ARROGANT PLAYBOY (27 page)

“Hey, Waverly.” I spin around
to see Cade Corbin, the guy who’s been relentlessly pursuing me since middle
school. His perennial tan, cleft chin, and deep blue eyes always seem to work
in tandem to try and melt my resolve, but I’ve stayed strong. “What are you
doing this weekend?”

“Cade.” I fight a grin and
shake my head as we trudge ahead. Every week he asks me this. He knows I’m not
allowed to have a boyfriend. He knows I can’t date. He refuses to give up. I’m
quite positive he only wants me because he can’t have me. “Who’s that guy you
walked in with this morning?”

“A family friend.”

Cade slips his arm around my
shoulders as he walks me to History. He’s tall and lanky, star of our
cross-country team. The space around him is scented with clean shampoo and
fabric softener, and there’s a hint of peppermint on his breath as he talks.

“Family friend,” he repeats,
drawing out each syllable as his eyes crinkle.

I resist the urge to apologize
or explain. I’m not dating Cade, and Jensen is… Jensen.

We stop outside my classroom
and Cade brushes my arm as he tells me goodbye. He’s sweet, and I’m sure if my
family met him, they’d love him. It’d be nice to be able to date. To be kissed.
To experience the highs and lows of teenage love like the rest of my
classmates.

I think about dating all the
time. Sometimes, in my daydreams, I’m someone else. I’m not AUB. I’m a “normal”
teenage girl. I date and drive fast and break into liquor cabinets and stay out
late and flirt and attend parties. It’s my super-secret second life, lived out
only in my fantasies.

And as much as Jensen grates on
my nerves, and despite the fact that he’s part of the family, I thought about
him last night. I fell asleep imagining the way his lips would feel against
mine, and the way his body could pin me against the bed and make me his in all
sorts of ways. I pulled out the old Harlequin novel stashed between my mattress
and box springs and flipped to page one-seventy-six, reading the steamiest
scene in the book and pretending it was us.

I shake my head and snap out of
it, take my seat in the front row, and flip my notebook open. I can’t think
about him. And it’s all kinds of wrong. He’s my brother now, and that will
never change. Our parents are eternally sealed to one another.

JENSEN

“You can drop me off at A1 Auto Repair.” I
climb into Waverly’s car after school gets out. She’s been waiting a good
twenty minutes, and she’s clearly pissed. I can’t help that I got cornered on
my way out by a whole gaggle of junior girls trying to flirt with me. They
couldn’t flirt their way out of a paper bag, but that’s neither here nor there.
“You know where that is?”

“For future reference, my
schedule will not revolve around your social life.” Her eyes dart to the clock
on her dash before she slams her car into drive. I haven’t had a chance to
buckle up. “Where were you the last block? I thought we had AP English
together?”

“I swapped English out for
another art class.” I roll down the window. It might be April and sixty degrees
outside, but her car is a fucking sauna. What is it with girls claiming they’re
freezing all the time?

“Don’t you need English to
graduate?” Her words are fast and choppy, as if she is personally offended I
dropped that class. That or she’s still mega-pissed about having to wait on me.

“Nope.” I take in a sharp
breath of heated air that glazes my lungs with a soup-like coating. “Just
needed chemistry. Everything else is elective. Plus, I took AP English last
year.”

She snaps her gaze toward me
and then returns to the road. I know what people see when they look at me. My
outside and insides contrast. I throw people for a loop. I’m smart, and I’m a
smartass. It works for me.

“Oh,” she says. She squints
into the afternoon sun, then snaps the visor down and grips the steering wheel.

“You okay? You seem kind of…”

I don’t know what she seems
like. I’ve known her for all of a couple of days. All I know is she walks
around with a holier-than-though attitude, and when she’s not busy prancing
around as Mark Miller’s golden child, she’s huffing and sighing and keeping her
opinions to herself like she’s forbidden to speak them.

“It’s not good to keep things
in.” I stretch my arm across her small car, hooking it behind the driver’s
seat.

“I’m not keeping anything in.
I’m dealing with everything in my own way. Thank you for your concern.”

It sounds like a canned
response, and I don’t buy it. “You’re an angry girl.”

More
like sexually frustrated.

“How would you know?” She spits
her words with a wrinkled nose.

“Told you earlier. I’m smarter
than everybody else.”

“Hate to break it to you,
Jensen, but you’re not.”

“Ouch.” I clap my hand across
my chest as if she’s just aimed and shot at me. “I doubt you’ll be calling me
stupid when I’m tutoring you for your calculus final.”

“How do you know I’m taking
calc?”

“I know everything about
everything, kid. Tried to warn you. I’m all-knowing and all-powerful.
Omnipotent. O-m-n-i-p—”

She jabs an elbow into my side
and retrieves it just as quickly, which tells me she’s not a girl used to being
physical with anybody. This girl has a shit ton of pent up anger and
frustration. If she needs to take it out on me, I’ll gladly be her human
punching bag. I don’t mind when it’s going toward a good cause.

“Saw you walk into your class
on my way to Mixed Media. Our classrooms are down the hall from each other.
Relax.” I rub the dull ache in my rib cage until it subsides. She’s got to do
better than that next time. That was weak.

Waverly pulls up to a
mechanic’s shop with gray cinderblock walls and five bays. A yellow sign with
black and red lettering says, “A1 Auto Repair.” She slams on her brakes, which
I’m guessing is her way of telling me to get the fuck out. God, I’d kill to
hear her say “fuck” or “damn.” Or even “hell.”

For a second, I debate asking
if she’ll come pick me up in a couple hours, but I don’t dare. If looks could
kill…

“Thanks for the ride.” She
peels out of the parking lot before I have a chance to shut the door behind me.
“All right, then.”

I’m greeted by jingle bells on
the door and a cashier with a nametag reading “Liberty” across her pinstriped
button-down. It’s a mechanic’s shirt, but she has it open just enough to offer
the world a shameless sneak-peak at her cleavage. Her hair is long, dark, and
wild, and she has the same glass-blue eyes as Waverly.

“Can I help you?” She snaps her
gum between cherry-red lips. She’s so busy working her Bubble Yum six ways from
Sunday she doesn’t bother to smile.

“I’m Jensen. Mark Miller sent
me here for a job.”

“Ah, yes. Uncle Mark,” she
says, picking up the phone and pressing three buttons. The cuffs of her shirt
are hiked up just enough to show she’s got a whole sleeve of tattoos going on.
Judging by her smooth baby face, she’s barely old enough to drink. “Dad, that
guy that Uncle Mark sent is here.” She hangs up. “You can have a seat. He’ll be
out.”

I locate a dingy aluminum chair
and grab a stale issue of
Car and Driver,
flipping to the middle and hoping to find a half-interesting article somewhere.

“So, you’re one of the Millers
now.” Liberty’s mouth turns into a knowing half-smile.

“Not a Miller.” I clear my
throat and flip the page. It’s not that I’m proud to be a Mackey, it’s just
there’s no way in hell I’ll ever be a fucking Miller.

“Yeah, but you’re Uncle Mark’s
third wife’s son from another marriage. Right? Did I get that right?”

“Something like that.”

“It’s okay. I know about their,
uh, lifestyle,” she laughs. “My mom and Waverly’s dad are brother and sister.
We’re not poly, or anything, but we know about them. Family’s family, right?”

I flip another page and mutter,
“Forever and always.”

“Uncle Mark is fucking nuts.”
She says it with a heavy connotation, as if I should know what she’s talking
about by now.

“Only known him a couple days.”

“Well, you’re in for a real
treat.” She slides her body against the counter and leans against her arm,
yawning. She’s far too young to be this tired at three thirty in the afternoon.
“Sorry. Out way too late last night.”

“That supposed to impress me?”
I’m fucking with her, but it’s mostly because this
Car and Driver
magazine is old as hell. She should take it as a
compliment.

“Look, I’m not trying to
impress you. Just making a statement. Don’t flatter yourself. You’re too young
for me. Plus, I’m taken.”

“Poor guy.”

She scoffs and flips me off
with a shit-eating grin. I kind of like her. If I were looking for a friend, I
might consider someone like her. Her sass isn’t unlike mine, and it’s a breath
of fresh air in the boring land of Whispering Hills, Utah. I have a feeling
we’re both treading the same dark water, in some way or another.

“Jensen?” A man appears from
behind Liberty. His dark hair matches hers, though his eyes are black as coal.
He wipes his oil-stained hand on a dirty shop rag and extends it. “I’m Rich.
Mark said you needed a job?”

“Mark said you needed a…
gofer
.”

“I do.” He motions for me to
follow him out to the shop. A team of young guys are rolling tires, hoisting
cars up on lifts, and running hydraulic tools. We weave between a sea of
vehicles until we reach a back room where all the parts are kept. “You familiar
with car parts?”

I nod.

“Good.” He hooks his thumbs
into the belt loops of his dirty gray pants and rocks back and forth on his
heels. He may as well be chewing the end of a piece of straw. He takes me in
from head to toe, sizing me up before he makes it official. “Pay is eight bucks
an hour. You can work a couple hours after school during the week. Saturday
mornings too, if you want to pick up extra hours.”

“I’ll have to look into
transportation, but I think I can make that work.”

His brows furrow. “Got an old
diesel Dodge in the back. Doesn’t run. Been meaning to fix it up myself and
sell it. If you can get it running, it’s yours. You can work off the parts, if
you need to. Just keep a running tab with Lib. Keys are in it.”

I’m not sure what I did to
deserve such a karmic pay off, but I wholeheartedly accept.

I spend the next two hours
running parts back and forth. The guys are friendly enough, but I’m not here to
make friends. By seven, Rich says I can mess around with the Dodge for a bit,
which is good because I have no other way to get home, and I’m not about to
phone in any favors from Waverly.

I pop the hood and tinker
around a bit, running back and forth from the shop floor and grabbing various
tools and parts. Mostly new spark plugs and a battery get it running, but it
sounds like a dying cow. It’s going to need a timing belt soon and a few other
odds and ends, but it should get me back and forth for the next few days.

“Congratulations,” Rich says
come eight o’clock. He hands me the title to the Dodge with his signature on it
and shakes my hand. I get the feeling he’s taking pity on me. I don’t like the
pity, but I’m not in a position to turn down the free truck.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now get on home, boy. I know
Mark likes his kids home by a decent hour.”

I restrain myself from telling
him I’m not one of Mark’s kids. I’m Kath’s son, biologically speaking, and I’m
only passing through for a few months. Instead I bite my tongue, offer a nod,
and climb up in my silver and blue truck.

Blazing through the quiet
streets of Whispering Hills in my loud-as-fuck ride, I’ve never felt more
alive. For the first time in years, I’ll get to go home and not be met with the
Spanish Inquisition, be slapped around, or be reminded I’m a piece of shit
disappointment.

I almost smile.

Instead, I crank the radio,
roll down the window, and go for a drive until the moon is high in the sky.

By the time I pull up in front
of the street I’ve now dubbed the Suburban Compound, the main house is lit up like
the Fourth of July. But the silhouette of a man peering out the living room
window with his hands on his hips is concerning.

I drag myself up the steps and
show myself in, bracing for rapid-fire questions from Mark-of-Many-Wives
Miller. It’s hard to take a man serious who truly believes with all his heart
that marrying multiple women is a straight ticket into the pearly gates of
Heaven.

“Before you say anything,” I
begin. “I stayed late after work fixing up this old truck Rich gave me.”

“I called Rich.” Mark’s face is
the color of a beet. I never knew the human face could turn such a garish
purplish red. “He said you left the shop two hours ago. Where were you, Jensen?
What do you have to say for yourself?”

None of the wives are in sight.
Discipline must not be on their chore list for tonight.

“I went for a drive. Had to
clear my head.”

“You call, Jensen. You don’t
just take off and not tell anyone where you’re going.” The vein in his head is
protruding, and he’s halfway to an aneurysm by now. He’s trying to make it
sound like he gives a shit about me, but I know what this really is. It’s a
control thing with him. He’s got his wives and daughters and children under his
thumb, but not me. He doesn’t quite know how to wrangle me in yet. News
flash—he’ll never be able to. “Your mother was worried sick.”

Right
.

Must have been why her house
was pitch black when I pulled up.

“Nothing good ever happens
after dark,” Mark continues his lecture.

“It won’t happen again.” I want
him off my case. I’m tired, I want a sandwich, and I want to go the fuck to
bed. I swallow a big old batch of pride and lower my head in faux-shame.

“Damn right it won’t.”

Uh-oh.
Mark said damn. He must be angry.

“All due respect, Mark, you
really don’t need to worry about me. I can handle my—”

“I won’t have you coming in
here, setting your own rules and disrespecting the rest of the family.” His
nostrils flare, pulling in long, hard breaths like a bull about to charge. “We have
a strict eight o’clock curfew in his household. The example you’re setting is
completely inappropriate.”

“Be home in time for
Dateline.
Got it.”

His mouth parts for a second.
He wants to continue lecturing and berating me, but he doesn’t. Instead he pulls
in a deep breath and rubs his tired eyes. He’s giving me that look—the
same one Rich gave me. They look at me like I’m some victim—an abused,
defenseless little boy. I’m anything but, and I refuse to ever identify as a
fucking victim.

Mark mutters something like,
“goodnight.” He’s gone, disappearing into the darkness of the main house. I
head straight for the kitchen, pulling a loaf of white bread from the pantry
and ransacking the fridge for something to shove between a couple slices.

I grab a packet of bologna and
a bottle of ketchup and slam the door. My heart nearly falls clear to my feet
when a figure standing in the kitchen doorway appears without warning. My eyes
focus in the dark until I recognize those virginal Coke bottle curves.