Brutal Boy by Selena
two
Harper Apple
“So, where is your sister, anyway?” I ask as I rifle through the clothes in search of something else that will fit my curves.
“I dunno,” Colt says, his voice serious as he lays back on the pillows again, an arm folded behind his head. “She changed her name and disappeared after graduation last year.”
I wonder if this is the first time anyone’s been in her room since then. If, for six months, no one’s even stepped into the room to think of her and wonder where she is. For some reason, it makes me sad, though I’m sure the second I’m gone, Mom will put a pool table in my room and convert it into a bar. I don’t care. It won’t be my room anymore. It’ll be just a thing.
But somehow, the emptiness of Mabel’s room feels forlorn.
“She didn’t tell you where she was going?”
“Nah,” Colt says. “We weren’t close. She hated being a Darling, and I was wrapped up in it. I cared about my image, about how the town saw me. She hated that.”
“She sounds cool to me,” I say, setting aside another shirt that fits.
“Mabel’s my half-sister, same dad. Dev was my half-brother, same mom. I was always closer to him and Preston than her, even though we were raised together. Everything’s just easier for guys, I guess. The town loved us. We were the golden boys.”
He sounds wistful, and my heart aches for him. In a small town like this, there are plenty of washed-up old football dads who still talk about high school as the glory days. But Colt isn’t even out of high school. The best years of his life shouldn’t be behind him.
“Your sister wasn’t a golden girl?” I ask, unsure if I should be ransacking the closet of a girl who blew away like a ghost.
“Nah,” he says. “She probably could have been. Preston’s sister is royalty at Faulkner High. But she didn’t want any part of it. The Darlings were the backbone of Faulkner, and she hated this town more than anyone you’ve ever met.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” I mutter as I pull on a pair of linen pants with a drawstring that actually kinda fit.
“Even before the Dolces, she couldn’t stand it,” Colt goes on. “To her, the Darling name was a trap. And once the Dolces got started, she found out just how right she was.”
“They targeted her just because of a name she didn’t even want?”
“That’s the fucked up part,” he says. “They didn’t care what kind of person you were. Mabel didn’t even want to be a Darling. She probably would have helped them take down our grandpa if they’d let her. But no. If you were a Darling, they had to make sure you wished you were dead before they were through with you.”
I let out a low whistle. “Damn. That bad, huh?”
I try to imagine a skinny, nerdy, female version of tatted up, smooth-talking Dynamo, but I can’t picture her. All I see is a faceless cutout of a girl who hated her name so bad she changed it on her way out of town, never looking back at the hellhole she was leaving behind. Though I’ve never met her, I feel a strange kinship toward her, and instinct tells me that’s exactly how she’d want me to imagine her.
Poverty’s not the only trap in this town.
“I sound like a broken record warning you about them over and over,” Colt says, flexing his scarred hand in the air above his face as he talks. “But yeah, they’re that bad. They tortured her, physically and mentally, until she snapped.”
I’ve always liked figuring people out, seeing what makes them tick, and yes, what makes them snap. It’s not just morbid curiosity. Growing up, it was survival.
It was knowing that Safe Mom was the obnoxiously affectionate drunk who came home at two in the morning breathing her vodka fumes in my face as she insisted on snuggles that invariably led to her falling asleep on my twin bed, leaving me pressed against the cold wall and unable to pull the blanket around me because she was lying on top of it.
Unsafe Mom was the cruel dragon who woke in the morning breathing flames of hatred, reminding me that I ruined her life, so I owed her some goddamn respect, and if I didn’t figure out real fucking fast exactly what she meant by that, I’d get my fingers smashed with a pan or my knuckles whacked with a wooden spoon or spend the day locked in a closet to think about it.
“Snapped… How?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper. I could have asked what they did to her, but I won’t make him say those things aloud. Even if they weren’t close, she was his sister. And last night I woke in a cold sweat, the fear holding me so tight I couldn’t move, the ache of the hard stone floor under my bare knees so real I couldn’t breathe. I know what they did to her.
I just don’t know what comes next.
“I wasn’t there,” Colt says. “I guess no one really knows but her and Royal.”
Suddenly, I wish I’d never asked. There comes a point where the desire to figure someone out becomes just plain masochistic.
Even though I recognize that I’ve reached that point, I also know I’m not a dumb bitch who walks away from answers because ignorance is bliss. Yeah, the truth fucking hurts. I’m a big girl. I can take it. I’d rather take the pain than sit in the dark like a dumbass because I’m too afraid to turn on the light and see the monster under the bed.
“It was Royal,” I say flatly, yanking my jeans back on. “Not the twins.”
Colt sits up on the bed, swinging his legs off the side. “I only know what she said, but by then, they’d fucked her up so bad I don’t know if she knew what was real and what wasn’t. And it doesn’t make sense to me, after all they did to her, that Royal pulled her out.”
“Pulled her out?”
“She said she jumped in the river, and he pulled her out,” he says. “But he said he didn’t.”
“What does he say happened?”
Colt chuckles darkly. “Have you ever tried to get a straight answer about anything out of Royal Dolce?”
“Fair point,” I admit.
“He’s never going to lay it all out there for you,” Colt says, turning on his side and patting the bed in front of him. “But I will. Story time and cuddling at mi casa any time, babe. What do you say?”
“I say that offer’s hard to resist.”
When I sit down on the bed beside him, he gets up onto his knees and pulls me onto the bed fully, arranging my legs and stuffing a pillow under my head before sliding down beside me. He props himself on an elbow and grins down at me, and my heart fucking breaks a little. This is the kind of boy I should be with, the kind every girl wants, who could give a girl the world.
But it’s not my world.
“Colt,” I say, my voice low with warning.
He traces his fingers in a slow circle on my belly. “Yeah, Teeny?”
“I’m still not fucking you.”
“How do you feel about hand jobs?”
I laugh and shake my head. “I feel like you’re shameless as fuck, that’s for sure.”
“Come on, baby,” he says, pushing his erection against my hip. “I’m dying here.”
My thighs clench the way they always do when I feel a hard dick. Maybe I’m the whore everyone says I am, my mother’s daughter through and through. Or maybe it’s just that I’m still relatively inexperienced, and I’ve felt few enough penises for it to be purely sexual when I do.
Colt takes my indecision for an opening and leans down and kisses me. His lips are warm and soft and inviting. Kissing him feels good, just like his arousal feels good. I like Colt, and I’d like to keep being his friend, and I don’t want to damage his pride by outright shooting him down, especially right in the middle of his act of kindness. But just because he was nice to me, that doesn’t mean I owe him access to my body.
Still. I’m not kissing him because I owe him or because he gave me nice clothes. I like kissing him. It’s nice to be treated the way he treats me. Not like someone he cares about, but like I’m an equal, like we’d be cool to hang out again. It wouldn’t be awkward, and he wouldn’t spread rumors about me. We’d smoke a joint and maybe hook up again sometime if the time was right and we had nothing better to do. If one of us brought another guy or girl around, the other would respect that and be cool and not cause drama.
But I’ve been down that road. I’ve got the ink to prove it.
I push him away gently, almost reluctantly. Because I’m not my mother. I’m too smart to make the same mistakes I’ve made before. I don’t regret Maverick, but I don’t want a repeat, either. That’s not my style anymore.
“Colt…”
“Come on, Teeny,” he says, nuzzling my neck. He pulls my body toward him, pushing his thigh between my legs. “I’m so hard it hurts. My sister disappeared, too. Doesn’t that warrant a pity fuck?”
“You think I respect myself so little I’d trade my body for some old clothes?”
“They’re Ralph Lauren,” he says, rocking his hips against mine, his fingers hooked through my belt loop. I laugh, and he grins and nips my earlobe. “The sheets are, too. Let’s get under the covers and you can feel them for yourself.”
“We’re in your sister’s room.”
“We can go to my room,” he says, still grinding against me. “Just let me put it in. Hell, just slide that pussy down over the head, and I’ll cum.”
“Wow, you’re really selling this,” I say, but my voice comes a little breathy. He’s pushing against me in all the right ways. I wonder if it would be as good as Maverick. I wonder if his dick would be as magnificent as Royal’s. And most of all, I wonder how much it would piss off Royal. Would he even care? He told me he didn’t want me talking to Colt. Would he lose his shit if he saw me right now, with Colt between my legs, grinding his cock against me? Or is he afraid of what Colt will tell me, how much he knows, things Royal doesn’t want me to find out?
Maybe that’s all he cares about. He said he didn’t want me talking to other guys, but he’s ignored me since the video leaked and he choked me out in the hall and basically told me I could never trust him. He played me even after I obeyed. He had ammunition, and he was going to use it either way. Getting me to kneel and suck his dick was just a bonus to make the pot that much sweeter when he defeated me.
But I’m not defeated.
He may have won the battle, he may be done with me, but I’m not done with him.
“I’m so close,” Colt says, grinding his hardness between my thighs. He rolls us over so I’m straddling his hips. He grips my hips and thrusts up hard against me, his head dropping back and his eyes squeezing closed. “Tell me how wet your pussy is, baby.”
I feel guilty for what I’m doing, but the poor guy’s worked himself up into a tizzy, so I give him what he wants. I mean, I’d be lying if I said having him grind against my clit for ten minutes didn’t feel good. But I’m nowhere close to where he is. “I’m so wet,” I say, making my voice all breathy for him and rocking my hips over his length. “But you feel so big, I don’t think you’d fit.”
Bingo.
He grabs my ass with both hands, his hips jerking under mine, his teeth biting down on his lower lip as his eyes screw tightly closed. Watching a guy cum always makes me feel slightly powerful, but also oddly detached, like it wasn’t really my doing at all. I’m not part of this orgasm, after all. I’ve actually never been part of the orgasm. But I enjoy the part before it, and I enjoy the sense of accomplishment when he gets there, like I’ve done my job.
I wonder if that’s how Royal feels. Maybe he never cums because he can’t, either. But I seriously doubt it. I get the feeling it’s more about him being a control freak. He wants to control everyone and everything, right down to his own body.
And it’s not like I can’t orgasm. Guys just generally don’t try because they’re too busy chasing their own orgasm, or they think it’s too much work. To his credit, Mav did try, but I got bored of him trying to figure it out and faked it once, and then he thought that move did the trick, and he kept doing it every time. So, I kept faking it. It was easier just to let him get his and take care of myself afterwards. Plus, it was cute how proud of himself he was.
“Fuck me, that was hot,” Colt groans, rolling us over so he’s on top of me. “You made me make a mess of myself.”
“I think you did that all on your own.”
“I had help,” he says, moving his hips in a slow circle so I can feel he’s still got a semi. “Want me to eat you out? I’ve been told I’m good at it.”
“I’m good,” I say quickly, not really wanting to go into the whole explanation of how that feels more personal to me than sex, and I don’t want just any rando’s face down there, getting up close and personal with my snatch.
“Oh, yeah, you’ve got a jungle situation going,” Colt says. “Hey, I’ve got a razor you can borrow. What do you say we take this to the shower and clean up, and then I’ll return the favor when you’re done clearcutting?”
“We’re really sticking with this metaphor?” I ask, pushing him off. “And I’m good. Really. I already came. Before you.”
Colt narrows his eyes and gives me a look that says he knows I’m full of shit, but he doesn’t push it. He shrugs and hops up, adjusting his jeans. “Well, I’m going to get myself cleaned up. Grab the clothes you want and wait for me in the kitchen, okay? I’ll make us some lunch.”
My jeans are still dry, thanks to the position we were in when he came, so I stuff as many clothes as will fit into my backpack and head downstairs. It seems a little weird that he didn’t have me wait in his room, but whatever. Maybe the guy’s private, or maybe he only lets girls go in his room if he’s fucking them. He did offer to take me there to fuck, after all. Still, almost as soon as I step into the kitchen, I hear tires on the gravel outside, and I wish I’d asked to wait in his room. Though I don’t know the house well enough to know where his parents will go when they come in, I have the absurd urge to run and hide nonetheless.
I’m not the kind of girl that guys bring home to meet their moms. I’m the kind they take all the way out of town and park beside bridges with. The kind who gives blowjobs in cars down by the tracks behind the tampon factory. I don’t usually have to hide because guys hide me. And that’s fine by me. It’s a small town, and people gossip, and I don’t want to be the subject of it any more than they want the town knowing they’re slumming it with a girl like me.
A broad-shouldered man gets out of the SUV that just pulled up. He takes a leather briefcase out of the car with one hand and grips a cane in the other as he starts across the gravel. He looks too young to walk with a cane, his hair still mostly dark blond, his solid frame clad a suit like he’s working a good job and not retired.
My mind races with excuses for why I’m here, for why Colt is home in the middle of the day. I haven’t come up with one when the guy lets himself in. I pray he’ll go into a study or something, but he comes right into the big, fancy kitchen instead.
He sets his bag on the island and shrugs out of his sports coat, watching me like I’m supposed to say something.
“Um, hi,” I say at last, hooking my thumbs into my jeans pockets. “Mr. Darling?”
My mind flashes to the texting app that led me to this moment. Is this Mr. D? There are a lot of Darlings in this town. How would I know which one has been texting me? Does he look like the kind of guy who pervs on teenage girls online?
“Yeah, that’s me,” he says, giving me a halfhearted smile. His eyes are like Colt’s—cool, blue, guarded. “Guess you’re a better reason than some for him to be skipping school.”
“Oh—Colt’s upstairs,” I say, as if that explains anything. “We were just about to have lunch.”
“Lunch, huh?” He says the words like they’re a code for sex. I’m tempted to sniff the air and see if I somehow filled the room with the scent of what we’ve been doing. Or maybe I’m reading too much into it because I have a guilty conscience, or too much experience with grown-ass men who just screwed my mom all night leering at my legs as I race from my room to the bathroom in the morning.
He could totally be the perv. Yeah, he looks normal, but what do I know about the guy? He’s got money—maybe not an ungodly amount, but enough to float an extra scholarship at WHPA. Beyond that, I know what car he drives, that he walks with a cane because of some injury or disability and not age, that his daughter disowned his family, and that his son is beautiful and broken and fun and wonderful.
“Hey, Pops,” Colt says, strolling into the kitchen with a towel still hanging around his neck. His blond hair clings to his ears and neck, and his tats are on full display below the sleeves of a plain white tee, which he wears with a pair of low-slung Levi’s and…
“Are those… Cowboy boots?” I ask.
He gives me an aw-shucks grin and leans an elbow on the island, tipping an imaginary hat. “Why, yes, ma’am, they sure are,” he says, laying the accent on thick.
I shake my head at him. “Well, who woulda thunk it,” I say, exaggerating my accent, too. “Our tatted up rebel boy is a goat wrangler at heart.”
He grins and pushes off the counter. “Guess y’all met,” he says, grabbing bread and sandwich stuff out of the fridge.
“Not officially,” Mr. Darling says, reaching out a hand. I swallow hard, trying not to be sick when I take his hand and shake. He’s missing a finger, too.
