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by L.J. Shen
Because I knew you’d be here.
“I saw Adriana,” I lie.
I hug her tighter because she is squirming again, desperate to run away, and I can’t let her.
And when she breaks within my arms, I glue her back, tuck her in bed, and kiss her forehead, not letting go until she is sound asleep.
He wants to let her go
But can’t seem to set her free
Because if she does end up returning
She’ll see who he fell in love with and flee
Lying on the giant flamingo float in our Roman-shaped swimming pool, I stare up at the sun through my sunglasses. The sun is a lot like hate—beautiful and lethal and essential for our survival. It can blind you, but it also keeps you going. Hate motivates much more than love. Love is content and peaceful. Happy people aren’t driven. They simply…exist. Now, us, hateful people, we’re something else. Hungry and desperate.
Hateful people make the best lovers.
The soft whoosh of the water underneath me tricks me into relaxing my muscles and giving in to nirvana. I blink at the tall palm trees, cloudless sky, and landscape of Todos Santos, and wonder how someone with so much can feel so little.
I feel like a piece of the jigsaw, the one forgotten under the carpet that no one bothers to look for.
“Lovebug? Sweetie?” The double glass door slides open, and Mel walks out in one of her turquoise beach dresses and a giant straw hat. We’re the same size.
Melody was smaller than me when she was my age. A true ballerina, her ribs stuck out, and you could see every fine muscle in her back. Every time she huffs and puffs in front of the mirror, complaining about not being a size zero anymore, she averts her eyes to me quickly and apologizes. “Not that size four is not small.”
No, Mother. It’s just not perfect. By your standards, anyway.
I ignore her, still floating and staring at the sky.
She takes a seat on one of the 2k-apiece yellow and red Moroccan lounge chairs and sips from her skinny margarita. “We need to talk, Dar.”
We actually don’t. We haven’t in years, and you didn’t seem to mind.
“Are you going to ignore me forever?”
Not forever. Just until I can articulate to her how she is hurting me. By putting Bailey first. Dad first. Penn first. But telling her all those things conveys vulnerability, and the only thing I have going for me is that my mother thinks I’m strong. Penn is right. The minute you admit something, it becomes real.
“I have something to tell you, and I don’t want you to get upset.”
“Then why would you tell me in the first place?”
I stretch my arms and leisurely row my way to the edge of the pool with long strokes. I slide under the float and take the stairs leading to the deck, grab a towel, dry off, and slip on a skirt and cute tank top.
“You keep doing things that upset me, like hiding trips to New York and homeschooling plans for Bailey and adopting Penn.” I shake off my long, wet hair. “But it’s not preventing you from doing them anyway. Tell me, Mother, how many more secrets are you planning to keep from me?”
She slides her sunglasses down, and our eyes meet. Her greens sparkle with unshed tears.
“One,” she whispers. “One more. How many secrets are you keeping from me, Daria?”
I think about Via’s letter. About Prichard. About Penn. I shake my head. “I need to go.”
“Daria…”
I pick up my phone and storm into the house, then grab my car keys and dart to the front door. She is on my heels, begging me to stop. But all I can think about is her and Bailey planning trips to New York and sitting together every day—all day—at home while I go to school, or college, or anywhere else that’s out of their hair.
Penn is descending the stairs. Why is he always here when he doesn’t have practice? Why doesn’t he spend time with his daughter? He stops on the landing, his wide chest blocking my way. It rattles with his soft, taunting laughter that usually sends hungry chills to my bones. He is wearing a black hoodie with a white skeleton hand giving you the middle finger—the hole is somewhere beneath it—and torn black skinny jeans that hang too low on his ass. Unlaced sneakers. Rumpled locks. Pure perfection.
“Where to, Hurricane Daria?”
Tears glittering in my eyes, I push him off and duck sideways, slipping through the door. I jump into my car and start it. What is Mel planning now? Moving with Bailey to London? Sending me to an out-of-state college to get rid of me? Sell me to the mafia? I wouldn’t put anything past her at this point. Before I know what’s happening, Penn jumps into the passenger seat beside me. I slap the dashboard. “Fuck! Leave me alone.”
Mel stumbles out the front door, scrambling. I don’t understand why. She’s been doing her best to stick it to me for months now.
“Hysteria doesn’t suit you, Skull Eyes. Where are we going?”
“I don’t know.”
“My favorite destination.”
“Why are you doing this?” I moan, pain slicing my voice so it’s all cracked. Mel gets to the car, rounds it, and slaps my window with her open palms. I realize it’s too late to kick Penn out.
“Daria!”
I kick the BMW into drive and watch her disappear in the side mirror. I’m driving past manicured neighborhoods and downtown Todos Santos. Rolling onto the highway and bolting between golden dunes. I drive until there is nowhere else to drive to. Belle and Sebastian are on the radio, asking me if I’m feeling sinister. I pretend Penn is not here, and he helps by not talking.
A white and blue gas station sign twinkles in the distance of yellow nothing. Neither of us acknowledges that it’s my birthday today. That I didn’t get a cake, or a card, or a hug. That my family thought they could skip this day just because they agreed to let me have a party in a few weeks. Every time my mother calls and the Bluetooth starts playing the Jaws sound effect—her personal ringtone, complete with a picture of her flashing a toothy smile—Penn sends it to voicemail.
“Pull in.” Penn pops his gum.
“Why?”
“Beer.”
“How, exactly?” I roll my eyes.
He raises his ass from the seat and takes out his wallet, yanking out what looks like a fake ID.
“Ghetto,” I cough into my fist.
He smirks, sliding the ID between my open thighs, swiping it across my slit like it’s a credit card.
I suck in a breath. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Showing you that I might be a punk, but you’re the hideous little monster who is falling for him.”
Pulling into the station, I shove him out of the car. I mull his stupid words over as I watch him through the 7-Eleven window. I’m not falling for him. I’m not. He saunters coolly to the register with a six-pack of Budweiser and potato chips. Then he asks for a pack of cigarettes even though he doesn’t smoke anymore. When he slides back into the car, I ask why the cigarettes.
“An experiment.” He throws a chip into his mouth and chews. “Pull out, birthday girl. I’ll tell you where to drive.”
Following his directions, I don’t bother asking where we’re going. The truth is, it doesn’t really matter where he is taking us. He and Dad are the only people I would follow.
It turns out to be a park called Castle Hill. Tall trees swirl to the sky, rising through the wet soil and neon moss. It’s surprisingly green for a place in SoCal, where everything is usually buttery. I park in front of a fallen tree trunk in the middle of the woods and watch Penn hop out holding two beers in his hand. I join him.
“This park is magic,” he says. “It’s where I come when I need to fucking breathe.”
He cracks a bottle open and hands it to me.
I shake my head. “I’m driving.”
“One beer. I won’t let you get tanked.” He leans against the huge trunk. Tentatively, I take a long pull of the beer he offers me. It goes down cool and smooth in my throat. I groan, leaning against another tr
unk opposite from him. We stare at each other for a while before he takes out the cigarette pack, unwraps it with his mouth, spits the cellophane to the ground, and pulls one out with his teeth, lighting it up.
“Enjoying your cancer stick?” I grumble.
“Not as much as you’re about to,” he says flatly, handing me the cigarette. Something unspoken crosses between us, and I take it, awaiting further instructions. His legs are tangled at the ankles, and he looks completely indifferent. Like this is a presentation he’s been giving for a few years now.
“Take a drag.”
I do. I immediately start coughing. It tickles my throat and burns my lungs. I don’t know how Knight and Vaughn smoke so much weed. I hate the way the smoke lingers inside my body.
Penn watches me like a hawk. “Now take a deeper drag. But this time, don’t exhale. Keep it in.”
He finishes his bottle of beer and throws it against a tree. It’s a good throw, and the bottle shatters into tiny pieces.
“Keep the damn thing in, Skull Eyes.”
I do as I’m told, waiting for the point of all this. I take a hit and then wait. My throat closes in on the smoke, and I feel like I’m choking. My lungs are full of poison, and I want to throw up everything I’m holding in. My face flushes, and I don’t know if I can hold it much longer.
He walks over to me, completely nonchalant, and crouches, locking his eyes with mine.
“Release.”
I release the smoke and cough my lungs out. Oh, my Marx. Why did I even do that? Because he was pretty and brooding and messed up, and he told me to?
Penn lifts my chin so that our eyes never waver from one another.
“This is what it feels like to hold rage inside. That shit’s toxic for you. You’re either going to have to face your mother, your friends, your principal, your fucking life, or prepare to feel like you’re holding the smoke in your lungs for a very long time. Because, baby, it only gets worse from here on out. The older we get, the deeper the shit we’re swimming in gets.”
I look down so I don’t cry. I’ve always been angry, but ever since Penn walked into my life and put a mirror in front of my face, I’ve been furious.
Who is Penn to tell me how to handle my issues? Just because he happens to be here when stuff gets messy doesn’t mean that his grass is greener. He is far from perfect. In fact, if I remember correctly, he handled the loss of his mother by being a punk who fights at the snake pit, drinks, smokes, and talks trash to the entire world. Not to mention he has a girlfriend and a daughter he barely sees, opting to mess around with his shiny new toy he came to live with.
“Wow. Inspiring words. Tell them to someone who cares.” I trudge my way back to the car. He grabs my wrist, jerking me back. I turn around sharply, narrowing my eyes at him.
“Getting me to smoke and drink, and now stopping me from going home? Not sure my parents are going to be on board with your behavior.”
He cocks his head, scanning me. “Your parents won’t give a shit if I fuck you on the dining room table while Bailey helps herself to another serving of pie.”
I raise my hand and slap him. Hard. He throws his head back and laughs as if this is all a joke. As though he wanted me to hit him. Now both our cheeks are tinted pink. Mine from embarrassment, his from the slap.
“Shit. You actually think that.” He shakes his head, grabbing another beer from the six-pack and cracking it open. “You think you’re that unlovable.”
“Stop,” I say, plead, beg. I’m not sure he is wrong. “Please stop.”
“So fucking gorgeous, so fucking popular, so goddamn despised,” he continues, and I advance toward him to slap him again because I don’t know how else to shut him up. He grabs both my wrists and pins me against a tree, getting into my face and snarling. I stumble back from the tree, but he deliberately steps on my toes, and I fall butt-first onto a bed of crunchy auburn leaves. I lie on my back and stare at him, my tears clinging to my lashes for dear life.
He lowers himself on top of me, his knee pressed between my thighs, his gaze dripping anger and adoration I’ve never seen there before. He hates himself for being attracted to me. And he hates me for making everything so difficult for everyone. Him included.
Penn puts his hand on my throat and curls his fingers around it. My pulse quickens against his hot skin, and I fight the urge to let my eyelids fall shut.
“Why are they ignoring your birthday, Skull Eyes? Tell the truth.”
It’s painful to swallow. There’s so much bitterness in my throat. The truth seems oceans away. I see it in the distance, but it’s unreachable. So hard to put into words.
“I asked them to ignore it.” I choke. “I made them promise.”
I close my eyes, and I feel his breath on my face. We’re all alone. Anything can happen. Everything can happen.
“Why?” he croaks.
“Because I can’t take another disappointment.”
Silence.
“I’m not going to have sex with you, Penn.”
“Why’s that?”
“You have a girlfriend.”
“Maybe I don’t.”
“But you do.”
“Actually, I don’t.”
“Huh?” I let out a nervous laugh, but it stops between his fingers pressed against my throat. “What do you mean?”
“Can’t really get into it right now but think about it for a second. Am I with her? Do I go to her? Do you see us talking on the phone? Shooting the shit? Hanging out? Have I ever talked about her? Brought her over? Adriana is not my girlfriend.”
So you just knocked her up. Sweet.
“Ever watch Lady and the Tramp?” He drags the tip of his nose along mine, trying to distract me from whatever’s in my head.
“Y…yeah?”
“Remember the spaghetti scene?”
“I think so.”
“Who was the one to pull away from the kiss, Lady or Tramp?”
I search my brain for the answer, but it’s been years since I’ve watched it. Honestly, it wasn’t one of my favorite movies. I always wondered what a royal bitch would find in a dirty stray. But I know now. Oh, I know very well why girls of pedigree love the mutts. They’re forbidden. Exciting. And taming them is a challenge no silver-spooned princess can turn down.
“I think she pulled away,” I say. “Lady.”
“Ding, ding, ding. Ten points.”
“What is the point?” I swallow as his knee digs between my thighs, pressing at my clit, spreading delicious pressure all over my sensitive area.
“You never pull away when I kiss you.” He still holds my gaze.
“I don’t?”
He shakes my head, looking down at me, his longish hair falling across his eye.
“You want me,” he says simply.
I snort. “Jesus, you are conceited.”
He leans in until our noses touch again. His hand is still wrapped around my throat. He squeezes it lightly as his tongue brushes from the base of my chin all the way to my forehead, where he kisses my hairline.
“Tell me you don’t want to fuck me as much as I want to fuck you, you screwed-up, messed-in-the-head, gorgeous girl with skulls in her eyes,” he whispers hotly, his free hand traveling over my thigh, up my skirt, his callused finger pads grazing my bikini line. My throat bobs against his hand.
“Tell me you don’t want me to push my finger into you and make you come.”
“I don’t want you to…” I start, but then his hand skims between my legs, and I shudder. My eyes are at half-mast, and I can barely see what’s happening. I spread my thighs wider for him. He said he doesn’t have a girlfriend. Why should I hold back?
“Finish the sentence,” he commands.
I look the other way, closing my eyes. It is humiliating to admit that I want him to do all those things to me, and he is not even my boyfriend. He’s not even my friend. Penn slips his hand into my bikini and flicks my clit with his thumb, groaning when he touches it. He shifts a litt
le on top of me to press his cock against my thigh. It’s hot and hard even through his jeans.
I buck my hips to meet his touch, but he still doesn’t kiss me. It’s when I wince a second before an orgasm washes through me—my whole body a tense knot of muscles and red, hot pleasure—that he presses his thumb against my clit hard and slides his middle finger into me. And I’m wet. So wet. So embarrassingly wet for my foster brother. And now some time has passed, and I realize that it’s what Penn has really become. A family of sort. I’m sleeping with someone who’s supposed to be my relative. Giving my virginity to someone I should feel brotherly feelings toward.
Marx help me.
His lips are on my ear now, his toffee-hued hair all over both our faces. Our foreheads are sticking together with warm sweat. We are heaving, in sync.
“Tell me not to kiss the shit out of you.”
When I remain silent, his lips crash on mine. I’m still buzzing from the orgasm he gave me when he fingered me. He doesn’t know that I’m a virgin. Not yet. But he is about to.
I pull away from him, breaking the kiss. “Tell me you don’t want all my firsts,” I challenge.
His jade eyes search mine for clues. I move my groin to meet his erection, and he squeezes his eyes shut.
“Tell me you don’t want to take my virginity,” I rasp.
His eyes snap open. I know that despite his initial shock, he believes me. So many guys didn’t believe me when I told them I was a virgin, so I stopped telling people. There was no point in trying to convince my friends. They didn’t want to listen.
I press my hips to his again, and we meet like a perfect puzzle.
His cheeks are so pink, his face is so beautiful, and I am so beyond screwed.
“Tell me that you don’t,” I whisper.
“But I do.” His forehead crumples in anguish. “There’s nothing I want more than every single thing you have to give.”
Closing my eyes, I inhale as he reaches into his back pocket for a condom. It’s not romantic. Or intimate. Or perfect. But it’s us. Two dirty kids in a forest where no one can see or find us. Penn retrieves the condom and kicks his pants to his ankles. As he rolls the condom on, he asks me if I’m sure.