11. Maren
Maren
M y apartment is a shithole, but it's my shithole. The landlord calls it “cozy” but that's just code for “we crammed everything into one room and called it a day.” Whatever. The rent's cheap, and nobody asks questions when I come home at weird hours with dirt and other things on my clothes.
After last year, I didn’t want anything he fucking touched, so it all had to go. Uncle Matteo offered to pay for everything brand fucking new, but the old Maren can’t come to the phone right now.
Because she’s fucking dead and buried along with the pretentious ass facade I maintained all through middle and high school.
I'm sprawled across my couch, the springs digging into my thigh in a way that should be uncomfortable but isn't. The TV flickers with images of Love After Lockup.
Some blonde crying about her convict boyfriend who's been hiding another family on the outside.
So predictable. I could've told her that in episode one.
“Dumbass,” I mutter, dipping the brush back into the bottle of polish. Blood-red, like always. The color slides over my nail in a smooth, perfect line. I've always had steady hands. Even when?—
I push that thought away and focus on the polish. The smell is sharp, chemical, and oddly comforting. I apply a second coat to my thumb meticulously, making sure the edge is perfect. No mistakes. No room for error.
A half-empty container of french fries sits on the coffee table next to an open Dr. Pepper. The soda's gone flat, but I take a swig anyway, careful not to smudge the wet polish on my left hand. The carbonation is barely there, just a ghost of fizz on my tongue.
On screen, the blonde is now screaming at her ex-con boyfriend, mascara running down her face in inky rivers. She looks unhinged, desperate, like she's clinging to something that was never real in the first place.
“He's using you, girl,” I tell her, though she can't hear me. “You're just a place to crash until something better comes along.”
I flex my fingers, watching how the wet polish catches the light from my shitty lamp.
The color reminds me of Riggs' mouth after I bit him—that moment when surprise and pain and want all collided on his face.
I shouldn't be thinking about that or him.
But here I am three days later still tasting him whenever I lick my lips.
I finish the last nail on my right hand and lean back against the couch cushions. My apartment is small enough that I can see the whole thing from here—kitchenette with its mini-fridge and small stove, the bathroom door that never quite closes right, my unmade bed shoved against the wall.
The show credits roll as I inspect my handiwork, turning my hands this way and that. Perfect. Not a single smudge or uneven edge.
“Fucking fierce as always,” I murmur, blowing lightly on my nails to speed up the drying. They'll look even better tomorrow night.
I stretch, my tank top riding up to expose my stomach.
The half-healed bruise on my hip is turning a sickly yellow-green, a souvenir from last week's.
..adventure. I press my thumb into it, welcoming the dull throb of pain.
A reminder that I'm still here. Still breathing.
Still feeling something, even if it's just this.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, screen lighting up with a notification. Uncle Matteo checking in again, making sure I'm still alive, still taking my meds, still pretending to be okay. I ignore it.
Instead, I swipe the phone open and tap on JaguarHallPass, the campus social media app that's basically Instagram but with more frat parties and desperate hookup attempts.
I haven't posted anything since before…well, before I went all Billy and Stu on my stepfather.
My profile is a digital ghost town, but my account still works.
Perfect for a little recon.
I type Riggs’ name into the search bar, watching as his profile pops up immediately.
Over ten thousand followers who worship the ground he walks on.
His profile picture is irritatingly perfect—a candid shot on the ice, helmet off, hair damp with sweat as he grins at something off-camera.
The kind of smile that makes freshman girls swoon in the bleachers and you can watch as the switch is flipped and they become puck bunnies.
I scroll through his recent posts. There's one from two days ago—him and a bunch of teammates at The Pit, the dive bar just off campus.
His arm is slung around some redhead who's practically melting into his side.
She's pretty in a generic, sorority girl way.
Full of white teeth and highlighted hair.
Zooming in on his face, I can see he's smiling, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
I keep scrolling. A post from his roommate shows Riggs passed out on their couch, fully clothed with his shoes still on.
Someone had a rough night. @13rhodes maybe switch to water next time?
Poor little golden boy got wasted after our little encounter in the alcove. He can’t just drink me away but nice try.
I swipe through a few more tagged photos. Riggs at hockey practice, muscles straining against his practice jersey. Riggs at some campus event, looking bored out of his mind while some blonde administrator drones on beside him. Riggs at the gym, shirt off, a scar on his left shoulder visible.
My apartment suddenly feels too quiet, too small. The TV has switched to some infomercial about knives that can cut through shoes.
I tap the messaging icon before I can talk myself out of it.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, hesitating for just a second. What the fuck am I doing? I've spent three days trying to scrub him from my brain like a bloodstain from carpet, and now I'm about to text him?
I type out a message, delete it, type again. The red of my nails flashes against the blue light of my phone screen, little warning signs I'm ignoring. Finally, I settle on something and hit send before I can chicken out.
That redhead doesn't look like your type. You seemed to prefer brunettes with sharper teeth the other night.
I set the phone down on my stomach as the infomercial guy is now slicing through a pineapple, the fruit splitting open in a way that's oddly satisfying. I watch, not really seeing, while counting seconds in my head.
Twenty-three seconds later, my phone buzzes. I snatch it up so fast I nearly drop it.
Golden Boy
Who is this?
I smile, imagining the look on his face. Confusion, then that slow dawning realization. Is he alone right now? Or is the redhead still warming him up? The thought makes something twist in my stomach, ugly and violent.
Guess. I'll give you a hint. you had your tongue down my throat three days ago while your hands roamed.
I wait, watching the three dots appear, disappear, appear again. He's struggling with what to say.
Maren?
Give the hockey star a prize.
Another pause. Longer this time. I can almost see him staring at his phone, his eyes narrowing, trying to figure out my angle. The truth is, I don't have one. I'm just bored and restless, and he's been living rent-free in my head since that night.
Just how did you get my number?
I laugh out loud at that. As if getting his number was some impossible feat.
Welcome to the digital age, Rhodes. It’s literally not even a secret.
The three dots appear immediately.
Why are you texting me at 1 AM?
I glance at the time. Shit, he's right. I didn't even notice how late it had gotten. The apartment is darker now, with light only coming from the TV and my phone screen, casting everything in a sickly blue glow.
Why are you awake? Trouble sleeping? Or did your redhead friend leave you unsatisfied?
The TV drones on, now selling some bullshit ab machine. I can’t be bothered to change it or look for something else.
You've been busy. Scrolling through my social media. Finding my number. Should I be flattered or filing a restraining order?
Says the guy who's been staring at me any chance he can get. Don't play innocent. It doesn't suit you.
I can almost feel his frustration through the screen. The dots appear, disappear, appear again. I like knowing I can knock him off balance.
What do you want, Maren?
What do I want? Such a simple question with such a complicated answer. I want to tear him apart. I want to crawl inside his head and make a home there. I want to ruin him and save him all at once.
The golden boy with his perfect smile and the darkness I glimpsed behind his eyes. The boy who pushed me against a wall and kissed me like he was drowning and I was air. The boy whose lip I split open with my teeth just to see if he'd back away.
He didn't.
The boy who watched me kill my abuser and didn’t flinch. Didn’t back away. Just watched, and I felt the relief flow from him, whether he’ll ever admit that or not.
I want a lot of things, Rhodes. Most of them aren't suitable for text message.
My lips curl into a smile as I picture him reading that. Is he alone in his bed? Is he hard already, just from these few messages?
You're the one who approached ME, Maren. Don't pretend this was all my doing.
Details, details. The point is, you can't stop thinking about me. And I know it's driving you crazy.
I stretch out on the couch, arching my back like a cat.
You didn't answer my question.
I smirk. So persistent.
Maybe I just wanted to see if you'd respond. Maybe I was bored. Maybe I wanted to know if you've been thinking about me.
There's a long pause before his response comes through.
You already know I have.
It's been difficult to think of much else.
I bite my lower lip, surprised by the heat spreading through my chest. This is exactly what I wanted to hear, so why does it feel like I'm the one being caught off guard?
Good.
I shift on the couch, suddenly restless. The springs creak beneath me as I readjust, pulling my knees up to my chest. The polish on my nails is fully dry now, gleaming like fresh blood in the dim light.
What are you doing right now?
Painting my nails. Watching shitty TV. Thinking about the way you looked at me like you couldn't decide whether to strangle me or beg for more.
And which one did you want me to do?
Both. Neither. I wanted you scared and wanting at the same time. Like holding your hand over a flame just to see how long you can stand it.
I can almost feel him processing this on the other end of the line. Is he alone in his room? Sitting in the dark like me? Or is he lying in bed, sheets twisted around him?
What exactly do you want from me?
There it is again. That same question. As if it's simple. As if I could distill everything churning inside me into a neat little answer that would make sense to him—or to anyone.
Right now? I want you to be a good boy and get some sleep. Don't you have a game in a few hours?
I glance at the time again. Almost two in the morning now. The Jaguars have a home game against St. Andrews tomorrow—no, today—at seven. Not that I've been keeping track or anything.
Since when do you care about my sleep schedule?
I don't. But I'd hate for you to play like shit and blame it on me. Your fragile ego might not recover.
My ego is just fine. And I never play like shit.
I roll my eyes even though he can't see me. Men and their fucking egos.
Sure, superstar. Whatever helps you sleep at night.
You know what would help me sleep? You, in my bed.
The bluntness catches me off guard. I press my thighs together, hating how easily he can get to me.
Bold of you to assume I'd let you sleep at all.
Is that a promise?
His desperation is delicious. I savor it for a moment before deciding to cut him off. Leave him wanting more. It's more fun that way.
go to bed. I'll be seeing you soon enough.
How soon?
Goodnight, Riggs.
I toss my phone onto the coffee table before he can say anything else.
It lands with a clatter next to the cold fries and flat soda.
On screen, the infomercial has given way to some old black and white movie I don't recognize. A woman in a 1940’s dress is crying while a man in a fedora looks on stoically.
I move to my closet—really just an alcove with a tension rod and a curtain pulled across it—and push the fabric aside. Most of my clothes are practical, dark, forgettable. Jeans, t-shirts, hoodies. The kind of stuff you can blend in wearing.
But just right there on a gleaming silver hanger is red and black fabric.
I reach for it, the material cool and slick beneath my fingers.
The St. James University cheerleading uniform.
My old skin. I pull it out, holding it up in the dim light.
The skirt with its perfect pleats, the fitted top with the university emblem emblazoned across the chest. It still looks brand new, even though I haven't worn this uniform in over a year.
Not since that night.
Tomorrow feels like a good time for former St. James University all-state cheerleading captain Maren Marino to make an appearance.