“Well aware,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone. “That’s kind of why I’m here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve spent my whole life being sheltered. I’m trying to undo all that damage. I’m trying to meet as many people as possible and experience as many different things as I can.” She takes a drink and offers me a slow smile. “You were one of those things. One of those experiences. When I told you the other night that it wasn’t about the sex, that it was about the liberation … that’s what I meant.”
“Huh.” I stare straight ahead at the flickering TV and the sports highlights that reel across the bottom, and then I take a drink.
A moment of silence passes between us.
“What? What are you thinking about?” she asks.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” I say, “but I was thinking about—"
I'm seconds from telling her how much I respect her for stepping outside her Park Terrace comfort zone when in walks fucking Cash McConnell.
“They weren’t looking for me, bro,” he says, scratching at his temple before reclaiming his chair next to Brighton.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I release a hard breath as the two of them pick up right where they left off.
“Have you ever done New Year’s Eve in Times Square?” Cash asks.
“Never. I’ve always wanted to though,” she says. What she doesn’t say is that her parents probably never let her.
“Oh, man. You have to do it at least once in your life,” he says.
“So you’ve done it?” she asks.
I shoot him a look. “I heard you have to wear an adult diaper when you go. Is that true, Cash?”
Both of them look to me, neither of them speaks.
“You know,” I say. “Too many people. Not enough toilets. You could lose your spot. I just heard people wear diapers.”
Cash gives me a death stare and mouths the words, “shut the fuck up.”
I can’t help but laugh.
And then, overcome with machismo and the early stages of alcohol coursing through my veins, I slip my arm around Brighton's shoulders.
Cash's hardened expression vanishes. He sees now that she's with me. Or at least he thinks she is. And that’s all it takes to get him to walk away.
He’s not going to waste his time and energy if he won’t be reaping those rewards later tonight.
As soon as he’s gone, Brighton flicks my arm off of her.
“You can thank me later,” I tell her with a wink.
Her full lips press flat and she shakes her head before taking a sip of beer. “You’re such a jerk.”
“I was doing you a favor.”
“You were acting like a territorial alley cat,” she says. “I was having a nice conversation and you pissed all over it.”
“Right. But did you notice as soon as he thought we were together, he walked away without so much as a goodbye? He wasn’t interested in you, Brighton. Just the possibility of fucking you.”
She’s quiet now, which I interpret as a sign that she knows I’m right.
“Would that bother you?” she asks. “If I slept with someone else?”
I scoff, lifting my bottle to my lips. “Of course it would.”
“But we’re not together.”
“I know that,” I take a drink. “I’m just not into the whole sharing thing. If I’m fucking you, you’re fucking me and neither one of us are fucking anyone else.”
“That sounds like a relationship to me,” she says. “Thought you didn’t do relationships and dating and all that bullshit.”
She lifts her fingers, air-quoting the word, “bullshit.”
“You can’t have it both ways,” she says.
“So you’re saying if I want you to sleep with me exclusively, you want me to be your boyfriend?”
Part of me thinks she’s messing with me, trying to point out the fallacies and loopholes in my self-made clauses. The other part of me doesn’t want to call her bluff.
As much as I don’t want to be anyone’s boyfriend, as much as I loathe the entire concept of dating and relationships, the idea of Brighton giving another guy those sparkling hazel eyes, those pillow-soft lips, those long legs and dangerous curves makes me see red for half a second.
The mental image of Brighton's arms draped over Cash, of Cash’s hands exploring her body, plagues me for a moment, sending a boil to my blood, but I shake it off, down the rest of my beer, and slip my hand into hers.
Leading her out of the living room, she asks, “Where are we going?”
“Back to my place.”
Brighton digs her heels into the ground and wrenches her hand from mine. “Maybe I don’t want to go yet. Maybe I’m having a nice time and I’m not ready.”
I get it.
She wants to assert her autonomy and not let some jackass tell her what to do since everyone’s been telling her what to do her entire life.
But I’ll be damned if I sit around here another couple of hours, watching these other jackasses look at her like she’s ripe for the picking.
“Come on. Let’s go.” I wave for her to follow me.
She stays put.
“Brighton,” I say.
Her arms fold across her chest. “Madden.”
There’s a rare, devious glint in her eyes. “Say it.”
“Say what?” I scoff.
“You’re jealous,” she says. “You’re jealous because I was talking to someone else. And that means you like me.”
“Can we not?”
“Oh, but we must. I’m not leaving until we do.” She fights a chuckle. Good to know at least one of us is enjoying this shit show.
“Just tell me what you want me to say.” I throw my hands in the air. “Because the sooner I say it, the sooner I can get you home and do the kind of things I refuse to let another man … like fucking Cash … so much as think about doing to you.”
Brighton’s expression morphs from ornery to satisfied and she all but lunges for me, jumping into my arms.
“You so like me, Ransom,” she says as I carry her back to my GTO. “It’s okay if you can’t admit it yet.”
Yet.
Even if I did like her, I’d never admit it to anyone.
Not her.
Not even myself.
23
Brighton
I’m surprised he’s letting me lay in the crook of his shoulder. We’re technically cuddling, but I don’t dare point it out. I wouldn’t want to spook him. God forbid he actually accepts the fact that he likes this.
Madden’s fingertips graze the bare skin of my arm as we bask in our respective afterglows.
Sometimes he looks at me a certain way or says a certain thing that makes me think he’s not as cold and callous as he claims to be. There’s a softer side to him, it’s just buried beneath years of emotional armor and battle scars.
His hand moves lower, just beneath my arm, and the pad of his thumb grazes my tattoo.
It’s funny to me that there’s going to be a piece of him with me … on me … for all eternity. After this, whatever happens—good or bad—I’m going to think of Madden every time I look at it.
Rolling to my stomach, I rest my chin and hand on top of his chest. His heart is still beating hard and he’s still breathless.
His dark eyes are fixed to the ceiling, and I’d give anything to know what he’s thinking about right now.
Maybe he’s thinking about a sandwich. Or a shower. Or maybe he’s thinking about what I said at the party earlier tonight, about the exclusivity thing.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask, biting my lip.
He smirks. “You don’t want to know.”
“If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t be asking ...”
Madden glances down his nose at me, reaching down to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Just thinking about that move you did … with your hand and your tongue ...”
I laugh through my nose and roll my eyes. I might have read a few articles on Cosmopolitan’s website before tonight, specifically one on this oral sex technique called The Screw. It never hurts to be prepared and after three times that first night, I knew I’d need to bring my A game for round two.
“Completely unexpected,” he says.
“Glad you liked it.” I roll over and grab my phone off the nightstand. It’s only ten-thirty, but I should get going. I was completely transparent earlier today, telling my mother I was going to hang out with some friends at a party, that I would only have one drink, and that I’d be home by midnight.
I could see the hesitation in her eyes, but she simply nodded and thanked me for keeping her informed, and I got the hell out of there before she changed her mind.
I’m sure after that slew of threats she made the other day, she realized that kicking me out of the house is the last thing she wants, but I’m not in a position to call her bluff just yet.
My car is in my parents’ names. They pay my cell phone and insurance. They’re even on my checking account so they can transfer money as needed.
Everything I have … is theirs.
Which means I have nothing.
I’ve yet to tell them that I’m not going to medical school this fall. I was hoping to find a job first.