10 years ago:
I’m not sure what most of the kids I go to high school with do during the summer in South Neck, but I imagine it involves spending money.
…Of which, I have zero.
So, this is me: a one piece bathing suit, shorts, flip-flops, a book, and an iced tea with lemon.
The pool area is wrecked - still littered with the remnants of Bastian’s party from the night before. The empty keg lying on its side in a puddle of sticky beer, the myriad of bottles, cans, and cigarette butts lying around and stuffed into the hedges surrounding the pool or clogging the filters.
I shake my head, disgusted as I gingerly step over a pile of empties. Shocking that I don’t hang out with these people.
I wrinkle my nose at the condom lying unwrapped, and I hope to God unused on one pool chair. I move around to the other side of the pool to find a clean, un-sexed chair.
Or at least I hope. I put two towels down on this new one just to be sure.
The party kept me up late, even with headphones on and my ambient ocean sounds playlist playing loudly. Yeah, I sleep a couple hundred feet from the actual ocean and I need a playlist of it to help me fall asleep at night.
All credit to Bastian fucking Crown.
The night before was a rowdy one, even for him. Screeching girls by the pool, future frat-boys bellowing obscenities at each other, music blasting loud enough to shake the goddamn walls of our cottage. My dad somehow sleeps through all of this, but not me. Which means this morning, I’m tired, and I’m mad about being tired as I plop down onto the pool chair.
But it’s quiet now, and for once, there’s no one sleeping it off by the pool or in the hedges. I sip my iced tea and open my book - Johnny Cash’s autobiography Cash. The grounds are quiet, the late morning sun is warm, and I’m just starting to lose myself in the book when the side door to the house, by the kitchen, opens and shuts quickly.
I glance up, arching a brow at the distraction as it happens once more - opening a few inches and then immediately kicking back shut. Something clunks against it, twice.
I’m up quickly, jogging out of the pool area and over to the door to help what I assume is Mrs. Tottingham trying to get outside - probably with something like a tray of sandwiches in her hands knowing her, I think with a smile.
I grin, shaking my head and already feeling my tummy rumble at the thought of her tuna and avocado sandwiches as I twist the knob and swing it wide.
“You know, I was hoping you’d come out and—”
I freeze.
Stephanie Seyfried pulls away from Bastian’s lips, both of them moving away from the door they’ve clearly just been making out against. Her makeup is smudged, her hair’s a mess, her strappy dress from the night before is hanging off her shoulders, and there are bruises up the side of her neck.
I don’t quite understand the cold, chilling, clawing feeling that drags at me. I don’t understand the sinking feeling that threatens to pull me through the floor.
“Oh, hi.” Stephanie eyes me, her nose turning up slightly.
“Sorry, I—”
I trail off, seeing the way her hands are on his chest.
Bastian’s eyes narrow right at me, and I swear I see a little grin pull across his lips.
“Can I help you, Texas?”
“I- I was just—”
“Snooping around my back door?”
I scowl. “No, I thought someone was having trouble getting in or out.”
“Trust me, there was no trouble getting in.”
Stephanie gasps, turning and playfully batting at Bastian. He just looks right at me, those dark eyes piercing into me for a full minute, ignoring Stephanie as she traces a finger over his chest and nauseatingly kisses his neck.
Finally, as if suddenly realizing she’s still there, he scowls and turns to her, shrugging her off of him.
“You should go.” He says it plainly, emotionlessly.
She frowns. “Oh, I—”
“I’ve got a lot of shit to do today.”
She nods, and part of me delights in this really fucked up, horrible way as I watch her face fall a little.
“You still want to come to the beach later? We could—”
“I don’t do that, you know that.” He shrugs casually, and Stephanie’s brows knit together.
“Do what?”
“That,” he says plainly. “I’m not going to the beach with you. We’re not going to go out to dinner. And this isn’t happening again.”
Stephanie’s cheeks flush as her eyes dart to me before she pulls them back to Bastian.
“Sebastian, I know that, I just—”
“Don’t forget these.”
He pushes her purse and her car keys into her hands. She frowns even deeper, and she leans in as if to kiss him again. But this time, he turns away, ignoring her.
“See ya, Steph.”
She scowls, whirling, when her eyes lock on me, still standing in the kitchen doorway
“Stare much, you fucking weirdo,” she spits, shoving past me and stomping barefoot towards her Porsche parked in the driveway.
The spell broken, I hastily turn myself, ready to scurry back to my pool chair, or possibly to lock myself in my room. The firm hand on my arm stops me with a gasp.
He twists me back around, and I shiver under those eyes.
“What were you doing by the door?”
I frown at him. “I told you, I thought Mrs. Tottingham was trying to open it.”
“I thought I’ve been clear about not wanting you inside the—”
“Oh fuck off,” I spit, shaking my wrist free of his hand. “I wasn’t trying to get into your stupid old house.”
I hug my arms over my chest as his eyes drift over me, a smug, small grin on his face
“You look tired.”
“Someone kept me up last night.”
The grin widens. “Oh yeah? Good for you, Texas. What’s his name?”
I blush scarlet.
“It was you, you dick.”
The grin turns into a full-blown smile. “I think I’d have remembered that, sweetheart.”
My face burns, realizing I walked right into that one.
“And trust me,” he leans forward and winks. “You definitely would have.”
I’m still sputtering when he closes the kitchen door.
* * *
Present:
“You’re getting quite comfortable around here.”
I lower my book, every intention of glaring my most withering look up at Bastian.
That is until I’m distracted by the fact that he’s not wearing a shirt. Or that the thin sheen of sweat covering his body from his workout only highlights the thick muscles and deep grooves of his chest and his abs.
The workout I may or may not have been totally ignoring poor Jonathan Franzen for, and hating myself for watching over the edge of my book. Hating myself for watching Bastian, and hating myself for glaring at the pretty girl wrestling with him on the gym floor.
I finally do make myself frown, shielding my eyes from the sun’s glare as I glance up at his smug face.
“Excuse me?”
“You seem to still be blurring the lines between help and guest.”
I roll my eyes.
“Am I not supposed to be out by the pool? I don’t work twenty-four hours a day you know.”
“Do you see Mrs. Tottingham sitting out here sunning herself? Is Carl out here working on his fucking high dive?”
I pretend to ignore the way the grooves of his hips flex as he stretches, raising a hand to rake his fingers over the beard on his jaw.
“You’re the hired help, Texas.”
Fuck this.
I slam my book shut. “Fine,” I spit, standing abruptly from the pool chair.
“I didn’t say you had to leave.”
“You most certainly implied.”
His eyes smirk. His mouth still frowns. “I was just making observations. I’d be more inclined to be fine with you using the pool if you dressed more appropriately.”
He’s fucking with me. I know this, and yet, I still respond, because apparently I can’t help it.
“The hell is wrong with how I’m dressed?”
“It’s a pool. Bathing suits are usually a good thing. Bikinis are a plus.”
This time, he does grin - a big, smug, Cheshire Cat grin.
I roll my eyes and look away.
“I’m sure you’d like that.”
“It’s merely a suggestion. Or you could go au naturale. I assure you, it’s nothing Mrs. Tottingham and Carl haven’t seen before. My female guests tend to—”
“Har har har.”
I turn my back to him to grab my stuff.
“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before either, come to think of it.”
Time freezes. The blood boils in my veins, instantly. The heat - both electrifying and horrifying comes rushing through me, sending a ringing through my ears and a sickening feeling through my gut.
I whirl on Bastian, the fire blazing in my eyes and my hands clenched into fists at my sides.
“You shut your mouth,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
The smug grin fades from his face.
“And here I was hoping we could head down memory lane.”
He says it quietly, with purpose. With every intent of dragging me down that road anyways.
“Fuck you, Bastian.”
It’s the only thing that needs saying after that. It’s the only thing that ever needed saying after the night Sebastian Crown broke me, utterly and completely.
I turn in silence, ignoring the feel of his eyes burning into me as I pick up my book and my flip-flops and walk away.
* * *
“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
For nine years, the memory of that night has been both a nightmare and fantasy. Sometimes back and forth, sometimes - confusingly - both at the same time.
Sometimes, I remember the rocking of the boat, the sounds of the party off in the distance, and the flash of the camera with revulsion and horror. Other times, I think of his dark, hungry eyes sliding over every inch of me or his hand on my jaw.
The way his lips tasted.
Those times - the times where it’s fantasy rather than nightmare - it’s like a slow burning that starts at the edges and slowly consumes me. Those times, I remember his hands on me. I remember the fierceness in that gaze and the dizzying, intoxicating feeling of slowly letting my guard down as one button after the other came undone under his gaze.
This is one of those times.
I swallow thickly as the door to my room shuts behind me - trembling, buzzing, tingling at the memory of everything that happened - or almost happened, the night of Bastian’s graduation party. I sink against the door, heart pounding and mind racing with that confusing, intoxicating mix of anger and lust.
Revulsion and unstoppable attraction.
Hatred and love.
My skin tingles, and I shiver in the early evening dimness of the room. And like so many times before, I let my mind go to a dark, horrible, wicked place, where I try and imagine what might’ve happened if everything hadn’t blown up that night. If I’d kept going.
In this alternate history, I don’t think I would have stopped that night, even knowing how wrong it was and knowing how much I’d regret it in the morning. I know I’d have gone all the way that night, heedless of the consequences or maybe just to spite them.
I fall onto my bed, hands tracing over my body and my breath coming ragged in my throat. And like so many terrible, humiliating, gut wrenching times before, I imagine what it would have been like to lose my virginity to Sebastian Crown, on the night that ended up being one of my last in South Neck.
I picture the glow of the moon off the water, glinting like silver off his bare shoulders and his smooth, muscled chest. My nipples harden beneath my T-shirt at the memory of the shadowed grooves of his hips - at the enormous, throbbing bulge at the front of his swimsuit. My blood pumps like fire as I remember the hungry, consuming look in his eyes as he moved toward me.
And when I remember his arrogant, perfect lips searing against mine, there’s nothing to stop the wet heat from soaking my panties.
Hands push my shirt up, cupping my breasts and rolling my nipples beneath fingers. I bite my lip to hold back the moan, letting one of my hands slide down to pop the button of my shorts and push inside.
Yep, soaking wet.
For Bastian.
Like every other numerous time this has happened, there’s the feeling of shame, and of hatred towards him. But it’s not enough to overcome the way my body reacts to that memory.
Or to him.
Fingers slip under the cotton edge of my panties, and I whimper as they find me slick and ready. I push them deeper, moaning as I roll my clit beneath my fingertips, twisting on the bed. My eyes squeeze shut and I think of that night.
With him.
Magnetic egomaniac.
Charming psychopath.
Irresistible asshole.
A beautiful beast.
I remember the taste of his lips and the feel of his tongue claiming my mouth. The way his hands moved over me - possessive and tender, aggressively and yet taking his time.
Making me beg for it.
Making me ache for it.
I rub my clit harder, my hand buried deep between my legs under my shorts and my panties. In the fantasy, as always, things move further. In my head, Bastian spins me around and holds me tight against the side of the cabin as he yanks my bikini bottoms down. A finger sinks deep inside of my pussy as I hit play on the fantasy of Bastian taking me for the first time from behind, his lips by my ear and his hands holding me tight against the side of the boat as he fills me for the first time, again and again.
When the climax hits, I roll to the side, burying my moans in the pillow. I’m coming, my fingers blurring over my clit and my whole body shattering.
Like he shattered me, years before.
And like always - like every time I do this, which is more times than I’d like to admit, the shame hits after.
The regret.
The wondering if this is why I’m so fucked up, or why no relationship of mine ever lasts - because deep down, I’m broken.
I mean I have to be. There’s no other explanation as to why the memory of the night Bastian Crown ruined me, and humiliated me, and told me pretty lies I never even knew I wanted to hear in order to win a bet would turn into masturbation material for the next nine years. No sane person would think of that night and get turned on.
I shake my head, standing from the bed and quickly pulling my shirt off. I should go shower, and then maybe head down to the kitchen to get something to—
The pounding on the bedroom door has my heart jumping into my throat.
“Texas.”
I freeze, the blood draining from my face as I turn toward the sound, saying nothing.
“I know you’re in there.”
I swallow, quickly buttoning my shorts up, yanking my shirt back on, and swallowing the heat from my face as I go to the door.
He’s leaning against the doorframe - casual, brooding, his usual dark clouds hanging around his head as his eyes linger on me.
“Come to dinner.”
My brow furrows. “What?”
“Dinner. To eat food.”
“Thanks for clarifying,” I say sarcastically.
“I’m asking you to come eat with me.”
“Oh am I allowed in the dining room now?”
“Or don’t, fuck it,” he growls.
But he doesn’t turn away. Our eyes hold each other’s, defiantly, as always.
“You haven’t, you know.”
Bastian frowns. “Haven’t what.”
“Asked me. That kind of felt like a demand.”
“You want a fucking Martha Stewart formal invitation?”
“That would be lovely.”
He mutters something under his breath, turning as if to march away when he stops and glances back at me.
“Are you coming?”
I swallow, my face growing hot as my mind instantly goes to about five minutes before he arrived.
“I thought I might shower—”
“Or are you’re too tired from already doing so.”
My warm face grows about ten thousand degrees hotter as the blush spreads over it.
“Excuse me?”
His scowl pulls into a dark, twisted smile.
“You heard me.”
“I did, and I think you’re disgusting.”
“And I think you’ve got ‘orgasm’ written all over your face.”
I gasp as his hand snatches my wrist, pulling my hand forward. I watch in slow-motion, mortifying horror as he brings it to his face.
His smile only grows deeper.
“Go ahead. Lie to me, as if I don’t know what pussy smells like.”
Kill me now. Please Lord just kill me now.
My face on fire as I go to snatch my hand back from his iron grip.
“Go eat by yourself you disgusting pi—”
And that’s when Bastian tightens his grip on my wrist, opens his mouth, sticks two of my fingers inside, and sucks.
…Words cannot describe the mix of abject horror and body melting heat that explodes through me.
I watch, like I’m paralyzed, or outside my own body or something as he pulls them out, lets go of my hand, and grins darkly.
“I will, thanks.” He winks. “Just needed an appetizer first.”
I’m barely aware of closing the door, locking it, falling onto my bed, and burying my mortified face in a pillow.
That did not just happen.