the van, but that van is creepy as all fuck when I look at it. I kidnapped her in that van.

What the hell was I thinking when I took this job?

Well, that’s easy. I was thinking about my mother. I needed that fifty grand pretty bad that day. And Baylor was blackmailing me.

Still, both those reasons feel a whole lot like excuses right now.

Why does this girl affect me this way? I don’t understand it.

Anyway. We take the brand-new Mercedes to the mall. White with tan leather interior and every gadget you can think of. Is it weird that Lyssa matches her car?

Because Lyssa kept her promise and managed to put together an outfit from her closet in her real bedroom that doesn’t show off her tits or her ass.

A shapeless dress that has a high collar and hits her just above the knee. It’s white, not pink, and her shoes have a heel on them, so that’s a plus. At least she doesn’t look like my fucking daughter.

I wear… the same thing I’ve been wearing. Which only serves to remind me that I didn’t plan on being here for ten days. This was an in-and-out job and now it’s not.

Or it is, if you have a dirty mind. Which I apparently do. I’m going crazy. This job, this girl, this house—all of it is making me crazy.

When we get to the mall I take Lyssa’s hand—I don’t know why I do that either. I just do—and we walk around looking at shops.

“Where do we find a wedding dress?” I ask.

“I have no idea,” she says. “I haven’t been to a mall since I was twelve.”

I laugh at that. “Me either.”

“Blind leading the blind,” she says, leaning into me. “Let’s shop for you first.”

So we do. Not a department store, which is where I usually get my clothes, but a designer label that has its own boutique. But I’m a quick shopper. I know exactly what I like and soon we’re out in the mall walking past the lingerie store.

Lyssa stops.

I shake my head at her.

“This is grown-up,” she says. “Those bras and panties you’ve been giving me are for little girls.”

God, it sounds kinda sick when she says it like that.

“Come on,” she says, tugging me into the store.

A saleswoman comes over immediately. Smelling money, or desperate for conversation, or hell, maybe she really does just want to make sure Lyssa gets the perfect-fitting bra.

They disappear into a dressing room while I browse the goods, stopping at the nighties. I have never bought underwear for a woman before. Mostly because I always make sure I do not have a girlfriend on Valentine’s Day when such a purchase is expected. But I could see Lyssa wearing some of this stuff.