In Control (The City Series) (2 page)

“K,” he turned on his side to look at me, “can I talk to you about something?”

“Is it going to ruin the moment?”

“Depends on your answer.”

“Go for it,” I warily replied.

He sat up, clearing his throat as if he were about to make a long speech. I had no idea what he was going to say, but I had a feeling it was going to change everything. Wren and I hadn’t outwardly declared our feelings for each other, though sometimes when he looked at me, his eyes screamed the three words I never wanted to hear again.

The last time I had heard those words, I believed them. My heart sputtered against my chest. It wanted what it couldn’t have. There was no way I’d ever allow those words to pass my lips again.

“Will you come to the Hamptons with me?”

As soon as the question left Wren’s mouth, my lips immediately formed the answer that would make his day. I forced my mouth to close, practically choking on the three-letter word. I couldn’t say yes. Accepting Wren’s invitation meant finally admitting to myself that I was serious about someone. It meant turning off my bright, neon vacancy sign and sleeping with both eyes closed.

It meant I was ready to give my heart away.

I reached for his hand, my fingers caressing the black, inked letters on his knuckles. Wren displayed the word
love
proudly, whereas I could barely mutter it.

“Say something. Give me an answer. Please?”

“I-I can’t,” I faltered. “I’m supposed to spend some time with Trish. Visit London. Learn how to be British or some shit like that.” My brain commanded my mouth to shut up, but the message got lost in translation.

“You can’t or you won’t?” Wren pulled his hand from my grasp, folding his arms in his lap. His tone went from hopeful to bitter in seconds.

“You know I would go if I could.”

“What I know is that you’re lying to me and yourself,” he said harshly, rolling out of bed and walking to the far corner of his room, disappearing into his massive closet.

My lies were wrapped in cellophane, and he could easily see through each and every one of them. I fixed my gaze onto the vaulted ceiling, my eyes focusing on the blades of the fan. I began counting the number of times it spun around. One, two, three...

Wren stood at the foot of the bed, dressed in a pair of baggy gray sweatpants. Each of his arms were covered in tattoos. Vibrant blues, purples, and greens wrapped around his sun-kissed skin. His face showed no sign of emotion as he stared down at me.

“You don’t give a shit that I’m pissed, do you?”

I focused on the single black swallow tattooed on Wren’s chest, its wings spread as if it were ready to fly away. At that moment, I wished I had a set of my own.

I looked into his sad eyes and fabricated the reasons behind my answer. “It’s not like I’d be missing much. Drunk girls and guys groping each other on the beach. Rich housewives gawking at the young boys they can’t have no matter how much plastic surgery they pay for. It’s just not my thing, plus I don’t want to let Trish down.”

I was lying about London. Trish mentioned the idea months ago, but we hadn’t discussed it since then. If faking an overseas vacation would get me out of going to the Hamptons, then so be it.

“You’re lying to me, but fine. Go to London.”

He said London in air quotes, and I could feel my bones shaking under my skin. Wren had to understand that I couldn’t say yes. He had to know that I wanted to, I just couldn’t.

I rolled my eyes and lied through my teeth. “Thank you. I will.”

“You know what, Kingsley? Forget I ever fucking asked you!” Wren yelled, stalking off to his living room and slamming the bedroom door on his exit.

I reluctantly climbed out of bed and pulled on my thong and tank top, then strutted out to the living room with the sweetest smile I could muster. If this seduction tactic didn’t work, I’d have to start questioning my abilities.

“Wren!” I called out sweetly. I turned the corner to see him sitting on his black, leather couch, a book in his lap. “Are you seriously ignoring me?” I made my way around the leather sectional and stood in front of him with my hands on my hips. I was barely clothed, so I doubted the cold shoulder act would last long.

“I’m tired of your bullshit, Kingsley. We’ve been doing this thing, whatever the hell you want to call it, for nine months now, and anytime a serious discussion is on the horizon, you get all cold and distant,” Wren said, continuing to study the words on the page.

“You knew what you were getting into the moment you fucked me. It was obvious I wasn’t going to be the type to fawn all over you every second of the day.” My voice rose. “I’m not a serious discussion kind of girl, got that?” Anger surged in the pit of my stomach. I could hear the front door screaming my name.

Wren threw the book down on the coffee table, the glass shaking from its weight. When he stood, his face was nearly touching mine. “You think I don’t know what the hell I was getting into when I met you? I knew I’d be putting myself out there. Maybe it’s fucked up that I continue to deal with it, but that’s what I’m doing because I care about you! Can you honestly tell me I’m not what you want? Because if that’s the case, then maybe I’ve been wasting my time.”

I backed away from him, shaking my head vigorously, hoping that it would erase the screaming thoughts that were commanding me to confess my feelings. I quickly walked into his bedroom, his footsteps trailing behind me.

“Oh, look at that—she’s running away from the problem.” His voice was growing deeper the angrier he became.

I threw on my pants and walked to his nightstand, grabbing my phone and purse.

“Talk to me!” he demanded. Wren grabbed my entire body, swinging me around to face him. “Admit it! I don’t know what you’re afraid of, but please, just admit that this,” his hand motioned between our bodies, “has turned into way more than just fucking.”

I was ready to explode with anger. It was
only
fucking. That’s all that I’d ever allow it to be. I was so mad at myself for blurring the lines I’d drawn. From the very beginning I wasn’t going to get close, but now it was all I wanted. Wanting had always let me down. I’d wanted a family. I’d wanted to erase my past. These things I’d wanted were all permanently sketched on my skin and in my heart, so there was no way I could make the mistake of wanting something ever again.

“Don’t ever grab me like I’m your property!” I exploded. “Get your fucking hands off me!” I pushed Wren away and heard his body hit the wall. “Have fun in the Hamptons!”

I walked as fast as I could to the front door, listening as he called my name over and over. The pain in his voice was so evident, I could practically feel it in my own bones. Before turning the doorknob, I pivoted back around, glancing at the walls that encased my happiness. For just a second, I allowed my eyes to drown.

Quit it! Quit it! Quit it!
Four tiny fists were banging on the bathroom door, demanding me to hurry up. This spot, the cold tile underneath me, was the only place I could find solace. Every morning I had ten minutes to myself. Four minutes to shower. Three minutes to brush my hair and pull it into a bun. Three minutes to brush my teeth and get dressed. Within those minutes, I’d make myself presentable. I’d wear a smile that imitated hot, sunny days and glasses of sweet tea. It was hard to fake a happiness that I’d never felt, but I couldn’t reveal my secrets to anyone.

My classmates thought of me as the quiet girl that always had her nose in her notebook. My teachers sensed I was troubled, but none of them ever asked about my personal life. By flying under the radar, no one had any clue how sad I actually was.

I sat up, wiped my tears away, and opened the door like I did every morning for the past two years. My bare feet padded down the carpeted steps, taking each one slowly, not wanting to walk into the kitchen any earlier than I had to. It was happening already. Mr. and Mrs. Henderson were raising their voices, arguing about how they were going to pay the bills.

“We have mouths to feed in this home! How do you expect me to do that if you’re cutting work every other day to gamble?” Mrs. Henderson exploded.

“Mind your own fucking business! It was your idea to foster all of these kids!” Mr. Henderson yelled back.

The Hendersons had one biological child. The rest of us were
“saved,” which is what Mrs. Henderson liked to call it every time one of the children asked for something.

I saved you from that damn shelter. You’re lucky you even get to eat.

I saved you from that hellish place. You’re lucky you aren’t sleeping on the floor with no blankets.

In reality, we
saved
the Hendersons. It was because of the
eight of us that they were getting paychecks from the state.

I rounded the corner, wary of making my presence known. The Hendersons treated me the same way you’d treat a rat you had found in one of your cupboards. The moment you see it, you grab whatever weapon you can find and bash its head in.

I spent 912 days trying to convince myself to run away, but running away was impossible when you had nowhere to run to.

“Look who it is,” Mrs. Henderson turned in my direction, a disgusted look on her face, “the little girl who thinks she’s too good to live here.”

I stepped into the kitchen, my feet sticking to the tattered tile. I kept my head down, biting on my tongue to keep from lashing out. It was too hard to cover bruises on my face.

“G-good morning.”

My stuttering response made Mr. Henderson focus on me. He studied my face for a few seconds too long before plopping down on one of the oak chairs and grabbing the sports section off the table.

“Kingsley,” Mrs. Henderson always called my name as if just saying it made her head hurt, “hurry and eat your breakfast. The other kids will be down soon.”

The dining table only sat ten. Since I was the
worthless
child (their words), I had to eat everything off of my plate before the other children came downstairs. The Hendersons explained my absence as me thinking I was too good to eat with the rest of them.

“Yes, ma’am.” I ate the unflavored oatmeal out of the same chipped bowl I always used. My taste buds had become so accustomed to the lack of variety that even on the rare days where I’d get an apple, I was no longer able to enjoy the sweetness. I’d never had the luxury of drinking pop or eating ice cream. Seeing them on TV only prompted my stomach to crave the decadent treats.

With my last spoonful of oatmeal, I heard the rest of the children bounding down the stairs, sounding like elephants stampeding toward the kitchen, eight different voices shouting over one another. Their enthusiasm for being in this house only proved that the Hendersons had yet to crush their spirits.

I swiftly stood from the chair before the Hendersons could look my way and brought my bowl to the sink full of overflowing pots and pans. It was still early and my school day didn’t begin for another hour and a half, so I had to find something to do until then. The Hendersons wouldn’t allow Jenny or the other older children to watch me, and since the Hendersons left for work at seven each morning—Mrs. part-time at the local Goodwill and Mr. full-time at Bill’s Auto Care—I had no choice but to walk to school early and wait for one of the teachers to let me in.

My backpack was hung in the closet, along with all of the others, each one battered from the years of reuse. I’d had mine since I was nine, and after four years, the holes had to be covered with duct tape. It was beginning to look like something from outer space and I was tempted to draw a face on it and make it look like a robot.

“Kingsley, we need to have a discussion when you get home from school!” Mrs. Henderson called as I opened the door.

I’d been good lately. I hadn’t talked back. I covered all my bruises and my smile never faltered. Still, I was terrified to find out what I’d done wrong this time. I nodded in response and stumbled out the front door. All day, my thoughts would be consumed with details of how I’d spent the last few days. I needed to figure out what I did wrong before talking with Mrs. Henderson. I needed to prepare myself and build up the right amount of adrenaline to get through each beating.

As I walked down the street and watched the cars leave their driveways, I imagined I was one of the kids in the back seat. Safely belted in, bobbing along to the music that was playing on the radio. In my dreams, I had a real family. Real brothers and sisters. We would spend each day laughing and dancing. Our parents would openly tell us how proud they were. Instead of pushing me away, they’d hold me in their arms and protect me from the dangers of the world.

In this fairytale, I wouldn’t have to wonder why my skin was brown and not porcelain like everyone else’s. My parents would explain to me why I didn’t have straight hair like the rest of the girls in my classroom. Mine curled in every direction and the only way to tame it was putting it in a tight bun, something I learned to do myself a few years ago.

In this fairytale, my childhood wouldn’t be tainted. I wouldn’t be ruined.

I realized my fantasies would never come true. I would never know who my real parents were or why they got rid of me. I’d asked the social workers about them, but the reasons I was given were never enough to satisfy my curiosity. I was beginning to think I was dropped off on the doorstep of the children’s shelter and no one had ever even seen my parents.