No Perfect Princess (6 page)

Check, check, and check. Filled boxes backing the bigger truth: that if I cut a one-eighty right here and now, I’d pull any excuse I could to get near Margaux again. And once I was there, I’d find reasons to get my hands on her. Then my lips. As far as where things went from there…

Fuck
.

I had a goddamn healthy imagination when it came to that woman these days.

Well, whaddya know. Denali steering wheels made for decent punching bags.

Reversion to adolescence? No shit. But beating up the steering wheel was a better option than taking the road like I was Speed Racer in the Mach Five, the spiffy sexual frustration model.

Damn. I’d really tilted left of sideways—to worse degrees than I’d originally thought. What the
hell
? The view was
not
pleasant. Not one damn bit. Mom had worked, saved, and sacrificed for most of my life so I could be—

What? What are you, Michael Adam Pearson?
Who
are you
?

Not this.

Not
the guy who got tripped up about shit like this.

I was the one with my head screwed on tight and right. The first Pearson through college then law school. The son who said he loved his mom and meant it. The guy with the easy smile and the come-cry-here shoulders. When that was done, I helped the old ladies cross the street before stopping at the coffee shop with the town elders, ready to give them a few chuckles about “life in the big city”.

And yeah, I liked being that guy. Sometimes, even needed it. More importantly, I knew Mom did, too. I was
her
phoenix, the good rising out of a hell of a lot of bad, reminding us both that tough times didn’t last but tough people did.

I just needed some wisdom about the
other
times. The moments when I didn’t feel so goddamn golden. When I peeled back the layers and let the animal out. The passions, deep and dark and primeval, that didn’t just ask for release but demanded it. Burned for it.

And with alarming frequency, showed up to collect…every time my eyes locked into the gorgeous green seas of Margaux’s. In those split seconds after we kissed—

When
her
eyes changed, too.

As if she was calling my animal out to play.

Like she’d enjoy it.

Hell, no.

Delusions. That was all they were. Desperate delusions from a brain the woman had turned to mulch, and the balls she’d turned into—

It keeps coming around to those bastards, doesn’t it?

How had I done this? Turned the most fascinating window in my life into a pane I could barely look through anymore, because of the smears of my depraved fantasies…triggered by the agony of continuing to get near her.

Not anymore.

The vow was an ice pick in the chest, but I forced the thing in. She was Margaux Corina Asher. The Princess of PR. And yeah…sometimes a bitch, too. At other times, a girl barely grown. Then others, a cock-grabbing combo of the two, smart and sexy blended until a guy couldn’t breathe for being stunned in her presence.

But she was always,
always
, a princess.

Princesses weren’t created for guys like me.

They were made to be spoiled and worshipped, wined and dined, pampered and romanced…

Not groped, fondled, then fucked like a peasant in the hay.

Which had absolutely become my favorite fantasy lately.

Her nipples stiffening against my tongue then flattened between my teeth. Her legs hiked around my waist. The imprints of my hands on her thighs, opening her wider for me, obeying my order to stay that way as I lined up my cock to her pink, tight entrance and—

“
Fuck
.”

Four weeks of sleeping on Spiderman sheets suddenly made perfect sense again.

Annnd, with the uncanny timing she always had, Mom called. I jabbed a shaking thumb on the green button, ending the Duran Duran ringtone.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Greetings, beloved offspring.”

I shook my head and rolled my eyes. Had I actually wondered why Margaux’s sarcasm was so appealing? “What’s up?”

“My question exactly. I expected you here a few hours ago.”

I exhaled, our unwritten version of an apology. “I had a quick side trip to take first.”
Then the nonstop trouser wood to deal with because of it
. “I just passed Oasis Farms. And before you ask, they’re closed. No camel milk chocolate for you tonight.” She loved that stuff!

Her chuckle warmed the line. “I stocked up last week. Oh, and I learned both the farm’s calves got sold.”

“Thank God.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No comment.”

“A couple of camels would’ve been fun to have around!”

“
No comment
.”

She capitulated with a playfully huffed, “Fine. Just get your ass here safely. Good to know you’re close. Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Yesssss.” I could practically smell her fried chicken and homemade apple sauce through the line. It was my favorite meal, always served the first night I came home to help with the yearly paperwork.

“See you soon, then.”

“Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“Have I mentioned how much I love you?”

She laughed again, this time adding a little
psshh
. “That’s your stomach talking, baby bear, but I’ll take it while I can get it.”

I hung up without saying goodbye, with the full knowledge of fueling her laughter more. I’d hated “baby bear” even when I
was
one, but it’d remained her private way of ribbing me through the years. I grinned and cranked up the radio. Nothing like a little Simon and Garfunkel to add a touch of hipster-approved perfection to the moment.

Home, where my thought’s escaping; home, where my music’s playing…

The steering wheel turned into my drum. Felt a lot better than a punching bag. I let down the window, inviting air that added a brisk snare to my drum, pine and oak and the smoky undertones unique to nighttime in the mountains. Shock of shocks, I managed a full breath that wasn’t mostly stress. And even a few more.

Left clicker on, along with the headlights, as afternoon blended to twilight. I swung the truck through the still-open gate, its two halves splitting up one word welded into the wrought iron:

PEAR
 ----- 
SON’S

Just beyond the gates was the farm’s first grove, many branches dipped low by brave off-season apples. Thirty feet in, a directional sign told stores and restaurants to veer right for bulk deliveries. Fifty feet later, another guided the public to the left for apple picking, hay rides, and the petting zoo. Just beyond that, I passed the darkened gift shop before turning down a smaller road through the groves, toward the house I grew up in.

Another deep breath. As slowly, surely, I began to feel normal again.

What was that famous expression, about conclusions belonging to the stupid? There wasn’t one? Damn time someone changed that. They could use me as the world’s first and best justification.

A grunt and growl combo’ed their way through my teeth as I slammed on the brakes. The asshole in the middle of the road didn’t offer many more options. He didn’t flinch as the truck screeched, continuing to scroll messages on his phone.

I shifted into park, shoved open the door, and slammed my left boot to the step, swinging upward. With one elbow braced to the roof and the other atop the open door, I gave myself a silent command.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Was I really doing just that, calmly and normally, a minute ago?

Calm wasn’t a remote option now.

Calm and Declan Pearson would never belong in the same thought for me. Ever.

He lifted his head, showing threads of gray through his trend-conscious hair and well-trimmed beard. I was almost surprised he’d decided to go natural, until realizing he’d likely figured a way to get traction out of the “distinguished guy” vibe. Declan didn’t make a move in his life without it serving one higher purpose. Himself.

“Welcome home, Michael.” A quick sweep of his stare took in what he could see of me. “San Diego certainly suits you. Looking well, son.”

“I’m not your son.”

I gave myself an inward fist bump for straining the emotion from it. Probably could’ve performed brain surgery with less difficulty.

The little clicks off his tongue presented a different challenge. My senses went Pavlovian, heartrate spiking and stomach clenching as if I were twelve again, face down on my bed after I’d threatened to call the cops on his ass if he didn’t stop backhanding Mom—and he prepared to punish me double for it. Those tongue clicks. Then his deadly pacing. Then the
thwack
of the belt as he pulled it from the loops—

Breathe.

Breathe
.

No pacing. Only crickets. The wind through the groves. A car passing up on the highway.

“Now, now. Is that any way to say hello to your one and only uncle? I thought your mother did better than that. Maybe I should’ve come around more to help.”

“Hmmm. Yeah. Too bad about that. Restraining orders can be such fuckers.”

Bulls-eye
. His gaze tightened enough to confirm my hit. “Your welfare was always my primary concern, my boy.”

I’m not your goddamn boy, either.
Nothing
of mine is yours, you depraved bastard.
“Since this conversation is already a waste of my time, let’s just cut to the chase. What the fuck do you want, Dec?”

He spread his arms, going for the saint-on-stained-glass pose. I thought of telling him that shit didn’t work when you were Lucifer incarnate, but why spoil the laugh? “Only what’s best for you and Diana.”

“Leave Mom out of this.”
You’re in dangerous territory now, fucker.

“Then leave your little girl emotions out, too.” He squared his shoulders and bounded forward. My grunt, shocking even me when it burst like a defensive elephant, stopped him short. “Talk some sense into her. You read the papers, listen to the news. The whole state is in a damn drought, and—”

“I told you to leave her out of this.” The words sliced at myself as much as him. I should’ve seen through him like crystal a full minute ago.

“So you think you’re being a ‘good son’, letting her have her way about this? Being her sweet golden boy by letting her keep the river a little secret from everyone?”

“If it was ‘little’, I doubt you—or your oil company buddies—would still be jizzing in your rompers about it.” Calculated glare. “A river on pristine private property, fed by a boundless underground spring—the perfect source to help out with the off-shore fracking they want to start down here. How convenient.”

A heavy breath whooshed from him. Fuck, I hoped he really hadn’t done the jizzing in his pants thing.
Yech.
Could’ve lived without that visual. “Instead of phrasing it like we’re about to rape puppies, why not think of it as keeping your mother financially comfortable for the rest of her life?”

“She’s comfortable the way she is.”

“Really, now? Hmmm. If you say so, then. Who would I be to tell a man he doesn’t know the needs of his own mother?”

His tone, morning lake calm, was an insinuation of the opposite. I swore not to nibble his bait—but shit, I already had. The new knot in my gut said as much.

Was that instinct wrong? Who
was
I to claim what Mom really wanted now? She’d married into this life. Fallen head over heels for Dad when their paths collided at the base in San Diego, he freshly returned from the Middle East, she a civilian contractor. The second he got out, they were married and moved up here. A couple of years later, I came along.

She’d known nothing but this farm for a very long time.

Did she want to?

The blank space my mind gave as answer only sharpened my angry retort. “Fuck off, Declan.”

He chuckled. Smug ass wart. “Glad we had this chat, Michael.” He stashed his phone and cocked his head. “By the way, a little birdie tells me you’re planning on staying longer than a few days this time. I’ll be around, too. Give a holler if you want to shoot the shit about…things.”

A holler. Right. I’d get right on that—especially if he guaranteed the meeting would conclude with his hacked-off dick in his filthy mouth.

The fantasy kept me company while I swung back into the truck and jammed it back into Drive. Once more ramming my tension into my pedal foot, I gunned the engine enough to create a lovely spray of dirt and leaves in my wake. Tonguing dust out of his teeth ought to keep the bastard uncomfortable for a while.

Uncomfortable?

I wanted the dildo to suffer. Badly. Especially now, as another moment of clarity hit—like laying in a pile of glass after falling through a window.

I’d worked hard. Left the farm. Made it big in the city. But in less than five minutes, Declan Pearson could turn me back into that trembling kid, taking my blows as Mom watched from the corner, covered in her own bruises.

We’d both covered our scars with tattoos.

But they were still scars.

No wonder I couldn’t think about getting intimate with a woman unless raunch and dirt were involved. Maybe that was simply who I was now.

Maybe part of that fucker’s depravity really had rubbed off on me.

Maybe that was why I excelled at the friend zone—and nothing more.

Maybe this was a really good time to remind myself of that—no matter how goddamn hard it got, even sixty miles from the woman I still couldn’t stop thinking about.

“It’ll get easier.” I repeated it beneath my breath. Once. Twice. A third time. Eventually, I had to believe it—or drive myself insane trying to. Either was a better option than living with the day in, day out torment of dreaming about Margaux Asher—and the agony of knowing none of it would ever come true.

Margaux

I
knew I
should’ve sent a text to Michael
before
I went out for New Year’s Eve. The drunk text message carnage on my phone the next morning was both endearing and mortifying. I would pay the next time we spoke, that much was obvious.