Closed off.
Has no friends.
Judgmental.
A prude. A virgin.
Scared of sex.
None of that is true. I have friends. I don’t let people take advantage of me, and I’m very open. I’m not afraid of sex. I’m just not interested.
The only thing that’s true is I’m a virgin. And proud of it.
“Your turn,” he says softly, yet again interrupting my thoughts.
I glance down at the paper in my notebook, squinting at some of the hurried words I wrote. I can’t make out all of them, but here I go.
“Crew Lancaster believes he’s untouchable, which he mostly is. He’s arrogant. Demanding. Sometimes even a bully.” I chance a quick look at him, but he’s not even paying attention to me. He’s tapping his pen against his pursed lips and I get caught up in the shape of his mouth yet again.
There is no reason for me to be so fascinated with his lips. He says horrible things. That’s reason enough to hate that mouth. To hate him, and everything he stands for.
I force myself to keep reading.
“He’s smart. Charming. Teachers do what he says because his family owns the school.”
“Facts,” he adds.
I roll my eyes and continue.
“He’s cold. Doesn’t say much. Scowls at people a lot. Not very friendly at all, yet everyone wants to be his friend.”
“It’s the name,” he says. “They only care because I’m a Lancaster. They want to get in good with me.”
He interjects a lot, while I didn’t say a thing.
“He’s threatening. Cruel. He doesn’t smile—like ever. Probably not happy with his life,” I finish, deciding to add something at the last second. “Has poor little rich boy syndrome.”
“What the fuck is that?”
I ignore his f-bomb, trying my best not to visibly react. “Come on, you know.”
“I want to hear you explain it.” His voice is deadly soft and the gleam in his eyes is so, so cold.
Taking a deep breath, I tell him, “It’s when your family ignores you completely and money is the only source of love. They pay attention to you when they deem it necessary but otherwise, you’re just a prop in their so-called family life. You’re the baby, right? They’re too busy getting involved in everyone else’s lives, while they forget all about you.”
His smile is not friendly. It’s downright menacing. “Interesting description. I get the sense you’re familiar with that sort of treatment.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“Harvey Beaumont is your father. One of the largest commercial real estate brokers in all of New York City, correct?” When I just stare at him, he continues, “My brothers are in the business. They know all about him. He’s a ruthless motherfucker who has an enormous collection of priceless art.”
Hearing him call my father, a mother-bleeper, is a tad disconcerting.
“My mother is the collector,” I admit, the words falling from my lips without thought. “It’s the only thing she’s got in her life that makes her truly happy.”
Oh God. I hate that I just admitted that to him. He doesn’t deserve to know anything about my private life. He could take any info I give him and twist it. Make me sound like a sad little girl.
Which according to him, I am. And maybe he’s right. My mother doesn’t particularly like me. My father uses me as a prop. They’re both too controlling over my life, and use that to say they want to protect me. I thought I had friends, but I now I’m not so sure.