Faithless (Mistress & Master of Restraint) (19 page)

I’d memorized the number for some
reason; bitching at myself for doing it, but now I’m glad I did.

I scratch
my head and nervously step one foot on top of the other while I wait for the dial tone to change to rings.

“Pick up,” I beg, “Pick up!”

“Hello?” Wil asks as if he’s not used to his phone ringing.

“Are you busy?” I ask, and realize I’m a dolt. “Shit… this is Faith.”

“I know who it is,” he sharply chastises me and I instantly regret calling. “Are you alright?”

“Listen I need… ah hell, I…” I stammer, unsure how to explain. “Can you come over,” slips out before I can stop it. “Forget it. I know you probably don’t wanna leave sleeping beauty.”

“Sleeping beauty?” Wil sounds mildly amused and hella confused.

“Shit… again… sorry!
Gretchen, you probably don’t want to leave Gretchen.”

“Boyd’
s here, we’re watching a movie. I wasn’t paying attention anyway. It’s some sap-fest Greta picked out. I’ll be there shortly.”

“Wait,” I shout, and curse at myself for doing it. “Sorry… sorry,” I apologize. “Can you bring me a box of hair dye?”

“Why?”

“Please,” I beg.

“Fine,” he sighs. “What color?”

“Black,” pops out before I can stop it. It’s the complete opposite of anything Gwendolyn Meyers.

“O…kay…” Wil drawls out. “This I have got to see,” he snickers. “Twenty minutes.”

I stare at the dead phone. Wil hung up on me. Why am I not surprised.
I set it back in its cradle and go to work on my hair.

I saw a set of bangs to cover my forehead. Slowly I snip a straight line just above my eyebrows. I bite my bottom lip wishing I had a better pair of scissors. Nothing is even. My hair is different lengths all over my head. It’s something that no bitchy socialite would be caught dead sporting and too edgy for any self-respecting country folk to have as a hairdo.

It’s perfect.

“Identity crisis?” deeply comes from the doorway
and I jolt with a girly meep. “I let myself in. Your mother… I mean Lara, was on her knees giving some old dude a bj,” Wil gags out. “Just to freak them both out, I asked where your room was.” He chuckles as he walks into my bathroom. “You should have seen their faces.” He shakes his head. “But… seriously, doesn’t she have any survival instincts. I could have been a rapist or murderer. I just walked right in and took them by surprise. Then the stupid bitch told me where to find you.”

“Lara
’s probably hoping you were a murderer. Lara and her beau are probably hiding, waiting for my blood-curdling screams.”

“Most definitely.” Wil flashes me a huge grin.
He gestures to my hair, and says, “I like it. It’s more you.”

“Can I ask you something?”
I quietly ask, feeling bashful with Wil in my bathroom, and exposed now that I’ve cut my hair.

“You just did?”
he teases.

“That never gets old,” I deadpan. “
Do I look like her,” I softly murmur, eyes flicking up so I can watch his expression.

Wil’s face twists
in pain, his pale eyes clouding over. With a deep breath, he says, “yes.”

The admission knocks me for a loop.
I catch myself on the edge of the vanity, and lean a hip against it. I knew the truth was coming, but after everything- my birthday party where Boyd finally told me the truth and Lara’s confessions, it’s too much too soon.

Wil slowly walks across my bathroom and sets the box of hair color on the vanity by the sink. I hate the pity etched across his face.
He doesn’t touch me, but his gaze seeps into my flesh as if it were a comforting caress.

“Is that why you hated me when we first me
t?” I mumble, eyes never leaving the box of hair dye.

“Yes and no,” Wil
says, calmly and surely, without a hint of emotion. In essence, this is Wil. “I didn’t hate you,” flows softly from his lips. “I also thought you were Fate. You had my head so messed up and confused. I’m used to black and white, and Faith, you are a rainbow of confusion. I’ve known about you since you were born. All of you. I was trained to take care of you.”

“I don’t understand,
” I don’t mean for it to sound like a whimper, or for my lips to pout. I just feel so hurt… and lost… and alone. Somehow sensing my distress, Wil brushes my cheek with a fingertip, and then quickly steps away. He sits on the edge of my bathtub and stares at the cheery seafoam green tile floor. Right now, I hate that color. My black mood doesn’t like happy.

“I’m the Meyers’ enforcer-” Wil begins, never looking up at me.
“Which means I have the responsibility of being the Meyers, Whittenhower, Green, Simpson, and Spencer enforcer. Mitchell, Gwen’s father, has always been in charge, he and his
friends
,” he twists the word with a sneer. “We live and breathe a game that includes seven families. Each family has a head or elder. Mitchell doesn’t play fair, and he’s used his daughter to win. Do you understand so far?”

“I think so. You’re the only one who explains anything.”
The relief in my voice is evident. I’m so thankful he’s telling me something. Boyd just said I didn’t need to know.

“I do try,” Wil
says with a smile. “Hop up on the counter. We’ll talk as I straighten up the back of your hair. You hacked the hell out of it.”

I do as I’m told, grabbing a towel to put under my bare butt. I tuck my t-shirt down so Wil doesn’t see any of my bits.
He pushes me around until he can reach the back of my hair. I try to ignore his fingers lingering on my thighs, and the sensation that travels up my spine at the simple, innocent touch. He picks up my dull scissors and my comb and gets to work. My eyes flutter shut and my scalp tingles from the attention.

“Rule one: you can’t play against your kin.
” Wil’s soft voice echoes around the small bathroom, his breath tickling the small hairs at the nape of my neck. I tell my hormones to shut the hell up and pay attention to the valuable information Wil is giving us. “Even if you have an ounce of shared blood, you are allies. Mitchell’s father started the game with good intentions, but everything gets tainted when consumed with power- it turned evil. Mitchell had one child- Gwen. Mitchell’s Father, and then Mitchell, made Gwen do very uncomfortable things for the sake of the game. Her children were moves in the game, moves to create this unplayable game field. Are you following along?” He tugs the end of my hair, making me nod yes.

“Yes
,” I quietly mutter, knowing he will need verbal confirmation. Being nice or not, this is still Wil. He has rules that I have to abide by. Rules I’ve paid consequences for breaking.

Wil
abruptly pulls on my knee to turn me. I yelp out in surprise and try to clench my thighs shut. Wil hisses and I want to die of mortification.

“I take it that this is your nightgown,” he says in a voice drier than a desert
, with his face looking as if he was sunburned. “Um, okay… I’ll pretend I didn’t see that.”

“Sorry,” I mumble, blushing so fiercely that my face feels burnt. I shift around until I’m facing him, legs firmly clamped shut.

“I didn’t say I didn’t like the view,” Wil says to himself. “I just want to keep my hands. Boyd was being serious. He’ll punish me if I touch you.”

“Oh,” I breathe. “You want to?” I scrunch
up my nose, and glance up at Wil. He’s as flushed as I am. The tent in his pants says he wants to. Or it could be that he’s a teenager. Lord knows, Cort walks around perpetually hard. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen the front of Cort’s pants flat.

“Let’s not go there. I’m going to
trim up the front now. As you can see by my hair, I’ve had a lot of experience,” Wil teases, running his palm along his buzzed off hair-fuzz. The movement makes me crave to know what it feels like- rough and scratchy or soft and tickly.

As Wil combs out the front
of my hair, he says, “Mitchell is old, like eighties. Gwen was born later in his life. His game mates are his best friends and enemies, and they are old as hell, too. I’m sorry,” Wil murmurs under his breath. “Your mother was used by these men- some not willingly. She’s worked her way through all of the seven families, and only two would be considered consensual.”

“No,” I whimper, and flinch back in pain for my birth mom. Wil growls at me because he almost chopped off part of my bangs. He puts a thigh on either side of mine and clamps them tight so I can’t move. It’s my turn to hiss as his stiffy digs into my knee.

“Can’t help it,” he mumbles, but doesn’t move away.  My mind goes on a vacay as my hormones overheat. My hands rise on their own to rest on his hips. His pale eyes stare at me for a heartbeat before his lashes flutter shut. When he doesn’t tell me to move, my fingers splay until I get a tip inside his t-shirt. His skin isn’t warm; it’s scorching to the touch and oh so soft- smooth like buttery leather.

“Behave, but keep them there,” Wil
gruffly warns. With a shake of his head, he’s back in his right mind. “The future Meyers is Gwen, and then you. Daniel II was created as the future Whittenhower. Gwen’s youngest daughter is the future Green. Fate is the current Simpson, since your father was incarcerated, he stepped down. Boyd is the future Spencer when Henry finally keels over. That leaves two families that don’t have Meyers’ blood- the Fontaines and the Holdens. Your baby sister is waiting her turn to be the next creator of Fontaine/Meyers offspring… and you, Faith, you are working on the Holden family.”

“What? I don’t know any Holdens!”
I start to shout my protests, but a firm hand covers my mouth. Wil scowls down at me, hating the sound of my voice. I look to his ears to see if they are bleeding. “Sorry,” I mumble my apology against the palm of his hand.

Wil releases my face. A finger lingers on my bottom lip, signaling that all is forgiven. He reluctantly picks up the comb and scissors again.

“I’m sorry to say this, but Gwen is known as the Whore. Some games have Kings and Queens. This game has the Whore. If she shows up at your door, you’re screwed in every possible way. There is no denying Gwen anything. She’s made three daughters, and she
will
use them as she was used. It’s all she knows.”

“Yeah, well, I can tell you
this without meeting her yet, I’m immune,” I snidely hiss.

“Don’t say t
hat until you meet her. Gwen can spin anything into her favor. She’ll make you feel sorry for her, respect her, hate her, lust after her, and be revolted by her- simultaneously. So yes, when I met you, all I saw was her, and I hated you because of it.”

Wil grabs the box of hair color and reads the back panel- as if he wants to remove as much of Gwendolyn Meyers’ looks from me as possible. It’s too bad we can’t remove her blood from my system.

“I also hated you because I know all about Fate through Boyd. He loves her, and will protect her, as a brother should. But he doesn’t like her as a person. He said she was entitled, spoiled, and clueless. I don’t have the patience for that, so I treated you accordingly. I would’ve still punished you the same, regardless of who you are. That is just how I am. I can’t deal with stupidity.”

“Do you still hate me?”
My fingers clench on his sides, trying to get his attention again. Wil’s studying the box, deliberately ignoring me now that he’s finished cutting my hair. But he hasn’t stepped out of my reach yet. I don’t know why I hunger for his attention or crave his touch, but I do.

“No,” he muses, “I don’t think so. There are things about you that make me want to run away screaming- those things that Gwen elicits within me. But I do like you as a person, for the most part.”

“In other words, I annoy the fuck out of you,” my tone has a teasing lilt, but I’m being serious.

“Yes, abso-fucking-lutely,”
Wil sings. “But I like you with equal measure. You intrigue me and annoy me.”

“Great,” I hiss.

“It was a compliment. I don’t have the patience for most people.” He smirks down at me, tucking my hair behind my ear. “I like this better, so much better. Before… you had the same hairstyle as your mothers and Fate. Are you really coloring it black?” He squints at me, as if envisioning me with pitch-black hair, and then he looks at the box again.

“Yeah, I don’t want to be anything like her. Black is the opposite of blonde. Short is the opposite of long. If you’d tell me how she dresses, I’ll do the opposite there, too.”

“Gwen dresses like Lara and Fate- high society bitchy. Just wear whatever makes you comfortable.” The pity in his eyes is suffocating.

“Why?
I can tell you don’t think it’s possible to be myself.”

“There is nothing you can do, Faith. You can change your appearance and it won’t help. You’re already too much like her
as it is. You’re more than her. You do
her
better than she does, I think, as does she.”

“I don’t care. I can’t look like her. I need to be… original. I’ve cut my hair
, and now I’ll dye it. I know I can’t change the shape of my body. But I wish I could do my eyes.”

“That you can do, if you really want to. Mine are so unique that I have to wear tinted contacts to cover them. When I’m not with the people who know me, I have hazel eyes like
Greta’s. I chose the color for her. What color would you want?”