9 Years Ago:
My eyelids half close, the fogginess of sleep threatening to take me down.
Here, in the middle of 5th period chemistry class, would be a bad place to fall asleep. But it’s dark, the heat is on full blast, and it’s grey and very January-ish outside.
The movie we’re watching on the importance of eye safety - something Mr. Turner, our chemistry teacher, insists on making us watch before any lab segment we do - drones softly from the TV at the front of the room. A middle-aged woman with Donna Summers hair explains in a voice far too calm for the situation behind her, why it’s important to flush acid from the eyes if you get some in there.
Duh fucking duh.
The younger girl behind her - the one with the acid in the eyeballs, rocks comically side to side, holding her left eye.
“Oh no!” she says it in this hilariously drawn out, overly dramatic way.
And here it comes.
We’ve watched this four times so far this year, so the whole class knows it’s coming. The girl on screen glances back across the fake chemistry classroom at a handsome guy with blonde, eighties Flock Of Seagulls hair and a blue and white varsity football jacket who flashes this super cheesy smile at the camera before it pans back to acid-face.
“Bobby Jones will never take me at prom now!”
The class erupts into laughter.
At. The freaking video seriously says “Bobby will never take me at prom”, instead of, presumably, “to” prom. Mr. Tanner coughs and frowns at the class.
“Settle down, settle down. This is important.”
Even I’m smiling, albeit quietly to myself as the whole class hoots and giggles. The camera pans back to our Donna-Summers-hair video host.
“A perfect night, ruined by one minute of carelessness,” she says seriously. Her overly red lips pursed tight.
“Jackie should have used protection.”
The class, predictably, erupts again as the video moves on to something about fire extinguishers.
Mr. Tanner is still trying to calm everyone down, but something catches my attention outside the window. I turn and immediately roll my eyes.
They’re honestly beyond any rules. Zero repercussions. Untouchable in their wealth and privilege.
Bastian, Tyler Van Der Haus, Dylan Forbes, and Asher Harrington are camped out in the parking lot between Bastian’s ludicrously expensive, flashy sports car and Tyler’s brand new Mercedes Benz SUV with the chrome detailing and the matte black finish. They’re parked in the faculty lot, by the way, but that’s also the least of their transgressions at the moment.
Bastian is smoking freely - on school grounds, like that’s not a problem. Even better, I watch as Asher opens bottles of beer with his keys and passes them around.
It’s eleven in the morning, on a Wednesday, in a high school faculty parking lot, and they’re eighteen. And no one has anything to say about this. Not the entire wing of the school - including Principle Worther’s office, which has a clear view of all of this. Of course no one says shit because they’re them. The four princes of South Neck. It also helps that Kip Van Der Haus - Tyler’s father - has just pledged a new scoreboard and new stands for the lacrosse field next year. New, because the scoreboard and stands some other rich kid’s dad bought five years ago are clearly way behind the times.
I shake my head, sitting there in the dark of Mr. Tanner’s chemistry class listening to the importance of overhead vents, while I watch the princes hold court in the parking lot. The four princes, I might add, who’ve been strangely paying attention to me recently - strangely like something’s up. Like there’s a punch line to a joke I’m not privy to waiting to jump out.
Well, I should say three of the princes are, at least. Bastian is still being Bastian to me, even if his three pals have all variously tried to ask me out over the last month - each in their own ludicrous way.
Dylan literally had a hundred roses delivered to my second period English class, along with a - badly - written poem that may have been sweeter if half of it wasn’t directly lifted from Shakespeare.
Asher cornered me in Bastian’s driveway after school the other week and asked if I’d like to sit on his face.
No, for real.
And in true over-the-top Van Der Haus way, Tyler asked me to come to St. Lucia for the weekend with him on his father’s private jet.
Three of the most popular, gorgeous, wanted guys in the school, doing crap like that for me? No way. It doesn’t add up. And I don’t mean that in a self-deprecating “I’m not worthy” way, I mean it in a “I’m not an idiot and I know there’s something going on here” way.
On the bright side, my popularity in this school is already in the toilet, so the fact that any girls at South Neck high who didn’t already hate me for not being rich now definitely hate me for having three out of the four most desirable douchebags in school fawning over me doesn’t really bother me much.
Whatever.
Out in the parking lot, Bastian pulls out a bag of what is very clearly pot. He turns, cigarette between his lips as he leans over the hood of his sports car and starts to roll a joint.
Unbelievable.
The bell rings, and I shake my head as I quickly grab my stuff and hustle from the chemistry classroom.
* * *
My heart sinks as the truck engine clicks idly for the fifth time.
You’ve gotta be kidding me.
It’s January, it’s cold, it’s getting dark, and I just want to go home. And my dad’s damn pickup truck won’t start.
I try it again, shivering in the cab, as the engine does nothing before dropping my head to the steering wheel
Shit.
The knock on the window has me jerking bolt upright, gasping as I whirl and find myself eye to eye with Bastian.
“What are you doing?”
“My—”
I frown as he cups his ear, shaking his head. I open the door and step out of the truck. Hell, it’s not like it’s any warmer in the freezing cold cab anyway.
“My truck won’t start.”
He nods, his dark eyes unreadable.
“Want a hand?”
I raise a brow suspiciously.
“What?”
“A hand. Help, Texas. Do you want some.”
“You know how to fix this?”
He frowns. “Fuck no, but I know how to call someone and pay them to fix it.”
I roll my eyes.
“I’m fine, I’ll call—”
Bastian’s phone is already out and to his ear. I watch curiously as he barks some orders into it, his eyes piercing and dark as he issues commands before hanging up and slipping it back into his pocket.
“Fucking tow truck is out. It might be a little bit.”
“Thanks.”
We stand in silence, hands jammed into coat pockets - mine the army-green hooded puffer with the Radiohead patch sewn onto it, and his the knee-length jet-black pea coat with the collar turned up. Plumes of breath whip away like clouds around our faces.
“Look, fuck it, I’ll give you a ride home. You can get this fixed tomorrow.”
I laugh. “Yeah, no thanks.”
“Oh swallow your pride, Texas.”
“No, I mean no thanks because I watched you drinking beers and smoking pot all through fifth period out here. I’m not driving with you.”
“I’m usually high when I drive.”
“Not a convincing argument.”
He arches a brow. “It’s four miles back to the estate. We’ll be there in a minute.”
“Or we’ll be in a ditch on the side of the road in half that time.”
His jaw clenches.
“You’re difficult.”
“I don’t think not wanting to die in a car crash is being difficult.”
Bastian frowns and pulls the sleeve of his coat up to glance at his silver, elegant-looking wristwatch.
“Fine, c’mon.”
He turns and starts to march over to his car, parked diagonally across four spaces a few feet away.
“Bastian, I’m not driving home with you.”
“And I’m no longer offering that. But you can sit in the damn car and not freeze your ass off while we wait for the fucking tow truck.”
I hesitate, watching him walk over and open his own door.
“Are you waiting for a formal invite?”
“No, I’m just waiting to see what you’re trying to pull here.”
“I’m trying to pull my ass not freezing off waiting for yours to get in the damn car.”
I hesitate, arms crossed over my chest as I eye him.
Screw it.
* * *
I tense as Bastian turns on the ignition.
“Bastian—”
“Calm your tits, I’m just putting the heat on.”
He pushes some buttons on the fancy, sleek dash, and heat instantly blows across my frozen face and hands from the vents in front of me. There’s a bloom of heat under me that has me shifting in my seat.
“Seat warmers,” he mutters.
I un-stiffen, letting myself sink into the rich, warm, black leather of the car seats.
“Thanks.”
Bon Iver starts playing quietly over the car stereo. Bastian doesn’t say anything. Neither do I. I guess it’s both of us deciding to ignore the fact that in eight years of knowing each other and living a stone’s throw from each other, this is the second time ever we’ve been in a car together. The first being about a year ago, when he drove me to Josh Stedman’s house the day I walked in on him screwing Kendra.
I push that particular memory away.
“We were celebrating.”
I turn to him. “What?”
“Today in the parking lot.” Bastian shrugs. “It’s not like we just decided to go have some drinks at goddamn eleven o’clock for no reason.”
“Right because that would be so crazy for you guys.”
His lips almost smile. Almost.
“Fine, I’ll bite. What were you celebrating?”
“Harvard.”
Of course. Of course one of the four princes who’s done shit all for school work for the whole of their high school career is going to Harvard.
“Wow, cool,” I say dryly. “So who’s—”
“All of us.”
I turn, staring at him and shaking my head.
This time, he does grin.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll learn so much there.”
“Oh now don’t be jealous, Texas. I’m sure NYU is just as good a school.”
I frown as I turn to him in the soft dimness of the car.
“How do you know that?”
“Your mail comes through my house, you know.”
“And you read it?”
“The thick envelope from New York University with the words ‘Welcome New Student’ printed on the side of it sort of gave it away.”
“Oh, right.” I look away.
“Pre-law?”
I glance back. “Also on the outside of an envelope?”
“No, that one I opened.”
I roll my eyes.
“And what’s wrong with wanting to be a lawyer?”
“Nothing, Ash is going to be one. But I thought you were going to be this big famous musician.”
I shake my head. “Hah, right.”
“Why not.”
“Because it’s a pipe dream? Because it’s a shot in a million?”
“Didn’t know you were such a pussy, Texas.”
“You know not all of us have a trust fund to fall back on, right?”
“Life’s all about taking chances, Ana.”
The car goes quiet at the sound of my name, each of us turning to look out our own side window until the tow truck shows up.
* * *
Present:
Strings tremble as fingers find familiar patterns. One chord bleeds into the next, finger walking up and down the neck of the guitar as the wordless melody hums from my lips. I stutter, I stop, I take a breath.
And then I start from the beginning.
The song is a work in progress and has been for months. Years, really. It was something I fooled around with when I was bored at first. Later, it was about Garret. I think. Probably not though. I guess it was more about a glorified, movie version of what Garret and I actually were, which wasn’t much when I think about it now. I came back to it a few times over the years since then, but it wasn’t until Chris moved out that I started to really tackle it again.
And it still doesn’t really fit. It still feels forced, like a puzzle piece from the “kittens playing with yarn” box that I’m trying to mash into place to finish the “hot air balloons over countryside” one.
I come to the end of what I’ve got, and start again. Words take shape and then disappear, phrases form and crumble.
I stop again. This time, I put the guitar down. I can’t for the life of me concentrate on writing when I’ve got this whole situation hanging over my head.
Bastian and I have avoided each other for the last two days, since the night of his bonfire where he dropped the bombshell. The night he grabbed me in his arms, pinned me against the side of the pool, and let those deep, piercing dark eyes of his burn right through me.
The offer itself is insane. And ridiculous, and morally repugnant. And possibly illegal. Contrary to what I tell Jack, I’m not, of course, actually a lawyer. But I don’t have to be to get the impression that lying about being engaged in order to collect an inheritance isn’t exactly on the level. It’s actually far, far below the level.
I flop back on my bed, rubbing my eyes with my hands before sliding them up into my hair.
Needless to say, it’s not just the whole “be my fake fiancée” thing that’s been on my mind since then.
Bastian, in the pool, holding me close while firelight flickers over his face.
Yeah, I’d be lying if I claimed that fantasy - or at least one a whole lot like it - hasn’t ever played out in my head before. Possibly late at night. Possibly alone, and drunk, and my mind going to places it really shouldn’t.
Kind of like right now.
I take a deep breath as I make myself get off the bed, shaking my hair out and pacing the room.
No, this is what he does - lure people close with that charm, only so he can swallow them whole for whatever purpose he needs them to fill. This is exactly what I watched Bastian do for years.
Jesus, he’s done it to me before and here I am walking right back into it like a complete idiot.
I decide to blame the house and the proximity, and the fact that I’m still processing my dad’s brush with disaster. I blame the rocky state of my career, and the fact that eight months ago, the man I lived with left without so much as a note while I wasn’t home.
Basically, I blame everything but myself.
…And I am totally okay with that.
I pick up my phone, making a face as I refresh my email yet again. A thirty percent off J. Crew promo. A bazillion notifications from the Facebook account I barely use. A Groupon offer for some trendy new restaurant back in LA.
Nothing from Jack, who still hasn’t emailed me back from the other day.
I drop the phone down as I blow the air through my lips.
The proximity is the worst of it, I decide. It’s being in the very house that was off limits to me those years before that’s messing with my head. It’s living in the forbidden that’s making the forbidden seem normal.
Fantasizing about your tormentor isn’t normal.
Being uncontrollably attracted to the man who wrecked you and taught you how cruel the world was when you were barely eighteen isn’t normal.
Reliving that night just so you can feel the illicit thrill that you’ve never felt since, and replaying it in your head as the heat between your legs grows wetter and wetter
Isn’t.
Freaking.
Normal.
Advertising and TV would have you believe that “normal” is “boring.” But you know what? After seventeen years of abnormal attraction to the biggest asshole I’ve ever known?
Normal sounds pretty fucking great right now.
So does a drink.