ARROGANT PLAYBOY (35 page)

JENSEN

Mark grins from ear to ear, his hand on the
shoulder of a man with gray around his temples. The man smiles and gives a
friendly wave before Mark points for him to take a seat at the head of the
table next to him.

Bellamy stares at her plate.
Waverly watches, still as a statue.

“Everyone, I’d like you to meet
Mr. Waterman.” Mark seems proud of his buddy, and judging by their matching
Polo sweaters, I’d say they’re two of a kind. Mark gives another quick wave,
the glint of his gold wedding band catching my eye.

“Oh, you can all call me
Bruce.” Mr. Waterman—Bruce—flashes a crooked smile, his two front
teeth overlapping just enough to be noticeable from a safe distance. He lowers
himself into his chair and proceeds to make small talk with Mark as food is
passed around.

A moment later, Mark goes
around the table, calling out the names of his litter of children and three
wives, and tells us all Bruce is a new colleague of his at the pharmacy who
just so happens to be one of the seventy quorum members of the priesthood.

Whatever
the fuck that means.

Our end of the table is
alarmingly silent, like someone hit the mute button and sucked all the sound
from the room. Mark doesn’t notice, though. He’s too busy bragging about his
perfect AUB family to his buddy, and by the end of dinner, he suggests we head
into the family room for some socializing. He even tells his wives cleanup can
wait.

“Waverly, why don’t you show Bruce
here that lovely hymn you play on the piano.” Mark motions toward an old oak
upright in the corner of the room. “You know the one.
Father Is My Favorite Friend
.”

“Aw, I was hoping for
Take Me to Church
,” I dig.

Mark’s eyes snap to me for a
mere second and then dart to Waverly, who takes a seat on the bench and lifts
the lid to the piano, spreading her fingers across the black and white keys. He
slips his hands into his pockets and stands next to Bruce, a big smile on his
face like he can hardly wait to watch Waverly’s performance vicariously through
his buddy.

She’s like a monkey on a leash,
performing because Mark told her to. This really is a fucking circus.

“Jensen?” Gideon comes out of
nowhere and tugs on my hand. “Will you help me with my puzzle?”

A thousand-piece puzzle is
scattered all over the coffee table with a few rogue pieces littering the
ground beneath. It’s way above his skill level, but I’m not about to rain on
his parade. Little dude’s life is already hard enough, even if he doesn’t know it
yet. I’ll help him with his puzzle.

“Sure thing, buddy.” We take a
seat on the sofa. He tries to force random pieces together and I search for the
edges, simultaneously keeping an eye on what’s going on in the far corner of
the room.

I snap three edge pieces
together, glancing up as the sound of some boring ass hymnal I’ve never heard
before fills the confines of the crowded family room. The wives are perched on
edges of furniture, still as mannequins, and the younger children play quietly.

Bellamy is seated on a big
armchair to my left, away from the rest of the group. It’s almost as if she’s
trying to blend in. She sits politely, her legs crossed at her ankles and her
hands folded in her lap, like she’s sitting in a church pew.

“Bellamy,” Mark turns around
and calls at her. “Come. You can sing while Waverly plays. Waverly, can you two
do
Thy Servants Are Prepared
for our
guest here?”

She groans just enough that I
hear it and peels herself up from the chair.

Mark flashes a huge smile at
her. “Bruce, I don’t think you’ve been formally introduced yet to my eldest.
Bruce, this is Bellamy, my firstborn daughter. She’s twenty-two.”

I don’t know what the fuck her
age has to do with anything. Most people stop broadcasting their kids’ ages
once they’re past, oh, I don’t know,
elementary
school.

Bruce’s smile widens. Mark
doesn’t notice when his narrow eyes wash over her from head to toe. She squirms
and focuses on the floor. I can imagine his gaze must feel disgustingly
invasive to her. He’s easily twice her age, and he’s wears the same delusional
confidence as Mark.

“All right, Waverly,” Mark
says. “We’re ready.”

The sisters perform with stoic
faces and tight postures. Waverly knows her way around a piano keyboard and
Bellamy doesn’t miss a single note. Mark stands proud, observing Bruce as he
watches the girls perform.

“Jensen, you’re not helping!”
Gideon nudges my arm.

“Sorry, bud.” I work on my edge
pieces until the song is over. No one applauds, which is appropriate. Church
hymns aren’t meant to be entertainment, regardless of the fact that Mark seems
to think they are tonight.

Waverly shuts the piano lid and
stands up from the creaky wooden bench. She stands next to Bellamy as if
they’re about to be auctioned off, their gazes submissive and low. It
physically pains me to see her that way. I’ve gotten to know her a little more
over the past several weeks, and I know she’s got some fight in her. She’s a
tiger, caged and subdued, behaving exactly the way she was raised to behave.

“Waverly, you’re a beautiful
pianist.” Bruce’s compliment is meant to sound sincere, but his mouth-watering
delivery lends creepy undertones. He’s salivating, and I don’t understand how
Mark doesn’t pick up on any of this. I’m pretty sure if I checked out his
pants—which I’m
not
going to do—I’d
see the early formation of a raging boner.

Bruce steps in closer to
Waverly, and as of that moment, Bellamy may as well be chopped liver. He takes
her hand in his. “Your father tells me you’re a virtuous, yet spirited girl.”

Waverly nods, like she’s afraid
to speak. I get that this jackass is in the priesthood or whatever, and Mark
acts like the guy is a damn prophet, but I seem to be the only one noticing the
way her hands shake and her eyes dart around. Her full lips part as she
swallows, her face void of color. She’s fucking terrified.

I’ve seen a lot of shit in my
day, and I’ve done a lot of questionable shit, but this fucking takes the cake.
I’m not sure how much longer I can stand here and watch Mark pimp out his
daughters to what is clearly a fellow polygamist shopping for a new wife to add
to his collection.

I don’t care what anyone says.
Waverly and Bellamy are victims, and as far as I can tell, I have a couple
different options. I can speak up now, make shit super awkward and risk getting
kicked out of Mark’s house, and spend the next two months homeless.

Or…

I can take matters into my own
hands, in my own
special
way.

Either way, I refuse to allow
this. From here on out, no one gets to use religion as a weapon to control
another human being.

Not while I’m around.

WAVERLY

His touch knots my belly, and the way his
gaze crawls all over me makes me feel dirty, inanimate. I feel Jensen watching,
taking it all in quietly from the other side of the room, and my cheeks warm. I
am an item on an auction block, and for the first time, I am less than human.

Bruce pays extra attention to
me, his beady eyes locked on mine. He’s a member of the quorum, which means we
are to show him the utmost respect, especially as a guest in our house, but I’m
finding it exceptionally challenging to do so when he’s practically undressing
me with his eyes.

“Waverly, can you quote Article
Thirteen of the Articles of Faith?” Bruce asks.

“Yes,” I say, my voice a forced
whisper. My throat is dry and tight, as if I’m being choked. His presence
suffocates me. Or maybe it’s fear of the unknown. “We believe in being honest,
true, chaste, and in doing good for all men.”

“Good, good.” Bruce’s thin lips
coil up at the corners, his voice snakes and slithers into the air between us.
“And you, Bellamy?” He addresses her, but he still looks at me. “Are you chaste
and true?”

“I am,” she says.

“Excellent.” Bruce comes closer
and places his palm on my shoulder, his eyes drifting back and forth between
us. “You young ladies are the future of our faith. It’s up to you to set good
examples for your younger sisters, to follow out on the path that has been lain
before you by your mothers and grandmothers. It’s up to you to remain true to
your Heavenly Father and the doctrines by which we are governed.”

I’m not sure what he’s getting
at. Sure, we may not go to church regularly since the nearest AUB temple is a
two hour drive from here, but my father has always raised us with the teachings
of the Holy Bible, Book of Mormon, United Order, and the Articles of Faith.

“Someday soon, you will be
married,” Bruce says, releasing my shoulder from his grasp. “These are trying
times we live in. Temptation is everywhere.”

I glance up at my dad, hoping
for at least a sign of what this might be all about, but I get nothing. My
fingers twitch against my sides. Deep down, I
know
what this is about. I just don’t want to believe it.

Bruce clears his throat. “The
priesthood typically does not promote marital arrangements, however, the option
to choose your partner is one that must be earned by staying pure and true.”

He smiles as if to soften his
message, though his eyes penetrate mine, like he’s trying to invade my soul.
The room shrinks around us. I may as well be in a prison from which I can’t
escape.

I’m
being threatened with an arranged marriage.

Jensen rises from the sofa,
plodding across the room and pushing past my father and Bruce without so much
as an, “Excuse me.”

Must
be nice to be able to walk away.

I turn to my father, who for
the first time in my life is a stranger to me. I don’t know this passive
aggressive coward. “I’m not feeling well. I think I need to go lie down.”

The expectation to continue on
in the tradition of plural marriage has been embedded into my psyche for as far
back as I remember. In this moment, here and now, I’m finally realizing that
those opinions in my head were never really mine to begin with. They were
planted there, sowed and reaped and fertilized over the years.

I’m too young to get married,
and I certainly deserve the right to choose whom I marry.

And I don’t want to have a
plural marriage. I’ve never told anyone that before, but I know with every
fiber of my being it’s not what I want. Not anymore, not since I realized I
have a choice.

“Waverly.” My father peers down
his nose at me, like he’s disappointed, like I should tough it out. “I think
you’ll be fine.”

I blink away hot tears that
fill my eyes. The one man who was supposed to love me and take care of me is
perfectly fine placing my future in the hands of a church elder, like his job
here is done.

My mother stares ahead,
blank-faced and refusing to meet my pleading gaze. There’s a powerless kind of
sadness in her eyes.

“Excuse me,” I mutter, ambling
out of the family room. My legs wobble, barely supporting me, and I’m quite
certain I’ll barely make it upstairs before I collapse. I grip the railing and
then the walls, desperate for something to hold onto because in this moment, I
have nothing.

No one.

I am alone.

Powerless.

The choice of whom and when to
marry has been swept out from under me without warning.

I have no control, and right
now, it’s the one thing I need more than anything else in the entire world.

No one chases after me. They
wouldn’t dare. They all know better than to make a scene in front of a church
elder. I’m sure I’ll get a stern talking to tomorrow, but for now, I’m thankful
to be away from that creep.

I need to breathe.

I need to think.

I need to wait out the storm
until I can find dry ground again.

Standing outside my bedroom
door, I catch a glimpse of Jensen’s door. It’s half open. The light is on. I
pull in a long, cleansing breath, wipe my tears on the back of my sleeves, and
show myself in. I really don’t want to be alone right now.

He’s seated on the floor, his
back against his bed and his knees bent. He’s sketching, zoned out.

“Hey,” I say. I tuck my curled
hair behind my ears and shut the door behind me.

He sets his sketchpad down and
shakes his head. “Fuck, Waverly. What the hell just happened downstairs?”

I bite my lip and blink away foggy
tears. I can’t say it. If I say it, it becomes real, and if it becomes real,
there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. I battle my wars in complete
silence, the way I’ve been taught to do.

Jensen reaches for my hand,
pulling me down to the floor with him. “You know you don’t have to worry about
a damn thing, right? He can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

I want to believe his words
hold weight, but he doesn’t understand. He has no idea how things work with the
AUB and my father’s expectations. It’s not that simple.

“You’re going to tell me I have
a choice,” I say.

His lips inch up at the sides,
soft and strangely inviting. I realize just how close we’re sitting now. I
breathe him in, closing my eyes and getting lost in his world for just a split
second. I’d give anything to be anywhere but in my own reality.

“You know me well,” he says,
his voice pulling me nearer. Or maybe it’s him. His hand slips around my
shoulders and he brings me into a side embrace. I laugh to myself because he’s
not a touchy-feely person. He’s tough and unreadable at times, rarely showing
an ounce of emotion that isn’t provocative or inciting. If a side hug is all he
can offer me, I’ll take it.

We’re friends now, and that’s
kind of important because I haven’t been allowed to have close friends for a
long time—not since Claire Fahnlander almost outed us back in middle
school.

I sit up and open my eyes,
immediately losing them in his dark, brooding gaze. My desire to taste his lips
and sense his touch never subsided despite my best efforts. His fingertips
graze my arm, igniting a wave of impulsivity. My lips part, our faces only a
dangerous few inches apart. My heart quickens, and I’m struggling to breathe. I
could kiss him if I wanted to, but I won’t. I need his friendship, and I don’t
want to make things complicated.

The moment passes and my
reckless, wild notion goes right along with it. I’m sure it would’ve been
amazing. I’m sure it would’ve set my world on fire. It probably would’ve felt
all kinds of wrong and delicious, but now I’ll never know.

Jensen cups my cheek, his thumb
pressing against my bottom lip, mocking the pressure of a soft kiss. I sigh. He
could own me with one kiss, and I wouldn’t even fight it.

I need to rebel.

I need to feel.

I need to know that my life
still belongs to me.

I close my eyes while I focus
on the sensation of his thumb against my mouth until it disappears, fading away
only to be replaced with the real thing.

Jensen
Mackey is kissing me.

I’m not imagining it.

It’s not a fantasy or a late-night
reverie.

His lips are warm and he grasps
the back of my neck, digging his fingers into my flesh as he guides me closer
to him. Our lips dance, soft and slow, until our tongues meet. Jensen’s tongue
swirls around mine, all velvet and sin.

My body responds to his kiss
with an intensity too overwhelming to ignore. I’m powerless in his presence,
only it’s a powerlessness I fully embrace.

His kisses still my mind,
willing my body to do all the work. My thoughts are at rest, and each passing
second is an exhilarating trip into the unknown. I know where this is headed;
my body tells me so.

Jensen pulls his lips from
mine, we’re both breathless. My lips are swollen and heated. I want more. I
crave more. Hard deep kisses that make me forget my name. One taste and I’m
left with unsatisfied urges and petulant disappointment.

“Waverly.” He runs his fingers
through his dark hair. “We shouldn’t do th—”

I silence his objection with a
kiss of my own, one that says I’m perfectly okay with whatever it is we’re
doing right now. He kisses me back, hungry and accepting, pulling me into his
lap.

The rest of the family is
downstairs with Bruce. I’ll take the odds and place my bet that they’ll leave
me alone for the immediate future. Causing a scene in front of a church elder
is the last thing they want to do.

I grip Jensen by the back of
his head, my hips bucking and rolling over his like my body has known what to
do all along. The ache between my thighs is raw and real, painful and pleading.

Jensen tugs at my sweater, pulling
it up slowly like he’s giving me a chance to stop him, but I don’t. He lifts it
over my head and returns below to work the button on my pants.

With each article of clothing I
shed, my liberation comes to life, boiling to my surface at warp speed. I won’t
be able to go back after this, but I’m not sure I want to.

His lips leave mine, a coolness
overtaking them in his absence. He presses his mouth into the flesh of my neck,
tasting, sucking, biting. Pain mixes with pleasure, swirling into liquefied
desire.

All of this is physical. I’m
not in love with my stepbrother. I don’t expect anything from him after this.
It’s just something I need to do for myself.

I’m giving my body to Jensen,
but the pleasure is all mine. I own my body, not him, or my father, or anyone
else. I own this moment. Me.

I am in control.

Tonight, an angel fell from
heaven, but maybe she never belonged there in the first place.