Very Wicked Beginnings Page 3

  Being with her required no emotional investment.

  Which was the safest thing with me.

  After a few minutes of her going down on me, I picked her up, wrapped her legs around my waist, and took her against the wall. I grabbed her hips, tossed my head back, and before I could stop it, Dovey came to mind.

  It slowed me down for a sec, and I tried to push her out … because what the hell was I doing daydreaming over some random girl who didn’t matter when I had this hot older girl?

  But she wouldn’t get out of my head.

  Fuck it.

  I gave in and went with it, imagining Dovey pinned against the wall, her legs imprisoning me. Yeah. So. Fucking. Good. I grunted and went with it, slamming into Marissa, but wanting another.

  And it was wrong, so wrong of me, but I played my fantasy in my head again, of Dovey dancing for me, of her being in love with me, of her needing me with all my rough spots and flaws, and lastly, I visualized me loving her in return.

  But then my dream took on another angle, sweeter almost, as I imagined me and Dovey at my lake house in White Rock. I made a bed for us out of quilts and pillows under the night sky, under the stars and moon. I made love to her again, this time gazing intently at her face to face. Because now I knew what she looked like.

  I told her I’d love her forever.

  And I don’t even know why.

  “Love swallows up all the good parts,

  but ballet gives it all back.”

  –Dovey

  SEPTEMBER DRIFTED INTO October.

  I continued working on my performance pieces with Jacques. He kept asking me out, but I always said no. I mean, he was hot with his big muscles and French accent, but I knew I had to keep my distance. The loneliness ate at me, but I kept remembering my mother and how love had ultimately destroyed her.

  I didn’t want that for me.

  I was surprised Spider continued dating Becca. I began to wonder if maybe he’d finally fallen for someone. Nah. I laughed. Spider was just bidding his time until the next cute girl came along.

  The first time I’d met him had been freshman year, and I hadn’t been impressed with him. Sure he was handsome and popular—with a hot English accent—but he’d had a rep as a trouble maker.

  It had all began one day in art class when he’d looked across the row of space that separated our work areas and poked fun at my dandelion still life. In retrospect, my painting had been awful, but I didn’t need some smart-ass, cocky guy telling me. So after class, I’d followed him to his locker, determined to let him know he couldn’t trash talk me. I was only fourteen at the time, but being from Ratcliffe, I had a chip on my shoulders, and I was determined to not take his shit.

  I’d eyed his tattoo and said, “Spider is a weird name. Did you know that spiders are almost all homosexual? The females rule and prefer each other, and the males are an afterthought. That’s also why the black widow kills the male after mating, because she views him as a genetic sacrifice. Not to mention, he’s a wimp, all weak and scared. He’s good enough to be her protein though. Yummmy,” I said, rubbing my belly.

  He smirked. “Are you saying I’m gay?”

  “Don’t care one way or the other. Lots of my friends are gay. The point is I may be a girl, but like the black widow, I will kick your ass if you ever make fun of me again.” Total bluff. I gave him a bright smile and turned to leave. “Cheerio, mate.”

  He followed me. “How do you know so much about spiders?”

  I gave him a haughty look. “Duh. I read.”

  He lightly touched his tat. “So it’s true, then?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know. Maybe the black widow lets the male live sometimes. If he brings her a tasty insect probably. Because females like to eat.” Yeah.

  He blinked. “No. Are spiders gay?”

  I tapped my chin, hiding my glee at his distress. “Meh, I made it up mostly. Just to get your attention and make a point.” And then I added, “It’s called hyperbole. Or a lie. Whatever.”

  He’d smiled, his eyes crinkling and a dimple popping out on his cheeks.

  I’d grinned back. He liked me. And there you go. I had a friend. “And by the way, your banana still life? It looked like a penis. So don’t give me grief for some dandelions.”

  He’d barked out a laugh. “Yeah, the banana was hard to get right.”

  And that had been the beginning of mine and Spider’s friendship.

  The bell rang in algebra, pulling me from my memories. I rose up out of my desk and left, headed for lunch.

  I turned the corner to go into the cafeteria when a tall guy with dark hair came out of the library, a pretty girl on each arm. Emma Easton and April Novak were the girls, mean ones if you listened to gossip, and each bookended Cuba Hudson, one of the most—no, wait, the most popular guy at BA.

  I took him in, unabashedly, since Spider wasn’t here like he usually was, offering his critiques of the guys I thought were hot. There was no doubt, Cuba was the most beautiful guys I’d ever seen. Yeah, yeah, I know beautiful is a weird word for a guy, but when it fits, it just does. With a lethal kind of aura, he positively oozed sex, pulling your gaze into his magnetic vortex. The fitness side of me admired his physique with analytical eyes, ghosting over the broad chest and bunched muscles. But most of all, the dreamer in me got chills at his golden-yellow eyes, just like what I imagined an exotic jungle cat would have. I’d meet his gaze once or twice over the years and had shivered each time. With anticipation or heat—or dread? No idea. But his eyes did cause some kind of weird visceral reaction in me like no other, almost as if we shared a connection, like we were kindred spirits—

  Gah. I sounded completely stupid. Cuba Hudson had no idea who I was, nor did he give a shit about meeting my eyes. No one here did. Well, except for Spider.

  I tore my eyes from his form—thank goodness he hadn’t noticed me staring.

  I walked into lunch and when I didn’t see Spider, I figured he was out on the quad with Becca. I sat by myself to eat.

  Being alone in a room full of people who never really looked at you didn’t bother me.

  Or at least that’s what I told myself.

  “When you see the things I have, you grow up fast.”

  –Cuba

  OUR BIG GAME arrived in early November. I had the best night of my career, sacking the Copeland quarterback four times in the first quarter as scouts from ESPN watched in the stands. In the end, we stomped them, the final score 21 to 3. It looked like BA was headed to the regional championships.

  I came off the field after the television interview was over, and Dad met me at the gate, a huge smile on his face. “Son, damn proud of you and that game. Congrats on the win.” He pulled me in for a hug. I sank into it, needing the contact.

  “You deserve all the happiness in the world, you know that right?” he said.

  I didn’t deserve shit.

  I asked him the most important question. “Did Mom come?”

  He twisted his lips, his eyes darting around everywhere but landing on nothing. “Nah, she was tired. She said to tell you good luck.” Yeah. I wondered if that was true or if he was just saying that to make me feel better.

  I nodded, ignoring the lump in my throat.

  Zero yelled at me as he ran over to us. “Dude, party in the field tonight. You in? The whole team’s coming.” The field was an area back behind Zero’s house where we went to hang out and drink after games. His parents didn’t care as long as we didn’t make a bonfire. But we could crank the music up as loud as we wanted.

  “Go on and have fun with your team, Cuba,” Dad said, giving me a pat. “You should celebrate your win. I’m headed to a late dinner in Dallas anyway.”

  “Who’s watching mom?” I snapped, angry with him for always having somewhere to go. His running around for work never ended with him. Yeah, he owned a sports team, but fuck it, he had a family too, and maybe he needed to wake up and see that Mother was—

  “The sitting servi
ce. They came over before the game and should be there until around midnight. Don’t worry about her, okay? She’s getting help, seeing a new doctor. Maybe we’ll see some improvement. You gotta live your life.”

  What? Live my life when my mother obviously wasn’t?

  I said, “Yeah, sounds good. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He nodded and walked away, and don’t think that I didn’t miss that his shoulders were hunched over. My anger with him immediately faded because he was in pain too. Like me, he recognized our lives were slowly unraveling day by day. And we were helpless to do anything about it except watch.

  And so the night went.

  I drove to that party, got trashed on Jack and ended up banging some ditzy cheerleader in the front seat of my Porsche. It wasn’t even good sex, and I kept calling her by the wrong name. During most of it, I imagined myself outside my body, watching what occurred, assessing the level I’d sunk to. I didn’t like what I’d become, but here’s the thing, I didn’t want to stop either. Because I’d do anything to make the memories get the fuck out of my head.

  I’m a no-good useless bastard.

  “Could she cast away darkness?”

  –Cuba

  AT THE END of November we lost our play-off game to a school in Austin. I dealt with it like I did everything else. I worked out more, swam more, fucked more. And I studied. Because I had my goal of rectifying myself by helping others, and I wasn’t going to let go of that.

  Christmas arrived on a cold morning. I came downstairs with dad, both of us shocked to find Mother in the kitchen, dressed in a classy outfit and wearing make-up.

  I stood transfixed. It had been a nearly a year since I’d seen her looking like she used to when she’d be heading out for some charity or a school board meeting.

  She waved a can of cinnamon rolls in front of me. “Good morning. You wanna eat before we open gifts?” She smiled, the effort seeming to come from deep within her.

  I swallowed, finding my voice. “Mom?”

  She fidgeted. Looking unsure and fragile.

  I moved toward her like a man possessed and swept her up in my arms, swinging her around. She laughed, and I buried my face in her neck, inhaling her clean scent. My throat got clogged as she clutched me back, her small hands holding on to me like her life depended on it.

  God, she was better.

  After a quick breakfast together, we went into the den and opened gifts. I’d gotten them both books from their favorite authors, and they’d gotten me a new television for my room. Later that evening, we ate turkey and all the fixings along with some of my mom’s traditional Brazilian favorites. She put her apron on and got to work, banging and clanging around the kitchen. It sounded like heaven.

  After dinner, we sat around the fire in Dad’s study, listening to Christmas music and talking, catching her up on all the latest gossip about the Mavericks and our Highland Park friends. All in all, it was one of the best days I’d ever had. Maybe because my hope came roaring back. And there’s nothing like being as low as you can get and then getting that spark that tells you it’s not over yet, that you still have fight left in you.

  Yeah.

  And the only thing I could think in my head was that she was back, she was back, she was back.

  But she wasn’t.

  “Money hides a world of pain.”

  –Cuba

  JANUARY MEANT A new semester at BA. It also meant a change in classes since we were on the block schedule.

  So after the holiday break, I walked into my new World History class, checking out the other students, wondering who I would be getting to know for the next few months.

  I came to an abrupt halt when I saw Dovey in the front row.

  Sure, I’d seen her around the school some. I’d catch glimpses of her in the cafeteria or the library, but I never allowed myself to look too long or linger over her attributes.

  I don’t even know how to explain my natural avoidance of her except to say that I sensed she was different. From the way she’d danced, I’d gotten the vibe of someone driven and strong and perhaps pure. Crazy to get all that from watching her, but the emotion in her had been beautiful.

  Hell, I’d taken a hit because of it.

  I didn’t want to mess with that quality about her. Because I would screw her up like I do everything else. The bottom line was she wasn’t like any of the girls here, and my heart told me to stay away. I only wanted to fuck, not get close to someone. And never in a million years did I want to fall in love with anyone, and I sensed—based on my ridiculous dreams—she might make me fall.

  So yeah, I told myself to keep walking by her desk. And with Herculean effort, I did. I went and sat next to Zero, who also had his eyes on Dovey.

  “Who is that?” he asked me, leaning over and whispering out of the corner of his mouth.

  “No one,” I said. “Some chick from the projects. I wouldn’t waste my time if I were you.”

  He scoffed, pushing auburn hair off his face. “Fucking body to die for. And did you see her ass in those yoga pants? It might be worth it to slum with her.”

  I glared at him, my heart pounding loud and for no apparent reason. I sucked in a sharp breath, trying to get it under control.

  What the hell was wrong with me?

  Why did the thought of Zero with Dovey make me want to punch his lights out?

  I pointed over at Emma Easton. “Now that’s the girl you need. And she just broke up with Matt.”

  He rolled his eyes at me. Ha. We both knew they’d be back together by the end of the week.

  And then class started.

  I opened my book as the teacher started in with a lecture on the Roman Empire, but my eyes took in Dovey, assessing what it was about her that got to me. Finally after a few minutes, I decided she was plain and not my type at all.

  Then it happened.

  She turned around to pick up a piece of paper the teacher was sending around for us to sign. My world … my fucking life … altered when her eyes connected with mine for what seemed like a long time, but it only had to be a few seconds. They were blue. A peacock blue with hints of green.

  She would never be plain.

  She smiled, just a tiny one, kinda like the smile you’d give to any human who you happened to make eye contact with by accident.

  I blushed. I have no idea why. Maybe because I’d imagined fucking her in every position that was anatomically feasible.

  Flustered, I looked down at my desk, fiddling with my notebook, feeling confused and self-conscious. Me. The guy who could have any girl he wanted was freaking out over some girl who didn’t even register on the who’s who of BA.

  When I glanced back up, she’d already turned back around.

  I didn’t hear a thing the professor said that day, my eyes on Dovey, picturing me and her together. Falling in love.

  So stupid.

  Because falling for a girl like her was a terrible idea.

  As soon as the bell rang, I bolted from my seat for my next class.

  When the following day rolled around, I took a seat far, far away from her. No reason. Just thought maybe I needed a change of scenery is all.

  LATER THAT WEEK, I walked in our house after a post-season workout at the gym. Mom had texted earlier, checking to make sure I was on schedule to arrive on time. She’d specifically asked if I’d be home by four o’clock, and her reaching out sent alarm bells off in my head. It was odd. Why did she care what time I came home? Unless …

  She was fine, I kept telling myself.

  Yet, I’d made sure to be home.

  I didn’t see her in the den or the kitchen or outside by the pool, where she liked to hang out sometimes and read. With queasy flutters in my stomach, I made my way upstairs. I knocked on her locked door, but got nothing. I pulled my phone out and called her. Sure enough I could hear it ringing in the background inside her bedroom.

  “Mother, are you in there?” I yelled into the wood.

  Nothing b
ut silence.

  “Open the door, please,” I begged her, my ear pressed tight against the door, aching to hear at least a sniffle or something from her. Nada.

  My stress level skyrocketed. She always answered me when I knocked.

  I banged again and got nothing but an empty silence.

  “Dammit, I’m coming in there,” I called out, ramming my shoulder into the door. It thudded, loosening a little but not opening. I grabbed a credit card from my wallet, my gut screaming at me to get to her, get to her, get to her.

  Finally, after some jiggling, the credit card popped the lock, and I rushed in.

  She wasn’t in bed, so I ran to the bathroom, coming to an abrupt halt, a dawning sense of horror growing in me at what I saw.

  My mother, her honey-colored skin pale, lay nude in a bathtub full of water, blood oozing from her slit wrists.

  Fuck me.

  I yelled until my throat gave out, running to her and pulling her out of the water and into my arms. Craziness hit me, making me forget every first aid class I’d ever taken.

  “Please don’t leave me,” I choked out, my adrenaline finally kicking in. I grabbed towels from the nearby shelving and pressed them to her wrists, applying pressure.

  “Mary-Carmen,” I shouted in her face, using her given name, praying her eyes opened. My fingers found a faint pulse on her neck.

  “Thank God,” I whispered, sitting her on the marble tiled floor so I could pull out my phone.

  I called 911.

  Sixteen agonizing minutes later, I watched the paramedics wrap her wrists and then strap her in a gurney they’d put in her bedroom. One of them had an oxygen mask on her.

  “Is she going to be okay?” I asked, clutching my stomach, holding in the nausea that I couldn’t let out, because I had to keep my shit together. For her.