ARROGANT PLAYBOY (26 page)

I shrug. “Don’t know him yet.”

Her eyes shine. “He’s a good
man, Jense. Give him a chance. He loves us, and he means well. Everything he
does is for the greater good of our family.”

She calls it “our” family like
I’m a part of it. As far as I’m concerned, I’m just biding my time until August
comes, and then I’m gone. Goodbye, Kath. Goodbye, Mark. Goodbye, wives one and
two. Goodbye,
Children of the Corn
.
Goodbye, suburban compound.

And goodbye, Waverly, with your
weird stares and those fuck-me-all-night-long lips.

God, she has the most fuckable
mouth I’ve ever seen. I wait until Kath leaves before hitting the lights and
shutting the door behind her. I fall back on the bed and unzip my jeans, my
cock instantly swelling in my hands at the thought of Waverly’s full lips
wrapping around it. I grab at the country blue quilt, imagining I’m grabbing
fistfuls of her long, sandy hair as her tongue runs the length of my shaft.
Shit, I bet she’s never seen a grown man in his fully-erected form before. I
concentrate on my Waverly fantasy, my eyes scrunched and my cock hardening so
fast it aches.

I’m all kinds of fucked up. I
know that. Wrongs and rights have never made sense in my world, and I’m a
product of that.

None of it matters, though,
because I don’t give a flying fuck about any-damn-thing.

Never have.

Never will.

WAVERLY

I push my breakfast around on my plate,
staring at the empty seat across from me where Jensen is supposed to be. Water
whooshes through the pipes above. By the sounds of it, I’d say he’s just now
finishing his shower.

We need to leave in five
minutes. If he’s not down here by seven-thirty, I’m leaving without him. I’ve
never had a tardy in my life, and I’m not about to get one for him. Summer can
drop him off in the freshman lane, for all I care.

Loud thumps coming from the
stairs a minute later direct my gaze to where Jensen is running down two steps
at a time. His finger combs his dark hair into place as he rushes through the
kitchen. He grabs an apple from the fruit bowl and slips a backpack over one
shoulder.

“Ready?” The green apple fills
his palm, and he takes one giant, crisp bite. The juices run down his chin, but
he wipes them away with the back of his hand.

“I thought you didn’t eat
breakfast.” I rise up and grab my bags.

“Jensen,” Dad says from the
head of the table. “Missed breakfast, buddy.”

My dad calls him “buddy” like
they’re a couple of old pals. He’s trying to make an effort. I just wish Jensen
would try, too. It’s not like my dad to give people multiple chances or to
tolerate flippant attitudes, but he’s doing it for Kath’s sake.

“My alarm didn’t go off.” I
know he’s lying. “My bad.”

It’s seven thirty-one now. My
heart sprints. I hate being late. I hate risking losing my favorite parking
spot in the front row of the senior lot. It’s the entire reason behind why I
need to arrive at school at precisely seven forty-eight each morning. I get my
spot, head to my locker, grab my things, drop off my jacket, and head to my
first period class where I find my favorite seat by the window in the third row
with a little extra time to spare. If I’m a minute late, it throws off my
entire morning.

What makes matters worse is
that today, I have to find time to show Jensen to the counselor’s office to
grab his schedule, and I’m sure I’ll get roped into showing him to class, too.

I pull in a deep breath as we
head to my pearly white Jetta. I’m trying so hard to be positive. Good AUB
girls don’t have opinions or complain or get upset. We “keep sweet,” as my
father always instructs.

I’m a good AUB daughter. At
least, on the outside.

“What’s wrong with you?” Jensen
snorts as he plops into my passenger seat.

“We’re going to be late because
of you.” I start the car and let it run for a few seconds before checking my
mirrors, buckling up, and shifting into drive. He reaches for my radio, messing
with the stations. “Hey. Don’t do that.”

“God, are there any decent
radio stations out here?” He twists knobs until some classic rock song blares
from my speakers. The singer’s screechy voice and wailing guitar hurts my ears.

“The polite thing to do would
be to ask if you could turn my station.” I place my hands at ten and two after
adjusting the volume using the steering wheel.

“Sometimes you have to forgo
politeness when you’re trying to save somebody.”

“Save me from what?”

“From yourself. You need to
loosen up. I’ve never met anyone so tightly wound.”

“What are you talking about? I’m
a good person. I don’t need to be saved.” My blood boils. I can’t go to school
all worked up like this.

I momentarily close my eyes
when we approach the next stop sign and suck in a cleansing breath like my life
depends on it. If I don’t collect my nerves, I’m going to have to kick him to
the curb and make him walk the rest of the way.

“You look in the mirror and see
a good girl,” he says. “I look at you, and I see someone who’s so molded and
shaped she doesn’t know who the hell she’s supposed to be. You’re like one of
those Stepford wives. You’re a Stepford daughter. Everything about you is
too
perfect. It’s fucking creepy.”

I slam on the gas and turn the
radio off. “Stepford?”

“Never mind.”

He grips the handle above the
passenger door as I slide into a parking spot in the back of the senior lot far
away from my usual spot. Jensen climbs out and slips his bag over his shoulder.
For someone heading into their first day at a new school, he doesn’t show a
lick of apprehension. His eyes are a lot less swollen, his gash is virtually
gone. The plastic girls are going to eat him up with his dark hair, golden
eyes, and those permanently upturned corners of his smug little smile. I can
practically hear them scrambling to secure dates with him before the rest of
the school catches wind of what just rolled into town.

“If anyone asks, you’re a
family friend.” Dad gave me instructions that morning as to how we were going
to address the newest member of our family. I couldn’t exactly say Jensen was
my stepbrother when my parents have been happily married for over twenty years.
For all intents and purposes, we’ve led the outside world to believe Summer and
Kath are neighbors and our families spend a lot of time together. There are a
few other families like ours in town, but we all live in secrecy. Dad says we
live in troubled times where too many of us have deviated from our original
teachings, pressured by society to abandon the heart of our religious principles.
It’s up to us to restore faith in the old doctrines and combine them with
modern times.

“That’s pretty much what I am,”
Jensen says. He turns to me, catching my stare. My cheeks redden. “You know
we’re not
really
family, right?”

I shake my head, vehemently
disagreeing with him. “Kath is one of my mothers. The twins are my siblings. So
are you. We’re all family.”

“Not in the eyes of the law,”
Jensen says. “I could say I’m married to you right now but it won’t mean a damn
thing because it’s not legal. This is the adult version of playing house, kid.
It’s all pretend.”

“Please don’t call me ‘kid.’
We’re the same age. And you’re insinuating you’re smarter than me on some
level. It’s rude.” I can say things like that to him as long as my father isn’t
around.

“I’m smarter than everyone.” He
shrugs. “Can’t help it. Just the way your God made me.”

“That kind of talk is what gets
a person in trouble.” I’d tell him to keep sweet, but that rule only applies to
AUB women. Men are a little less restricted when it comes to emotions. They’re
governed by a different set of rules. It’s not fair, but I’ve never been
allowed to question it. Mom compares it to asking why the sky is blue. It just
is; the reason doesn’t matter.

“Oh, no, the morality police is
here,” he laughs. He sticks his wrists out like I should handcuff him. I grip
the straps of my backpack until my knuckles whiten.

“You’re not cute,” I tell him.
I sound like I’m in third grade. Jensen brings out the worst in me. He’s
testing me. I need to shower him with kindness and patience, even if it’s the
hardest thing I’ll ever do. He’ll lead me down a path of frustrated destruction
if I don’t keep myself in check. Jensen presses buttons. He’s a button presser.

“Not everyone can be cute and
sweet,” he says, implying that I am, in fact, cute and sweet. He pulls the
heavy doors leading into the east entrance of Whispering Hills high and lets me
go in first. Maybe he’s not a total jerk.

“Guidance counselor’s office is
this way.” I point down a long hall filled with orange, red, and yellow
lockers. A group of gossiping sophomore girls silence themselves the second
they see us walking in their direction. A hush falls over the hallway with each
step we take, like a row of tumbling dominoes. All eyes are on us—on Jensen,
actually. He doesn’t look like anyone who belongs here, and truth be told, he
appears older than eighteen. There’s a worldliness on his face, in the way he
carries himself. He wears the confidence of a man much older than eighteen.

I’m still dying to know what
happened and why he was dropped on Kath’s doorstep like an abandoned baby in a
basket. Though it’s more like the clouds parted, lightning flashed, and out
came Jensen Mackey like an angry clap of thunder complete with black eyes and
an attitude.

We knock on Mr. Kaplan’s door
as he’s finishing up his breakfast sandwich. I observe through the half window
as he crumples up his wrapper and takes a couple long sips of his soda.

“Come in,” he calls.

“Mr. Kaplan,” I say. “This is
Jensen Mackey. He’s new. We’re just picking up his schedule.”

“Yes, yes.” Mr. Kaplan runs a
greasy hand over the top of his shiny, bald head as his other frantically lifts
the various papers that litter his desk. “Jensen, Jensen, Jensen Mackey… here
we go.”

He hands me the schedule and
offers a smile at Jensen, his stare lingering a bit too long. Even Mr. Kaplan
can sense Jensen doesn’t fit in here.

I glance over his schedule.

Ugh
.

Our first and last blocks are
together: Chemistry and AP English. He doesn’t look like an AP student. He doesn’t
look like someone who would consider his grades or merit.

His locker number is printed on
the bottom of his schedule, along with the combination. At least we’re in
different hallways. I don’t think I could survive my last three weeks of senior
year being joined at the hip with him all day long.

“We have to get to class,” I
say, pulling on his shirtsleeve. “I’ll show you your locker later.”

He yanks the schedule from my
hand. “Going to let me see what Kath signed me up for? Good. Drawing II and
Mixed Media.”

We blaze into chemistry with
thirty seconds to spare before the tardy bell rings. All the window seats are
taken, so we settle for a table in the back row. Mrs. Davenport takes roll
call, and when she gets to Jensen, she makes him stand up.

“Tell us a little about
yourself,” she says with an open-mouthed smile. She shows the same kind of
enthusiasm when she talks about thermite reactions because, you know, thermite
reactions are super exciting. She pulls on her long necklace that holds a
bedazzled charm in the shape of a beaker. “I realize we’re in the final weeks
of the school year, but it’s never too late to make new friends and get to know
each other.”

Jensen stands, his head leaning
to one side and a hand on his hip. He rubs his eyebrows and clears his throat.
He is literally too cool to give a crap about all the people staring at him.
“I’m Jensen Mackey. Just moved here from Charter Springs, Arizona. Finishing my
senior year.”

Two girls, cheerleaders, spin
around from the table in front of us. They flash toothpaste-commercial-quality
smiles and toss their curled hair over their shoulders like they share a brain.

“Hi, Jensen,” the brunette
says. “I’m Claire Fahnlander, and this is Harper Griffin.”

Jensen offers an off-center
smile, one that makes him look drunk and cocky all at the same time. I’m
rolling my eyes—on the inside, of course.

“We’re glad to have you,
Jensen. You can partner up with Waverly today. Her usual lab partner is out
sick. Okay, safety kits out.” Mrs. Davenport turns to the white board, writing
today’s lesson plan on the board as we retrieve our goggles and lab coats.

Claire and Harper giggle and
snap selfies behind Mrs. Davenport’s back, making goofy faces through their
goggles and flashing peace signs with fish-lipped pouts. Jensen watches them.
Errant heat sears through my belly, tingling and evaporating as a tiny part of
me hates that they’re earning his attention.

“Do you have an extra beaker we
can borrow?” Claire says to Jensen, batting her lashes. She sticks a finger in
her mouth and bites the tip of her long, pink nail as she winks. Harper
giggles.

“Probably shouldn’t put your
finger in your mouth,” Jensen says, avoiding her gaze. “You’re in a chem lab.”

Claire blushes and spins
around. Harper is still giggling, leaning her head on Claire’s narrow shoulder.
I have to give Jensen credit for not falling for that like every other guy in
school does. She’s eager to make him hers before anyone else has a chance to.
Claire is the alpha female of a catty group of senior girls who rule the school
with iron-clad, manicured fists.

They infuriate me, especially
when I’m the target of their mean-girl giggles, but I never let it show. It’s
not worth it. In just a few short months, I’ll be trekking all over a college
campus, my English lit books in hand, with a group of collegiate peers with
more important things to discuss besides who’s dating whom.

The period ends before we know
it. I don’t remember much of it. Jensen did most of the work, which is unlike
me, but my thoughts were jumbled all morning. I chalk it up to being thrown off
my routine that morning and promise to do better the next day.

“You need me to show you your
locker?” I ask as we file out of the classroom.

“Nah, just point me there. I
can find it.” His independence very well might be his only redeemable quality.

“South hall. Red lockers.”

He pats me on the back like I’m
an old pal and gives a quick nod before disappearing into a sea of students
without so much as a “see you later.” I wouldn’t say I miss him, but his sudden
absence is noticeable.