To the Last Man I Slept with and All the Jerks Just Like Him (7 page)

Not anymore, though. Hell no. This is the end of the line. I’m not putting up with your weakness anymore. I don’t need you. I never respected you. I’ve learned my lesson and now I hate you.

You’re a coward.

Get away from me.

Aunt Rosie

F
or years I believed what they said about Aunt Rosie and repeated it mindlessly to myself and others, like something you mutter in church. “He treats her that way because she lets him. I wouldn’t let no man do that to me.” I laughed at my uncle’s jokes and let him kiss me on the cheek. I shook my head along with the others when he yelled at Aunt Rosie and she scurried to bring him another beer.

He continued to yell at her and call her names while I grew up, moved away, and got a man of my own. My uncle yelled and forced my aunt to scurry at his will until, full of tumors and Budweiser, he exploded. She cried hardest at the funeral. Her strength, it seemed, had lain in holding out until he died.

If I had problems of my own, my strength would have been secrecy. No matter what happened, no one would ever say that I let it happen. No one would say that I deserved what I got. If I had problems, I would be strong, taking it like a man—or, like a woman, actually—keeping up the front with no whining. I would have taken it until I was filled with anger, fear, and poor self-esteem, and then—right before I exploded—I would have escaped and gone back home.

When I got back home, I saw that Aunt Rosie had changed. Now she laughed. She wore small tiny clothes in blazing colors, drove fast in a pick-up, and danced all night long. She had fun times with men. Very fun times with lots of men.

I only saw her for bright flashes at a time. The phone would ring and, if she weren’t pressed for time, she’d pick it up and murmur the quick, sweet lies I’ve heard murmured to me so many times. “Yeah, baby. You know I do. Yeah, I’ll be there. Uh huh, me too.”

The rest of our family told me that she had fun with men every single weekend and sometimes even in public, too. I smiled. They told me again, explaining it more slowly this time so that I would know to snicker, instead, or to roll my eyes. But then I only sighed.

I don’t point out to my family members that they’re full of shit because the last time I did, everyone uncomfortably joked that my uncle was there, floating around that house, listening. His own daughters said so. They said they heard his angry rumblings at night. But I wasn’t scared that he would fly up and slap my face. I figured the very most he could do was knock over a cheap vase whenever he got a well-deserved eyeful of Aunt Rosie exercising her basic rights as an human being in America.

“I don’t care if you hear me, Uncle Joe! You know you treated her wrong!” I called floor-ward. Everyone quivered. But Uncle Joe couldn’t deny my words, so he didn’t say anything at all.

However, since that day, I no longer push the subject. If I did, I’d have to back up my arguments with examples from my own life. And that always leads to them telling me, “If you were having problems, you should have told us. We would have . . .”

They would have helped me, they claim. They would have stopped it. They would have kicked my husband’s ass.

They say that stuff and then I very clearly imagine/remember them (her own daughters included) saying, “He treats her that way because she lets him”—this time meaning me.

So I let them change the subject. I watch Aunt Rosie run out the door in a furious rush to fit in one more good time, before it’s too late. I don’t tell her what I really want to say, maybe because I don’t want to remind her of the times that I did the same shit everybody else did. I guess I’m ashamed of the way I used to be.

I turn to my own children. “Don’t listen to ghosts,” I say. “And go give your Aunt Rosie a kiss before she goes. Tell her to have a good time.”

To the Last Man I Slept with and to Everybody Else

I
spent a lot of time trying to make you the hero. I helped you hold up your front by smiling and nodding at your stories and excuses. I saved you again and again from feeling less than a man, from loneliness and despair, and from the opinions of my friends.

I just realized who the real hero is here.

You wanted to be the rock star, the ninja, the cowboy in black. I wanted to be with those people so I pretended they were you. But secretly, I have always been
all
of those things. I kept it a secret for
you.

I’m the rock star. I’m the brave warrior. I’m the clever girl who grows up to win fame and fortune. I am the queen. And I always have been.

For years, I could have shown myself as the hero and gotten the credit I deserved. Instead, I’ve been wasting my time and energy on trying to save you. And now I don’t have a damned thing to show for it.

And now I don’t have any more time to lose.

I’m going to go out into the world and be a hero. If you want to, you can watch.

low Brow

My Lord Alpha Male

Chapter 1

Miss Chastity Fairbody looked around in dismay as she alit from the post chaise. Surely this was a very odd part of town in which to find a modiste.

Dusting off her pelisse, Chastity’s firm little chin jutted out in a gesture of determination that those who knew her would have recognized all too well. Rough part of London or not, she would be a silly peagoose to back away now and give up the job of assistant modiste, losing the only chance to make a respectable living that had materialized since her father had finally drunk himself to death after gambling away the family estate just six short months ago.

Stubborn wisps of dark, golden, auburn hair escaped from her bonnet, curling into tendrils around her enormous violet eyes. There was no doubt that Chastity was a beauty, had she but known it. Not even the hours spent in front of her mirror, staring at her own reflection while a maid labored over her hair and continually murmured compliments, had managed to affect her modest opinion of herself.

Finally plucking up enough courage to actually move, Chastity stepped towards a small man covered in soot and said in her low, musical voice, “Excuse me, but I wonder if you could tell me . . .”

The chimney sweep was precluded from answering by the sudden interruption of a formidable shadow falling across his face. Chastity glanced toward the source of this awe-inspiring shade, and immediately regretted doing so, as her heart leapt into her throat and then fell all the way down to her tiny slippers.

Standing before her was a—a
man . . .
Oh, but what a specimen of man he was! From the top of his midnight black hair to the soles of his gleaming Hessians, he radiated the very air of elegance. His powerful shoulders strained the blue superfine of an exquisitely tailored coat. His buff-colored breeches clung to his muscular legs so closely . . . each manly bulge outlined by the thin cloth . . .

Chastity blushed at her sudden willingness to consider parts of the male wardrobe she had never, ever considered before, not even after spending hours watching the bulls and stallions on her uncle’s farm. Then, looking up and seeing the gentleman’s eye monstrously distorted in his quizzing glass, she blushed even redder as she realized he must know the object of her unsettling thoughts.

She needn’t have worried. Lord Hawksington, Fifth Earl of Northingham, Viscount Crumswell, Baron of Lint, known by friends and enemies alike as “Mr. Naughty” (being that “The Devil’s Cub,” “The Rake,” “Lord Scandalous,” and “Beelzebub’s Buddy” were already in use that Season) was not looking at her face.

Never had Hawksington seen such a dashing figure on a female. His eyes bore straight through the faded gray silk of her gown and beheld her slender girl-like form, which was pleasingly thin, like a willow tree in winter, yet also possessed of lush womanly curves. Taking this in quickly, Hawksington next noticed that, although her dress was dowdy, it was still that of a lady. He raised his quizzing glass and looked into the girl’s eyes, now shining blue from her flustered state.

“I am Hawksington at your service. Are you in need of assistance?” he asked, giving a slight bow with his head.

Chastity dropped a quick curtsy, nearly tripping over her own dainty feet as she stared into the cool, silver eyes regarding her from beneath dark and forbidding quizzically raised brows and above an indeed hawk-like aristocratic nose and a malevolently, disdainfully, sinfully, knowingly sensuous mouth.

“I—uh—My lord—uh—am—um . . .”

Her eyes turned hazel from her efforts to speak sensibly while he watched her like a hawk watches its petite prey.

“I am looking for Madame DuPont’s.” There! Now, hopefully, he would tell her where to find Madame’s boutique and she could be left to her own thoughts—fantasies of marrying him and not having to work as a seamstress.

Madame DuPont’s! Lord Hawksleigh raised his brow so high that his carefully arranged coif almost revealed his receding hairline. This young girl had managed to throw him off the scent. She was no Lady of Quality, but merely a country wench on her way to work in a brothel! Quickly his manner changed.

“Well, my dear, it just so happens I was headed that way myself. Would you grant me the honor of letting me be your escort?”

Chastity breathed a sigh of relief.

“Yes, my lord. I should like it above all things.”

She placed her hand demurely on his arm, only to find herself pulled disarmingly close. She flushed warmly as he led her down the street, altogether too entranced to make conversation. Before she knew it, he had stopped in front of a shady-looking townhouse. Chastity looked at him askance.

“My lord?”

Turning her around to face him, he took her tiny hand into his own large one, and with his other hand, tipped up her chin.

“Here is the house of Madame DuPont. But before you enter, my dear, will you not tell me your name?”

Dizzily gazing into his eyes, she said breathlessly, “Chastity . . . Miss Chastity Fairbody, my lord.”

“What a lovely name for such a lovely creature. Perhaps I will call on you later this evening, once you are situated. I’d like to be the first man in London to sample your wares.”

With an arrogant sneer that took away what little breath she had left in her sparse body, Lord Hawksinger leaned down and kissed her, plundering the soft ripe sweetness of her mouth with his tongue. Chastity had never been kissed before. She felt that she was falling into a long, dark abyss of torpid desires never before experienced and only partially recognized by something primal, deep within her very soul. Her senses whirled and her hands grasped at the stranger’s shoulders of their own volition, desperate to hang on to something lest she be lost forever in the sweet, fiery passion engulfing them both.

Lord Hawkerton had kissed many women in his three-and-thirty years, but never had he experienced such strange, maddening sweetness as this. Something about this young country lass—something about her delicate frailty, the warmth of her skin, the smallness of her feet, and her obvious inexperience—made him really horny. But underlying that horniness was a need to protect her, the same way he’d like to protect a baby bird whose mother he’d just blown away on the hunting fields. It was an unnerving sensation, and before it got the better of him, he broke away from her lips.

Rudely disjointed from his arms and the world of pleasure they contained, Chastity snapped into awareness of the present and, her eyes blazing with a fury magnificent to behold, hauled off and slapped Lord Hawkerty’s face. “Sirrah, you go too far!”

Rubbing his jaw, he admired the fire in her eyes. What a little hellcat she was!

“I pray you will forgive me, my sweet. It didn’t occur to me that you might prefer payment beforehand.” And with his maddeningly suave smile, he withdrew a sovereign and pressed it caressingly into her palm.

“Grrlph!” shrieked Chastity in her rage. “You, sir, are no gentleman!”

With that harsh set-down, she turned and marched proudly away, her back ramrod straight and her head held high. It wasn’t until a few moments later that she remembered the gold piece in her hand, but by then it really was too late to turn and fling it at him without spoiling the whole effect, so she decided instead to use it to hire a hack to take her to the house of the rich, fashionable Great-Aunt Theodora she’d just remembered who lived in Grosvenor Square. Chastity decided she’d throw herself on the grand lady’s mercy and just keep this embarrassing little incident to herself.

Her hand flew to her lips as she wondered how she could ever forget.

Lord Hawk watched her go, wondering what he had done to give her such a disgust of him. What a queer little minx. Quite a stunner, though. Not that it mattered, because he’d probably never see her again. He sighed and suddenly, inexplicably, felt quite sad.

Glancing at his watch, he realized it was time to go back to his flat and change. He’d have to hurry if he intended to escort his mother to Lady Theodora’s tea on time.

Chapter 2

Lady Theodora was bored. The last thirty years of her life had been an endless round of balls, routs, and croquet games. She was old and overweight.

Just then, the butler announced Miss Chastity Fairbody.