Rosie coughed some more. “That’s ancient history. Get over it. I was fifteen, and he was gorgeous.”
He still is, I thought bitterly. And he was mine.
No. No he wasn’t. Dean was mine. Rosie had kissed Vicious because she didn’t know I had feelings for him. And after that night, she’d chased him around like an eager puppy—until Vicious told her he was drunk when he kissed her and that she needed to get over herself.
I remembered that night like it was yesterday. He wasn’t drunk. He was stone-cold sober. It was after he saw Dean and me, when he knew we were making out. I’d hurt him so he’d wanted to hurt me back, so he’d kissed my sister.
I turned to face her, and for a moment I felt a lot less guilty about leaving her with a nurse for the weekend. Then she coughed, and the familiar stab of protectiveness returned.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay without me?” I asked.
She gave me a sideways look and rolled her eyes, “Yes, Mom.”
I knew better than to buy it. She looked pale. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her nose and upper lip were peeling with dry skin. What was I thinking, leaving her here in New York with a nurse I didn’t even know? I realized she was twenty-five and perfectly capable, but she still had a lung infection and a mouth that could start a war, or at the very least get her into a lot of trouble.
“Thanks for doing all the packing for me, dude.” She waved her hand toward the mountain of trash bags and boxes that had basically taken over the whole room.
I plopped down on the futon beside her and hugged her tight. She buried her nose in my shoulder.
“Hey, Millie?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t fall in love with him again. I saw how you reacted after you found out we kissed. What you went through after you left Todos Santos. You can work for him, but you can’t let him get to you like that ever again. You’re too good for that. For him.”
Just as I was about to respond, the buzzer sounded. My heart jumped into my throat, which was ridiculous, because I knew it couldn’t be him at the door downstairs.
“Be right down,” I said into the speaker. But when I peered out the window and saw a man wearing a chauffeur’s uniform standing next to a big, shiny black car, I froze. It was all happening too fast. I felt like I hadn’t had enough time to get myself together. To prepare.
I stared at the driver, a physical reminder of how different I was from my boss. I wasn’t used to being served. I’d always been the servant. Me, my parents…
Vicious was right in calling me Help. Not that it wasn’t rude, but it was the truth nonetheless.
I grabbed the duffel and looked at Rosie. “The movers should be here soon. They’ll put the furniture in storage.” Another way I planned to hedge my bets. “The nurse will be waiting for you at the new apartment. I arranged for a taxi to pick you up in an hour. Oh, and your medicine is in your backpack.” I jerked my chin to the bag I’d packed for her.
Rosie offered another eye roll and threw a pillow in my direction. I dodged it.
“Try not to piss the nurse off,” I suggested with a straight face.
“Sorry. I piss everyone off. It’s the way I’m wired.” She shrugged helplessly.
“Don’t forget to take your medicine, and there’s a list of restaurants that deliver in your backpack. I put some cash in your wallet, too.”
“Jesus, dude. Thank God you’re not trying to wipe my ass.”
Rosie could mock me all she wanted. I didn’t care if I annoyed her.
But she was going to be okay.
And I was going to see our parents. It’d been two years. Lord, I’d missed them.
“Please tell Mama I got fat and that I’m dating a forty-year-old biker who goes by the name Rat.” Rosie sniffled, patting her nose with the wad of toilet paper.
“Okay. That will soften the blow when I tell her I’m knocked up with twins and have no idea who the father is.”
Rosie giggled, coughed and slapped her hand over her mouth, feigning an oops. “I think Mama would like that, actually.” She blew a strand of her toffee-colored hair out of her eyes. “Have fun, okay?”
“Hey, it’s Vicious. Fun is his middle name.”
“No, honey. Asshole is his middle name.”
We both laughed.
I grabbed the strap of my duffle and descended the stairs, smiling to myself. I could do this. I could survive a business trip with Vicious without letting him into my pants, and more importantly—my heart. I just had to keep my eyes on the prize.
The money. The means. The key to financial freedom.
How hard could that be?
I met him at the airport.
He wore a long dark-gray pea coat, charcoal slacks, a cashmere sweater, and his usual scowl. He was standing outside, the freezing New York weather staining his cheekbones a dark shade of pink while he puffed on a blunt.
On the sidewalk of the airport.
I was a little surprised to see he was still smoking weed. He had when we were teenagers, but he was twenty-eight now, a workaholic, and a control freak. Granted, he’d always been a control freak. He just had less things to control when we were kids.
I jogged the short distance from the limo to him, rubbing my arms against the cold. I’d thrown an army jacket on over my thin pink sweater, but my thrift shop jacket didn’t stand a chance against December on the East Coast. I stopped a few feet from him and started swaying from side to side to warm up. He noticed, but didn’t offer his coat.
“You’re getting a little old for that,” I remarked, slanting my eyes to his joint.
“I’ll remember that next time I give two shits about what you think.” He blew a cloud of smoke into the air.
I knew that the HotHoles had always viewed me as the naïve goody-two-shoes girl from the South. They weren’t wrong. Even New York couldn’t harden me all the way. I’d still never smoked weed or tried any other type of drug. I still didn’t use words like “fuck.” I still blushed and looked away when people talked about sex in an explicit way.
“You could get arrested,” I continued, nagging. Not that I particularly cared. I just knew it annoyed him, and I liked irritating him. It gave me the false notion that I had some kind of control over him.
He still is, I thought bitterly. And he was mine.
No. No he wasn’t. Dean was mine. Rosie had kissed Vicious because she didn’t know I had feelings for him. And after that night, she’d chased him around like an eager puppy—until Vicious told her he was drunk when he kissed her and that she needed to get over herself.
I remembered that night like it was yesterday. He wasn’t drunk. He was stone-cold sober. It was after he saw Dean and me, when he knew we were making out. I’d hurt him so he’d wanted to hurt me back, so he’d kissed my sister.
I turned to face her, and for a moment I felt a lot less guilty about leaving her with a nurse for the weekend. Then she coughed, and the familiar stab of protectiveness returned.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay without me?” I asked.
She gave me a sideways look and rolled her eyes, “Yes, Mom.”
I knew better than to buy it. She looked pale. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her nose and upper lip were peeling with dry skin. What was I thinking, leaving her here in New York with a nurse I didn’t even know? I realized she was twenty-five and perfectly capable, but she still had a lung infection and a mouth that could start a war, or at the very least get her into a lot of trouble.
“Thanks for doing all the packing for me, dude.” She waved her hand toward the mountain of trash bags and boxes that had basically taken over the whole room.
I plopped down on the futon beside her and hugged her tight. She buried her nose in my shoulder.
“Hey, Millie?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t fall in love with him again. I saw how you reacted after you found out we kissed. What you went through after you left Todos Santos. You can work for him, but you can’t let him get to you like that ever again. You’re too good for that. For him.”
Just as I was about to respond, the buzzer sounded. My heart jumped into my throat, which was ridiculous, because I knew it couldn’t be him at the door downstairs.
“Be right down,” I said into the speaker. But when I peered out the window and saw a man wearing a chauffeur’s uniform standing next to a big, shiny black car, I froze. It was all happening too fast. I felt like I hadn’t had enough time to get myself together. To prepare.
I stared at the driver, a physical reminder of how different I was from my boss. I wasn’t used to being served. I’d always been the servant. Me, my parents…
Vicious was right in calling me Help. Not that it wasn’t rude, but it was the truth nonetheless.
I grabbed the duffel and looked at Rosie. “The movers should be here soon. They’ll put the furniture in storage.” Another way I planned to hedge my bets. “The nurse will be waiting for you at the new apartment. I arranged for a taxi to pick you up in an hour. Oh, and your medicine is in your backpack.” I jerked my chin to the bag I’d packed for her.
Rosie offered another eye roll and threw a pillow in my direction. I dodged it.
“Try not to piss the nurse off,” I suggested with a straight face.
“Sorry. I piss everyone off. It’s the way I’m wired.” She shrugged helplessly.
“Don’t forget to take your medicine, and there’s a list of restaurants that deliver in your backpack. I put some cash in your wallet, too.”
“Jesus, dude. Thank God you’re not trying to wipe my ass.”
Rosie could mock me all she wanted. I didn’t care if I annoyed her.
But she was going to be okay.
And I was going to see our parents. It’d been two years. Lord, I’d missed them.
“Please tell Mama I got fat and that I’m dating a forty-year-old biker who goes by the name Rat.” Rosie sniffled, patting her nose with the wad of toilet paper.
“Okay. That will soften the blow when I tell her I’m knocked up with twins and have no idea who the father is.”
Rosie giggled, coughed and slapped her hand over her mouth, feigning an oops. “I think Mama would like that, actually.” She blew a strand of her toffee-colored hair out of her eyes. “Have fun, okay?”
“Hey, it’s Vicious. Fun is his middle name.”
“No, honey. Asshole is his middle name.”
We both laughed.
I grabbed the strap of my duffle and descended the stairs, smiling to myself. I could do this. I could survive a business trip with Vicious without letting him into my pants, and more importantly—my heart. I just had to keep my eyes on the prize.
The money. The means. The key to financial freedom.
How hard could that be?
I met him at the airport.
He wore a long dark-gray pea coat, charcoal slacks, a cashmere sweater, and his usual scowl. He was standing outside, the freezing New York weather staining his cheekbones a dark shade of pink while he puffed on a blunt.
On the sidewalk of the airport.
I was a little surprised to see he was still smoking weed. He had when we were teenagers, but he was twenty-eight now, a workaholic, and a control freak. Granted, he’d always been a control freak. He just had less things to control when we were kids.
I jogged the short distance from the limo to him, rubbing my arms against the cold. I’d thrown an army jacket on over my thin pink sweater, but my thrift shop jacket didn’t stand a chance against December on the East Coast. I stopped a few feet from him and started swaying from side to side to warm up. He noticed, but didn’t offer his coat.
“You’re getting a little old for that,” I remarked, slanting my eyes to his joint.
“I’ll remember that next time I give two shits about what you think.” He blew a cloud of smoke into the air.
I knew that the HotHoles had always viewed me as the naïve goody-two-shoes girl from the South. They weren’t wrong. Even New York couldn’t harden me all the way. I’d still never smoked weed or tried any other type of drug. I still didn’t use words like “fuck.” I still blushed and looked away when people talked about sex in an explicit way.
“You could get arrested,” I continued, nagging. Not that I particularly cared. I just knew it annoyed him, and I liked irritating him. It gave me the false notion that I had some kind of control over him.
