Filfthy (58 page)

D
erek

T
he waiting room
at Amherst Good Sam smells like bleach. White walls and gray chairs and posters plastered with tips on how to avoid the flu surround me. The drive took two hours, with Serena and me mostly keeping to ourselves.

She seemed distant, not in a mood to talk.

I guess we were on the same page.

I grab a faded copy of National Geographic and pretend to read because the woman sitting to my left is apparently incapable of picking up on social cues.

No, I don’t want to talk to you.

No, I don’t want to know your name.

No, I don’t care why you’re here.

No, I won’t tell you where I’m from.

No, I don’t care that you like my suit.

No, I won’t tell you where I bought my shoes.

Her nasally Long Island accent yapped in my ear for twenty straight minutes, and by the grace of God, her phone rang and she took the call. I used that opportunity to excuse myself, taking a tour of this side of the hospital and pretending to get lost looking for vending machines.

When I came back, she was gone.

And then she came back.

Now she’s tapping her extra-long acrylic nails against a side table and droning on about the rain we’re supposed to get this week.

“I’m really sorry,” I finally say, getting up and moving to the opposite side of the waiting room.

The woman’s jaw hangs, and I hear her call me an “asshole.”

But it was worth it.

I’m tucked away in a quiet corner of the waiting area when my mind flashes to earlier this afternoon, a mere few hours prior.

“
D
erek
, come in and have a seat. We need to talk,” my father’s thumb ran the length of his thick mustache as he rose from my office chair.

I closed the door and braced myself for a lecture about something he thinks I did or didn’t do.

He perched on the edge of my desk, his hands folded tight across his stiff chest, his eyes piercing and small.

“Are you housing Serena Randall?” My father wasted no time.

“I am.”

“Why. The hell. Would you do that?” His arms unlocked so his fist could slam into the mahogany desktop. A jar of pens rattled and tipped over. He pointed his finger inches from my face. “I specifically told you not to get involved that way, and you gave me your word, Derek. You promised you wouldn’t cross the line. And now she’s living with you?”

Fucking Demi.

I should have told her not to say anything, but I was in such a hurry to get out of there the other night, I didn’t have a chance.

“Justice Harcourt appointed our firm to handle Serena Randall’s conservatorship. Do you know why?”

I didn’t answer, assuming it was a rhetorical question.

“Do you know why, Derek?” His words were accompanied with a spray of spit. “Because we have an upstanding reputation. One that I’ve spent my entire career building. One that I refuse to let you piss away because you have a thing for a hot piece of ass with a fat bank account.”

He leaned in closer, his aftershave burning my nostrils.

“Do you realize how this looks? God help you if the media catches wind of this.” He pounded his fist once more. “I will not be made a laughingstock because my son can’t keep his dick in his pants. And don’t even get me started on the professional repercussions of your indiscretions. Jesus, Derek.”

I understood my father was mad. I understood there was no changing his perception of the truth. And I understood there was nothing I could say or do to change what had already been done.

“I can assure you, I’m only looking out for her best interest. There is no love, no romance, nothing of that nature,” I said. “Serena Randall is a client and a client only. The reputation of the firm is not at risk.”

His face softened only slightly. He wanted to believe me. But he also hated being wrong in his convictions.

He slid off my desk, rising tall, his beady eyes never leaving mine. “Don’t screw me over, Derek. Don’t screw yourself over. Women aren’t worth half the trouble they are. Except your mother. She’s a goddamned saint.”

Exactly. She was a saint for putting up with his hard-headed ass for the last thirty years.

My father moved to the door, a hopeful sign that his little lecture was finally coming to an end.

“Don’t,” he said, finger pointing once more. “Don’t get involved with her. Don’t admit to anyone she’s living with you. Don’t cross the line.”

I wanted to ask, “Or what?”

But I already knew the answer.

“You have nothing to worry about,” I said. Regardless of whatever has happened or will happen, Serena made it perfectly clear she wants nothing to do with me after this. I’m her attorney. Her conservator. Nothing more. Nothing less. “There’s nothing between Ms. Randall and myself.”

Nothing at all.

“Good.” He huffed. “Because I’m sending in her stepmother. She showed up in tears this morning, demanding to know Serena’s whereabouts. She’s worried sick about her daughter and the estate, and you get to be the one to assure her this isn’t the way it looks.”

The door slammed.

This wasn’t Demi’s doing after all. It was Eudora.

Five minutes later, Gladys ushered in Mrs. Randall. Veronica Kensington-Randall. In the flesh. All five-foot-seven of her. Five-foot-eleven, if you counted her red-bottomed heels.

* * *

S
erena appears from a long
, white hallway, her mouth morphed into a calmed smile as she walks my way.

“He’s going to be okay,” she says, exhaling and taking the seat beside me. “He has a concussion from the fall and some cracked ribs. He was in a lot of pain, but they’re getting it under control for him.”

“That’s good.”

“Thank you.” Serena places her hand over mine. “Thank you for dropping everything and driving me here. It means the world.”

I nod, flipping the page of the magazine I’m fake-reading.

“He’s going to be here for a couple of days at least,” she says. “But he’s in good hands.”

“Good.”

Her face scrunches. “Will you stop? What happened to the no bullshit rule? You’ve been acting strange ever since you asked me to stay.”

I shrug. “No idea what you’re talking about, Serena. This is me. Sometimes I’m not in the mood for conversation. It’s not a crime.”

Her legs cross, and she leans back in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs, shaking her head.

“What?” I ask.

“You’re just not who I thought you were.”

“That’s what you get for thinking you have someone figured out less than two weeks into knowing them.” I flip another page. “Getting to know someone takes a long time. And you could be with someone for years and never really know them. But I digress.”

The clicking of heels on tile pulls our attention toward the sliding glass doors by the entry. Veronica Kensington-Randall, still donning the ridiculously pink Chanel tweed suit from hours earlier, storms through the lobby.

“Oh, God.” Serena’s body tenses. “Here comes the Wicked Witch of the East Coast.”

Veronica spots us immediately, and her fists clench at her sides. She storms our way, and if I had to guess, she’s resenting the fact that we were able to get here first. Maybe if she hadn’t been skulking around Rixton Falls, trying to figure out where Serena was, she’d have been here sooner.

I refused to tell her where I lived earlier, nor did I confirm that Serena was, in fact, staying with me. If she wants my address, she can whip out her iPad Mini and do a quick Google search like the rest of the world.

And that’s what’s wrong with people like her. They’re entitled. They make a demand and expect it to be fulfilled like we’re all genies doing their bidding.

“You again.” She huffs, her tight eyes rolling.

She doesn’t much care for me, especially not after our little meet-and-greet in my office this morning. My father wanted me to smooth things over, but he forgets—my job is strictly to look out for Serena’s best interests. Veronica is not a part of that picture, especially not with all the dirt I’m about to dig up on her.

I simply assured her that Serena was in good hands. Her estate was essentially untouched. And that she had nothing to worry about.

And then I showed her out.

“Again?” Serena asks.

“Yes,” I say. “I had the distinct pleasure of meeting your stepmother earlier this afternoon. She paid a visit to Rosewood and Rosewood.”

“Why would you do that?” Serena stares hard at Veronica.

“I was concerned about you.” Veronica folds her arms against her chest.

“Liar.” Serena’s nose wrinkles. “You couldn’t stand losing control over me, but I have news for you—”

“Serena.” I place my hand across her lap to silence her. “Don’t say another word.”

Veronica smirks, her expression overly confident. Too self-assured.

“But . . .” Serena protests.

“As your attorney, I’m instructing you to not breathe another word.” I rise, bending my arm and offering to escort Serena. She hesitates before slipping her hand in the crook of my elbow, her eyes drifting to Veronica’s and then mine. I turn to Mrs. Randall. It’d be tempting to warn her, to blurt out that we’re on track to dissolve the conservatorship and we’ll be petitioning the changes to the medical power of attorney.

But I know better.

We’ll keep our cards close to the chest.

And when the time comes, we’ll win.

That is, if I’m still representing her by then.

“Have a great evening, Veronica.” I pull Serena close, and we leave Amherst Good Sam and head back to Rixton Falls.

“Thank you.” Serena watches me from the corner of her eye as we drive home.

“Just doing my job.”

“You’re good at what you do,” she says.

I shrug.

She watches me from the passenger seat. “I like having you in my corner.”

S
erena

I
’m
wide awake Thursday night, and it’s a quarter ‘til midnight. Now would be a great time for one of those prescription sleep aids Eudora was shoving down my throat weeks ago, but I know I’m better off without them.

Derek’s been gone all night. He left for a while to meet Royal for a late night burger and beer, and he hasn’t been back since.

Come to think of it, he’s been gone most of the week. Working late. Leaving early. I’m sure he’s put in at least sixty hours this week, and a girl might think he was avoiding her if a girl was a smidge too insecure for her own good.

I refuse to take it personally though. Life’s too short. When I do see him, I pretend like everything’s fine, because if there’s anything we Randalls are good at, it’s pretending everything’s fine when it absolutely isn’t.

Most of the time, anyway.

A stack of books rests neatly on his coffee table. They’re large. Full of pictures of antique cars and planes. Vintage photography. The kinds of things that make a person think too much.

It’s quiet here. Too quiet. And there isn’t a part of me that’s ready to fall asleep yet.

Fifteen minutes ago, I flipped through the channels on Derek’s TV, finding mostly infomercials and Friends reruns, and I opted for the sound of silence instead.

I’ve decided to go home this coming weekend to visit Poppy for a couple of days.

I haven’t told Derek yet.

Out of nowhere, the door swings open and Derek lingers in the doorway. His keys hang loosely in his hands, jingling as he steps out of his shoes. He’s in jeans and a t-shirt, a casual getup for a casual guys’ night out.

“How was dinner?” I ask, paging through an Ansel Adams coffee table book. There I go, sounding like his wife again.

He ambles across the apartment, unloading his pockets of keys and his wallet and charging his phone at the drop zone in the kitchen.

“It was good,” he says.

“How’s Royal?”

“He’s doing well.”

I bite my lip to keep myself from saying something I’ll regret. I don’t understand how he can be so good to me, so nice, and then refuse to engage in simple conversation. It might do me good to give him the benefit of the doubt right now. Maybe it’ll rile me up less. I tell myself he’s tired and to let it go.

“Why are you still up?” he strides across the living room, stopping when he reaches the sofa. “Are you just sitting here in the dark?”

I nod, glancing down at the book covering my lap.

“How can you see?” He reaches over, clicking on a lamp, and soft light floods the space around us.

“Thank you.”

“You want company?”

My gaze meets his. “Oh. Um. Sure.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.” I study his tragically gorgeous face. If only Derek Rosewood were average and normal—inside and out—then maybe I wouldn’t be staring at him, craving his fingers in my hair and his lips crushing mine.

“You seem unsure.”

“I just don’t want to bore you with
piddly
conversation,” I quip. Licking my pointer finger, I turn a page.

He takes a seat beside me. “My uncle Edgar gave me this book right before he passed. And then he willed his camera to me. The thing’s been sitting in my closet for years. Can’t bring myself to learn how to use it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll break it. Maybe I’ll take shitty pictures. That, and it reminds me too much of him.”

“You’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.” He scoffs.

“Oh, my God. I think I’ve finally figured you out.”

“Doubtful.”

I place my hand on my heart and twist my body so I’m facing him. “If something makes you uncomfortable, physically, emotionally, whatever, you box it up and put it on a shelf so you don’t have to look at it again. You pretend it’s not there so you don’t have to feel.”

“How meta.”

I roll my eyes, smacking his hardened chest. The fabric of his jersey t-shirt clings to his muscles, accentuating the peaks and valleys I’ve only recently begun to enjoy.

Without realizing it at first, I find myself grinning. This is the Derek I prefer. Somewhat relaxed. At ease. Willing to converse.

“Why are you smiling like that?” he asks.

“I’m not.” I try and keep a straight face. And fail. “Sorry. I was trying to do what you do.”

“Which is what?”

“Deny everything,” I say. “You deny, deny, deny, even when the truth is staring you blatantly in the face.”

His mouth twists and he shakes his head. “Not really.”

I poke his shoulder. “You’re doing it now.”

“Denying a false accusation is different from denying self-evident truths, Serena.”

“Whatever you say, counselor.”

He cracks a half-smile, and it almost makes up for the rest of this horrid day. “Why
do
you call me counselor, anyway?”

“Because it’s cheesy and dramatic and you need to take yourself a little less seriously.” I rise, feeling a hint of warm sleepiness rain down upon me, but Derek’s fingers wrap around my wrist, and he pulls me into his lap. “Hello.”

My legs straddle him, and I make myself comfortable. I could ask him what he’s doing. I could pretend to resist. But there’s no point in fighting a losing battle. We both know how this is going to go, intentions be damned.

“I’m not ready for you to go yet.” His voice is low, throaty, and our eyes are locked.

“I was just going to bed . . .”

“Yeah.” His hands slide up my thighs, slow and intentional, and he cups my ass as he hoists me up. “But you were headed the wrong way.”

My arms rest on his shoulders, and he carries me to his room, depositing me on the edge of his king-sized bed. His hands work his belt and his gaze drinks me in. He crawls over top of me, and I breathe in the scent of cologne and expensive beer.

His arms cage me in, and I feel safe. Sectioned off. Protected.

When his body lies on mine, I absorb the weight of him, my hands greedily tugging the hem of his shirt until it’s over his head. His delicious, dark hair is mussed, and I run my fingers through it as his lips come down upon my lips.

Derek’s hands slip between my belly and his, working at the band of my leggings and tugging them down my thighs as he lifts himself over me. On his knees, he runs a finger under the waistband of my lace panties, snapping them against my skin before working them down my hips.

He slides everything down my legs, tossing them aside and coming back for more. My hands work his jeans, brushing against the outline of the hardness trapped behind silk boxers. He springs to life when I finally free him, and I press my hands against his chest, silently urging him to lie on his back.

Straddling his thighs, I lean down and take his hardness in my grip, bringing the tip of his cock to my lips and gifting him with feathery strokes, my tongue glazing his length.

His hands are in my hair, pulling, tugging, guiding as I find a rhythm that seems to suit him best. I pause for a moment, pumping him in my hands, and glance into his hypnotic dark gaze.

My heart skips a beat in the cheesiest of ways, and I try to focus on the fire burning in my core instead.

This is physical. Not emotional.

My mouth returns to his throbbing girth, but he slips his hand under my arm and pulls me over top of him. I straddle him, my aching pussy grazing his cock, tortuously skin to skin. He’s focused completely on me, his hands cupping my breasts and moving to my ass before teasingly dragging down my thighs.

I’m not sure how we went from barely speaking, to discussing photography, to winding up naked in his bed, but I suppose the answer is irrelevant.

Here we are.

We’re doing this.

Nothing in the world could stop us tonight.

His left hand lifts to my chin, cupping my jaw. His thumb traces my lower lip, and he brings my mouth to his.

“Left nightstand. Top drawer,” he whispers.

I lean over him, tugging the drawer and expecting to find a stash of condoms. Instead, I find toys. Adult toys. Galore.

“Oh.” I pause. It’s dark, but these things are staring back at me plain as day.

“There should be a box . . .” he says. “It’s purple . . .”

“I’m looking for condoms, right?”

“Yes.”

I finally spot the purple box and tear a packet from the strip. “Here.”

He rips the foil between his teeth, and I move aside as he sheaths himself. I counted no fewer than two pairs of handcuffs. A tangled mess of leather. Several blindfolds. Otherworldly-looking dildos, and a few neon vibrators for good measure.

“Do—do you use those?” I ask as he pulls me back into his lap.

His lips pull up at the side, his perfect teeth lighting up the dark. “Serena.”

Derek’s hands grip my hips, and he guides me onto him. I slide down the length of his shaft, exhaling as he fills me.

With his hand at the base of my neck, he pulls my mouth to his, depositing a single kiss. “I don’t use those with you because I don’t need to. You’re enough. You’re all I need.”

I let a curtain of hair hide my relieved smile as my hips rock back and forth against his thick cock.

No one’s ever told me
I
was enough.

No one’s ever made me
feel
like I was enough.

I rise and bounce, creating friction and heat, losing myself in the darkness of his room and the security of his arms and the temporary sanctuary I never thought I’d find in the small town of Rixton Falls.

His greedy mouth is only rivaled by greedier hands, and he owns every inch of me as I focus on the sensation of his hard flesh entering and flooding me over and over again. He takes a swollen breast, lifting the nipple to his mouth and flicking it with his tongue before his teeth rake across the sensitive nub.

We don’t need
piddly
conversation when our bodies can do all the talking.

My hips grind, slowly, provocatively. I want this to last. I want this to go on forever. But my body is making a frenzied race to the finish line.

I press my lips into the hot flesh of his smooth chest, tasting him. Devouring him. Wanting to forever remember everything about this moment, because somewhere inside, I’m convinced this is going to be the last time.

We’re too different.

We’re headed on two completely different paths.

Living on two completely different planets.

And one of these days, if we’re not careful, we’re going to collide.

He says he’s not the settling type. But I don’t believe him.

He can deny, deny, deny.

But I know.

He’s falling for me.

And this isn’t going to end well.