Very Wicked Beginnings (2 page)

Now, I’d never know who she was.

I hadn’t gotten a good look at the details of her face. Sure, I knew her hair was dark and her body tight, but that was about it. Put her in regular clothes, and she’d fit right in with half the girls at Briarcrest.

I got a pang of disappointment at not knowing her name, and it surprised me.

Why did I care about some girl in the window anyway?

I had plenty of other girls, probably prettier, to keep me occupied. And I didn’t dig chasing girls. I liked immediate gratification when it came to the opposite sex, and if I had to work too hard for it, then it usually wasn’t worth my time.

Yet still my thoughts persisted.

Had she seen me looking? Did she know who I was?

Because face it, everyone did.

Obviously she was a student at BA, but if I didn’t know her, it told me right away she didn’t hang in my social circle. In other words, she wasn’t popular.
Meh
. Everyone here thinks I’m the king of the school, even calling me Hollywood because they think my life is golden and perfect.

But it isn’t.

Because no matter who people think you are, no one really knows what’s underneath. The real truth is I’m an irresponsible, self-centered fuck who puts his own needs before others.

Just ask my mother. I’ve let her down plenty of times.

LATER THAT NIGHT at home, I relaxed in bed, finishing up some homework for Honors Chemistry.

Dad poked his head through the doorway. Earlier, he’d picked me up from school and taken me to the physician’s office where I’d gotten the okay that all was well. Since then, we’d eaten a light dinner and watched some television together. Typical evening at our house.

He eased in the room, adjusting his wire-framed glasses. “Hey, I gotta run out for a late staff meeting with the team.” He owns part of the Dallas Mavericks, like a big part. “You gonna be okay to check in on your mom in a few? Make sure she’s good?”

At the mention of her name, I got tense. Sighing, I eased out of bed. “Yeah, sure. She sleeping?”

I had no idea what her evening had consisted of since she hadn’t come down for dinner. She did that a lot, stayed in her room to read or watch mindless television. I don’t know what the difference was between watching it alone or with us but apparently there was.

He rubbed his jaw, wearing a thoughtful expression. “She seems good. No need to rush or worry, okay?” He checked his watch. “I’ll be home around midnight.”

I nodded and watched him walk down the hall, wishing I could leave too. That I could get in my Porsche and drive all the way out of Dallas, away from all the darkness that permeated my existence here in Highland Park.

Because much like my mother, I was alive but barely living.

A couple of hours later, I finished my homework and went upstairs to her room. As the door creaked open, my mouth got dry, wondering if maybe I should have come in sooner to see her, but that was stupid.

She’d said she wouldn’t try to kill herself again. She’d promised me.

I eased over to her bed and found her safe and sound, lying curled up like a little girl. Long dark hair cascaded across her pillow and rested against honey-colored skin. My mother was Brazilian and beautiful—everyone said so. She’d met and married my father while they’d both been students at Baylor University, both of them in the business department. He had light brown hair with pale skin and freckles while she was petite and exotic. They were opposites in personality too. He was gregarious and fun and loved to talk. She, well, wasn’t. Not anymore.

He loved to tell the story of how they met. About how he fell in love with her as soon as she walked into his dorm room on his buddy’s arm. Yeah, my dad loved her so much he stole his friend’s girl. Oh, he’d had to work for it because apparently she’d played hard to get, but he’d eventually won her over with his charming personality and relentless pursuit. His motto was
all’s fair in love when a drop-dead gorgeous Brazilian is involved
. I smiled, picturing him wooing my mom. Begging her to go to dinner with him. Asking her to marry him.

That had been nearly twenty years ago, though, and now they didn’t even share the same bed. And I don’t think it was dad’s choice. I’d watch him look at her sometimes. Like she hung the fucking moon. Like she was his star in the sky. But she never gazed at him. Or me.

I leaned down and moved a wayward curl, brushing my lips against her cheek. She smelled good, and dammit if it didn’t make my whole body draw up in pain, remembering a time when she’d hug me and tell me she loved me. Rubbing my aching chest, I took a step back, putting distance between us, wanting to run out of that room.

Not wanting to face the reality of her sickness.

I just missed her. I missed her singing along with a song on the radio; I missed her coming to my football games; I missed the way we used to be.

But I got it. I understood. She was hurting, slouching around the house with this hopeless look on her face. And that expression paralyzed me, yet ripped me up inside. Because she was withering away right in front of us, and no matter what we said or did, she refused to come out of it.

Her diagnosis was severe depression. Not cancer. Not even close. Physically, I guess she was healthy, if you overlooked the twenty pounds she’d put on in the past four years.

She stirred, and I took another step closer to the door. I didn’t want her eyes to search the room and find mine. Because I knew what I’d see … blame. The same thing I saw every day when I looked at myself in the mirror.

Because her sickness was all my fault.

I HEADED BACK to my room for a shower.

As I stripped off my track pants and shirt, I checked out the tattoo Dad had taken me to get for my birthday this past year, the first of many tats I planned to get. This one was a long vine of twisting red roses, resting on my upper arm and curving back on my shoulder. Most of the roses were in full bloom while one—a black one—was closed up, a circle of thorns protecting it. I’d gotten that flower for my sister, Cara. I flexed my heavy bicep muscles, watching the flowers move around on my skin.

Like that dark bloom, Cara was dead. She’d been gone for four years, but not a day went by that I didn’t think of her snaggle-toothed smile and strawberry-scented hair. She’d been born eight years after me, a surprise baby. A tiny replica of my mother, she’d been adored by everyone.

And at that thought, a slice of pain cut into me, and I nearly doubled over on the sink. Shit, what a fuck-up I was.

Must not think about her
, I told myself.

So I thought about Ballet Girl.

I cranked up my radio and got in the shower. Before the water was even warm, I spread my legs and wrapped a hand around my cock, picturing her again, dancing, only this time I was the only one in the room with her. In my head, I stood behind her and watched her perform. My fantasy got hotter as she swayed and twirled like a beautiful goddess sent from the heavens to entertain me, looking ethereal and too damn perfect for this messed up world. I imagined her turning and seeing me and smiling so big I nearly lost my breath.
Because she knew me
. In this fantasy world, we’d been dating for a while now, spending time together, going out to dinner, laughing and talking, making out. She was in love with me and wanted me like she’d never wanted anyone or anything in her entire life. She couldn’t breathe without me. She wanted to make my life
better
. And I felt the same. I’d never been in love before, but maybe this time, with her—

Whoa
.

Yeah, that kind of thinking made me stop my back and forth, but then I kicked it in again, stroking myself faster and harder. She was too good to
not
dream about. I got raunchier in my head, imagining me pulling her into my arms and kissing her, our mouths wide open, tongues licking, teeth biting. Then, I got down on my knees and unlaced her sexy ballet shoes. I worked my way up and slipped my hands underneath her skirt and eased it and her panties down her long legs. She spread her legs and begged me to lick her core, and I did, tasting her for the first time. I moaned into her, my tongue finding every secret crevice, devouring her. She came, her hands fisted in my hair, her cries echoing out into the empty dance studio.

She wanted me to fuck her, her hands urging me up off the ground, to finish what we’d started. I had to give her what she wanted. Because I wanted her more than I’d ever wanted any girl.

With furious need, I rose up and bent her over the pole that ran the length of the studio wall and took her from behind, my hands on her breasts, holding her hot skin against me. Of course, initially, I pictured her breasts as huge, but then I scaled them back, wanting to imagine her as she really was. And then suddenly I didn’t want her from behind. I wanted to see her face and gaze into her eyes, even though I didn’t really know what she looked like. And that frustrated me. Because this fantasy felt different, in a good way, and she seemed special—
shit, this is crazy
, I thought.

But I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to. I gritted my teeth, tossing my head back into the spray of water, picturing me taking her, sinking into her softness, making her all mine. She took my pounding, crying out my name and clenching around me as she came hard. Again.

A guttural groan came deep from within me.

Fuck yeah … pumping, pumping.

And then I got dizzy in the best kind of way, feeling tingles and goose bumps as the heat built and rose until
bam!
My orgasm slammed into me, and I came for what seemed like forever, my legs giving out as I sank down to the floor of the marble tiled shower on my knees. My entire body quivered, shaking with the aftershocks. With unsteady hands, I pushed wet hair off my face.

Fuck, me
.

I wanted that girl in the window.

But not enough to find her.

“Two things about me:

I dance and I dance.”

–Dovey

“ARMS UP, DOVEY,” Mr. Keller, my instructor, called to me as I focused on my partner, Jacques, and the contemporary piece called
Song of the Earth
we were doing. He and I had the lead role for our annual school production, and it was a prime spot, one that would shine on my application to a ballet company next year. I needed to ace this part because I didn’t have a back-up plan. Ballet was it for me.