Bad Boy Blues

But this morning, he’s not alone.

His hair’s sweaty and delicious and he has his vest-type t-shirt on and there’s a bowl of something sweet in front of him. I don’t have the time to check out what it might be because I’m busy staring at him with Leslie.

It’s not a secret that after Zach helped Art, he’s everyone’s favorite. The cooking staff can’t wait to serve him. The girls can’t stop eyeing him and giggling and gossiping about the magnificence of his body and that face and that smirk and how strong he is. His workouts by the pool are pretty famous too.

Leslie is doing what all other girls on the staff do. She’s giggling and leaning toward him with her hip cocked out. Maggie’s chuckling too, where she stands by the counter, close enough to be included in the conversation.

And Zach?

He’s smirking up at her.

He’s so freaking involved with whatever their conversation is that he hasn’t even touched his food. He’s absorbed in Leslie and her smiles and the way she’s playing with her blonde braid. It looks like there’s something between them. Like they know each other.

Like she knows all his secrets and struggles. She knows about his reading. She knows that the more he reads, the better he gets, and when I tell him this, his face closes up.

I haven’t been able to understand that. Why wouldn’t he be happy to see the progress he’s making? Why wouldn’t he want me to compliment him and flush with pleasure every time he reads a phrase correctly without confusing the letters?

Sometimes I think it’s shame. He’s embarrassed and angry to be making progress. Which is so weird that I think maybe I’m imagining things.

And every time his expression becomes cagey, I know what comes next. His kisses and his hands.

Jesus, his hands are always so desperate and horny, on the verge of tearing my clothes off so he can get to my bare skin. To my breasts, my thighs, my pussy. As if he needs it all like he needs the air. As if he needs to make me come and he needs to come himself while I’m spasming in his arms. And all I can do is give in to him.

Why wouldn’t I?

I’m his prize, right?

Except, maybe those are simply words.

Maybe he says them to everyone. Maybe he said it to Leslie, the girl he’s been flirting with so openly while he sneaks into my cottage like a thief.

It’s crazy, I know. I was the one who wanted all the secrecy, even if I forgot to plan for it. He’s just adhering to my wishes.

Never looking at each other if we ever pass by in the hallways. Not talking while having breakfast. Never saying a word to each other if I accidentally come upon him by the pool and he’s out there, either working out or swimming.

It’s me. I set the rules and Zach’s been so careful about protecting me and this stupid job.

I realize that I don’t like it.

I don’t like the necessary secrecy and that he’s touching someone else. I don’t like that he’s too engrossed in her to notice me.

A sound rises in my throat, a mixture of a gasp and maybe a hiccup. A sad, jealous hiccup and somehow, it reaches him.

Zach lifts his eyes and looks straight at me. His lips part and my own purse.

Leslie notices that she doesn’t have his attention anymore, so she turns around and, finding me there, she beams.

Her smile is so enthusiastic that I can’t even hate her for being close to what I want.

“Hey, Cleo. Come on in,” she chirps.

“Ah, finally you’re here. Come, I made the English custard again.” Maggie smiles fondly at Zach. “It’s Master Zach’s favorite.”

English custard.

I smile slightly at both of them before turning back to Zach. He’s sitting there rigid, his jaw clenched in that angry, mean way of his.

What does he have to be angry about? I’m the one who’s feeling betrayed.

“It’s okay,” I say, keeping my eyes on him. “If it’s… Mr. Prince’s favorite, then he should have all of it.”

With that, I spin around and get out of there.

I’m in such a hurry that I bump into someone at the end of the hallway. It’s Ryan.

He steadies me with his hands on my shoulders. “You okay?”

His gentle voice makes me want to cry but I hold on. “Yeah. Sorry. I should stop doing that to you.”

Chuckling, he says, “I don’t mind.”

“How are you?” I ask, studying his handsome face.

He has always made me feel safe. Always.

And now that I look at him, I realize that maybe I wasn’t made for safe. Safe does nothing for me. I wasn’t made to be handled with gentle fingers and soft touches.

Maybe I was made for rough strokes, pulling hands and harsh stares.