Rose
I GO THROUGH THE REST of the week weighed down by a rock in my gut.
Spider consumes all my thoughts.
I try tossing him out of my head. I go to dinner with Trenton and let him kiss me. I hang out with Oscar and Lexa at the library. I work an extra shift at the diner for Cyndi just to keep myself busy. I even attend a study group for my calculus class that’s kicking my ass, but nothing works to eject him from my brain.
Anne and Robert arrange another family meal on Friday evening. I look forward to it anxiously, planning on wearing a pair of white slacks and a yellow silk tank with a cream sweater that Anne bought for me at one of her favorite stores. Oscar is in the room when I pick it out and he calls it a “rich old lady outfit”, but I don’t care. I’ll wear anything as long as I get to see Spider.
I dress in the silk tank and the pants in the bathroom then dash out to the bedroom to let Oscar have a look. I’ve put my hair up in a sleek ponytail, and I do a little twirl for him.
Oscar gives his approval and I head to Highland Park for dinner.
It’s not until I get there that I discover Spider isn’t coming. I eat my dinner, feeling disappointed and just . . . bereft. It’s that state of mind that prompts me to bring up the NYU issue again, this time with Robert present.
Anne’s back goes ramrod straight. “We’ve had this discussion already. I don’t want you so far away.”
“But why?” I need a freaking good reason!
Her lips tighten. “You need supervision, Rose.”
Her words sting me.
“I’m almost eighteen,” I blurt. “I can go to college in another state if I want to.”
She shakes her head. “I’m only paying for Winston. It only makes sense that you attend a school nearby so I can supervise you. Plus, that way you can still speak at the galas. Don’t you want to help those kids?”
My jaw tightens at her manipulations. “Of course I do, but you’re trying to make me feel guilty about wanting to go away to college, Anne.”
“I don’t like your attitude,” she says sharply. “Please use a respectful tone when you talk to me.”
Here we go with the manners . . .
I set down my dessert spoon and stand, needing to get out of here.
“You haven’t been excused,” she says, wiping her mouth.
Robert shoots her a soft look. “Rose probably has plans, dear. It’s a Friday night.”
She lets out a breath and nods. “Fine. It’s obvious you need some time to cool down anyway.”
I’m about to go but decide to turn back around, my anger too sharp to let go. “Make no mistake, Anne, I know exactly who I am—and I don’t need supervision. I lived a whole life before I ever met you. I took care of myself when Mama didn’t. I kept myself away from Lyle. By the time you came along, I’d seen things you can never imagine.”
Her mouth compresses. “Enough of that.”
I shake my head and clench my fists, trying to not raise my voice when all I want to do is yell. “And by the way, I’ve already applied to NYU and been accepted. Whether you pay for it or not, I’m going to New York.”
She inhales a sharp breath, her hand on her stomach.
I give them a brief look and stalk out of the dining room. I’m running on adrenaline as I get in my car then squeal out of the driveway and away from Highland Park.
Before I realize where I’m going, I’m headed to Robert’s penthouse in the city, where Spider is staying.
The doorman recognizes me from when I helped move some of Anne’s things and greets me warmly as he escorts me to the elevator.
With nervous fingers, I push the button for the penthouse, my eyes taking in the opulence of the mirrored walls. The elevator comes to a halt, easing open to a marble-tiled floor. I hear music vibrating through the steel front door.
I knock.
And knock again.
The music is turned down and I hear rustling sounds from behind the door.
“It’s me,” I say. “The girl you’ve been avoiding.”
The door swings open, and the guy standing there isn’t Spider. He’s around Spider’s age with scruff on his chiseled jawline and wild blond hair that flows off his face like a lion’s mane. He’s wearing a pair of athletic shorts and a tank top, and sweat drips from his forehead.
Ice blue eyes crinkle in the corners as they study me.
I give it right back and rack my brain, trying to recall why he seems so familiar.
I snap my fingers. “Sebastian? Lead singer of the Vital Rejects?”
“Yeah, angel.” He wipes at his forehead and leans against the doorjamb, sending me a cocky grin. “And you must be the girl.” He waggles his eyebrows.
The girl? With emphasis?
What does that even mean?
Has Spider been talking about me?
“Back away from my stepsister, douchebag,” comes Spider’s voice from down the hall, although I don’t see him. He must be in another room.
“Fuck off,” Sebastian yells over his shoulder. “You forgot to mention how hot she is.”
“Watch it. I’ll beat your arse if you touch her,” Spider warns him in a sharp tone, and I feel a blush coloring my cheeks. I guess that answers the question of whether or not he’s been talking about me.
Sebastian opens the door farther and nods his head toward the interior of the apartment. “Come on in. He’ll be out in a minute. He’s got to get gorgeous before we go out.”
“Oh?” They’re going out?
Probably to a bar . . . where there are older girls . . . and alcohol.
Activities I can’t participate in.
Suddenly I’m rethinking everything. I shouldn’t have come.
But, I’ve come this far, and I need to see him. I follow Sebastian into the apartment and stand uncertainly in the den as he gets me a soda from the fridge.
I pick at the sides of my jeans. “Where are you guys headed?”
Before Sebastian can reply, Spider saunters into the room, and my powers of speech leave me for a moment.
“Your hair . . . it’s white,” I whisper when I finally regain my faculties, my eyes greedily moving over his sweptback style. The bleached strands perfectly frame his face, accentuating the sharpness of his cheekbones, the darkness of his eyes, the long tan column of his throat. My chest squeezes at the sight of him. How can one guy be so dang hot? It’s not fair to the rest of the fucking world. “What happened to the blue?”
He touches it. “It’s a throwback, but always a favorite. You like it?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice breathless.
I take a step back, my legs bumping into the couch, causing me to suddenly sit. I don’t mind because I feel like something big is happening, and I just needed to grasp hold of it and own it.
“You okay?” he asks. “You look weird.”
I shake my head, thinking . . . about a boy with white hair.
The accent.
That devil-may-care shrug.
A distant memory reaches out and tugs me into the past. There I am, at the back of the Quickie Mart. I swallow, my head burdened by things I locked in a coffin with Mama years ago.
I see my mother on the floor, dark bruises on her neck.
I see . . . a beautiful boy.
HIM.
Sebastian and Spider are both eyeing me and then each other, but I ignore them as I pull my cell phone out of my purse and dial a number, one emblazoned on my brain and on my body.
I push in the digits, but like it always did before, the call goes to a disconnected line.
Even so, it must be him.
It must be.
Years may have blurred his face in my childlike memory, but it’s all coming back now. “What’s going on?” Sebastian looks confused. “Are you trying to call someone?”
I come to a decision and focus on Sebastian. “I don’t know you, and I hate to be rude, but can you please leave us alone for a bit?”
Spider sends him a quick nod and Sebastian straightens his tall form, his gaze reading me. Whatever he sees makes him act. “Gotcha. I’m outie. Call me later Spider.” He walks out of the apartment, the door shutting softly behind him.
“Is everything okay?” Spider asks me.
I shake my head as I shrug out of my sweater. I pull my silk tank up and over my head, tossing it on the hardwood floor. He inhales sharply, his gaze going straight to my white lace bra.
“Rose, put your shirt back on.” His voice is steady, but his eyes—oh God—those eyes are burning.
“No.” I march over toward him and he backs up against the wall.
“Rose?” His chest expands, and I know he’s breathing me in.
“I know you.” My voice is soft, aching with memories, wanting him to see. “From Tin Town . . . when I was eleven and you were sixteen. You were at the Quickie Mart and you gave me three hundred dollars. It was the morning after Mama died. You . . . you gave me your cell phone number and told me to call you if I ever needed you.”
There’s a dawning in his eyes.
Lifting my hair up with my hands, I turn around to show him my back. I know what he sees: the butterfly tattoo on my upper back, inked in orange, green, and purple. Although small, his cell number is etched inside the swirls of the right wing.
“The butterfly . . . it’s in memory of you, a reminder of the boy who flitted by for an instant and gave me hope and then was gone, flying away somewhere else. I-I got it done in New York. Your old cell is inside the wings.”
I can’t see his face, but I hear him inhale as he traces the numbers with light fingers. My body shivers as goose bumps rise at his touch.
There is a deep silence as he processes this.
I don’t mind it.
His voice is filled with awe. “That’s my old number. My father disconnected it when I didn’t go to college. How do you—” His voice stops. “I remember you. You were hungry.”
I turn back around and face him, gazing up into those fathomless eyes, the ones I carried in my heart for years. I repeated those digits over and over in my head when I was faced with mean foster siblings, hungry nights, or just plain loneliness.
His eyes meet mine and we stare at each other.
My brain knows he’s going to be a rock star. It’s plain as the nose on my face that he’s going to break my heart.
But I can’t let him go.
I take a deep inhale, my eyes still clinging to his. “Staring at someone for longer than six seconds signals that you either want to have sex with them or murder them. Which one is it?”
He closes his eyes, and I weave my hands into his white hair, tugging on the ends as our lips come together.
He hesitates slightly and then groans, his hands going to my ass and pulling me against him.
With a swift movement, he flips me around until I’m the one against the wall and he’s in control. He kisses me back hard with a desperation that says he’s afraid I might disappear in the space of a heartbeat. There’s scruff on his jaw and it rubs my face and throat as his lips work me over, devouring me.
He wrenches himself from me, his breathing ragged, his shoulders quivering as if he’s holding himself back with the utmost restraint.
“Don’t stop,” I say.
My body gravitates toward his, my breathing shallow as a swell of emotions flies at me. I go in to take his lips again but he holds me at bay, leaning his forehead against the wall behind us.
He finally speaks, his voice rough as if it’s been dragged over rocks. “I told Father I’d leave you alone, but I can’t.”
“Thank God.”
He raises his head and looks at me, and I feel like I’ve ensnared him, captured him. I feel like a siren that calls sailors to jump from their ships and worship them forever.
“You’re too good for me,” he says, his hand lightly touching my shoulder before dipping down to caress my arm. His lips hover over mine . . . waiting.
“I’m not. I want you just the way you are. I don’t care about anything else.” I trace the outline of his lips, pulling on the bottom one until he groans. I take his mouth, my tongue nipping at his, inhaling his scent of spice and leather. I’m rough with him because I want it rough back. I want his desperation. I want his need.
He groans my name and pushes down the straps of my bra until my breasts spring free. His mouth encircles one of my nipples and tugs as his hand cups the other, tweaking it with his thumb. “You’re so beautiful. I want to touch you everywhere.”
“Yes,” I moan.
He kisses the side of my neck and sucks the skin. “I want to fuck you, Rose. I have since the moment I saw you.” His voice is guttural and harsh, and his dirty word makes my core clench.
“I’m not stopping you.”
My hands go to his jeans and unsnap them, reaching in to wrap my hands around his hard cock, my fingers sliding up his velvet skin.
He hisses, his mouth claiming mine once again.
Amidst our heavy breathing, his shirt disappears as he whips it over his head. I kiss my way down the hollow of his throat while he slips his hand inside my pants and underneath my underwear. I’m wet as he touches me, sliding in and out.
Everything moves in a blur as we melt into each other, grasping and kissing.
In a blink we are in a bedroom, our clothes gone, our skin touching in places that makes me moan and arch my hips toward him with need.
We lie on top of a white feather comforter and he hovers over me. I wiggle closer, needing him inside me. Part of me wants to rush, to get the painful part over.
“Are you a virgin?” he asks, his brown eyes hot yet hesitant.
I nod, and he lets out an exhale. “I want to say I’m sorry for taking it from you, but I’m glad it’s me and not Tren—”
I put a finger to his lips. “It’s you. Always you.”
He runs a long finger down my cheek, his brown eyes holding mine, an anxiousness there that makes my heart flutter even more. “Before we do this . . . will you come to LA with me?” he whispers. “I want you with me, Rose. All the time.”
What about New York? I think for half a second, but then he kisses me.
I want to be with him. He’s my butterfly.
“I’ll follow you anywhere,” I say.
He kisses me again, his lips hot, his hands hotter as he touches my center, preparing me for him. I writhe and beg him to hurry.
Neither of us hears our parents walk into the room.