Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
HANNAH
If someone told me I’d spend my morning with Ryung Rowen, I'd call them delusional.
If someone told me that morning would include Rye’s face in my ass, I'd call them insane.
I especially wouldn't think his touch would be so soft and tender, so caring and warm. So… weird.
“Missed a spot.” Rye walks by with a box of empty bottles and cans, still in that robe. His eyes move to the spot of wax near my foot as I stand in the living room with a mop.
“What’s with these parties anyway?” I ask. “Are you that much of a pervert?”
“Do you want me answering your stupid questions, or would you rather I help you clean before your folks get here?” He knows the answer because he doesn’t even wait before he continues taking the box outside.
The place isn’t spotless, but the work we do in thirty minutes isn't horrible. We work together, hiding leftover items that my parents would lose their shit if they saw. Whips. Paddles. Feather scarves. Returning furniture to its original position is easy. Hiding the spanking bench is harder, but we figure it out, using the gardening shed as our holding space. We’re pretty efficient as a team.
He even lets me play my girly-pop anthems. At a reasonable volume.
It doesn’t drown out my thoughts though. His comments about a safe word swirl in my head the entire time.
Do we need a safe word? Shouldn’t we admit what this is first?
What even is it? He’s the enemy. I should tear him down for what he’s done. Instead, I let him bend me over the kitchen counter and place his soft lips all over me.
It’s hard to remember where everything goes, his kisses still clinging to my skin, his words still in my head. I want to ask him more questions, but as we put the sofa back in its place, the front door swings open.
“Hannah!” My father barks. “We’re here.” My parents wheel in their luggage, my father in his favourite custom suit. “How lucky you are to have two places to call home.”
“So? What are you guys doing here?” I ask the question I didn’t have a chance to over the phone.
My father turns to me, dropping his keys on the glass console table as he looks around the space. My throat goes dry, hoping he doesn’t see anything out of place. Does he know about the party? Is that why they’re here? “I pay the bills here, don’t I?”
“It’s just that—”
“Is there a reason I shouldn’t be here?” My father’s eyes sharpen, narrowing.
“Nice to see you, Carlos,” Rye greets my father, cutting the tension between us. My parents’ eyes drop to his robe. But Rye stays calm, collected, greeting my mother instead. “Elena.”
My mother wears her thick shades. The massive ones that cover most of her face. My fists clench knowing what that means. Especially when it’s overcast. The pashmina wrapped around the rest of her face gives me more ammo to force the question out of my mouth. “Ma, are you okay?”
She doesn’t remove her glasses when she turns to me. Instead, she eyes me in my state, and I know what’s coming next. “What on earth are you wearing? And what’s happened to your hair?”
“Young Rowen.” My father shakes Rye’s hand. “To what do we owe this pleasure?” My father’s eyes bounce between us, and I know how it looks. “Has my daughter kept you captive?”
“I was actually leaving,” Rye says. “As soon as I change.”
“Nonsense, stay,” My father insists.
“Thank you, but I should be going.”
“Don’t be ridiculous." My father waves him off. "It’s a long drive home, and Elena was about to order some dinner from our favourite. They have the best lobster brought in from the coast."
"Pa, he should go."
“Hannah, put these in our room while Young Rowen and I grab a Padron.”
When my father wheels the luggage out of my mother's hand towards me, she almost falls. She steadies herself, her glasses slipping enough to show a glimpse of purple under her eye.
“Ma!” I reach out.
“Listen to your father.” She puts a hand up, stopping me from moving closer. Without another word, she heads to the kitchen with slow, wobbly steps, like her body is in pain.
“Let me help you.” I’m not leaving her another moment with my father. “I can put these up later.”
“Hannah, please do as requested,” My father pipes up, a cigar from the bar already in his hand. “Your mother is fine.”
“I—”
“And please, take a shower,” he says. "You stink."
Rye’s hand lands on my shoulder. “I’ll stay down here with her. Once you’re back, I’ll go change.” A weight lifts off my chest when I hear his words, my eyes locking with his. No smirk. No chuckle.
I nod, my stomach softening. "I'll be quick."
As I roll the suitcases to the master room, Rye shares a story about his time in France before my father's laughter fills the house.
It's a sound I haven't heard in a long time.
My feet slow as I make my way to the main bathroom, listening as Rye tells a story about a woman who beat a man with a baguette.
Small talk isn't something I've heard from him before. It almost makes him human.
He keeps my parents occupied while I finally take a shower, the warm water soothing me. It washes over the burn on my back, reminding me of how gentle Rye was with his hands in the kitchen. His lips on my skin. His hands on my ass. His touch so soft it almost felt wrong.
Did something change between last night and this morning? He can’t answer my text, but he can make me feel… like that?
I won’t get any answers in this shower, so I’m quick to dry off before throwing on a simple vintage sundress. Prada.
When I’m back downstairs, Rye continues to make my parents laugh.
My mom still sits in her sunglasses and pashmina, but her mood looks lifted.
They’re all sitting in the living space around plates from Silver Lake Bistro, soft jazz in the background.
Even with Rye still in that robe, it looks like a scene from a lighthearted rom-com.
“Hannah, there you are.” My mother calls.
She picks up a plate of crispy chicken fingers.
“We have your favourite.” My brows furrow.
She never lets me eat those. “Ryung ordered them.” My eyes shoot to his, and he actually smiles.
It’s like a rare full moon, softening the sharp features of his face.
His eyes dart around my dress as I walk over.
Did I die last night? This all feels so surreal.
My parents hang on to Rye's every word as I sit on the sofa. They laugh on cue, nodding along to his stories about travelling places with his mother. It’s like we’re back at school, Rye commanding the quad. Except this time, he’s taking control in a place I’ve never had it. My home.
My stomach twists, the feeling from this morning colliding with the feelings I had before. Warmth and cold. Dark and light. Menacing and—
“You can teach Hannah a thing or two,” my father says, leaning back in his chair. “She's lost without some guidance.”
My brows lower as I swallow hard on my last bite of fried potato. “It's easy to be lost when you don’t have a home.”
“Rowen, are you this ungrateful?” my father asks, ignoring me.
My muscles stiffen, and I need a fucking cigarette. Why does he get all the praise when I’m the one suffering?
I answer my father’s question first, the words falling out of my mouth. “He’s too busy planning sex parties to clock his privilege.”
Rye looks over his glass at me as my father clears his throat. “They’re tied to my mother’s lingerie line,” he says, sitting up in his chair. "It’s marketing.”
“So are all the girls you bring home?” I ask.
“Boys will be boys,” my father chuckles.
Fuck that. My fork slams on the table. “Well, did you know—”
“It's time I finally get out of this robe.” Rye rises from his seat, cutting me off.
“You come right back,” my father says, like he’s obsessed with him. “You don’t want to miss dessert. We’re having soufflé.”
Rye nods and, without another look at me, leaves the room. Silence takes over, a chill coming with it. At least it feels familiar.
My mom lowers her glasses as she leans into my father, whispering, “Carlos, we didn’t order the soufflé."
“It’s alright, Elena.” My father straightens up as if he’s annoyed by the sound of his own wife. “We’ll have the tiramisu.”
“We don’t have that either, but I can—”
“So, what did you get besides your whore legs?”
“Whoa, Pa!” There he is.
“I ordered what you asked.” My mother’s face turns red. “If you wanted tiramisu, you should’ve asked me for it, I can’t read your—”
Slap!
My father’s hand connects to my mother's face, her glasses slipping.
“Have you lost your mind?” He rises from his seat. “Or did you forget whose home this is?”
“It’s my home too, Carlos!” But my father doesn’t want to hear it. I’m not sure what happened on the way here, but his fuse is shorter than usual. He topples her chair. She screams.
“Ma!” I move in front of her, playing my role as her human shield.
“Look at both of you,” my father says, unbuckling his belt. “You don’t think I know that you’re like your mother? You don’t think I know the game you’re playing with that boy? I will make sure he doesn’t end up like me.” He bends his belt in two, making a loop before raising it above his head.
“Hannah, move,” my mother demands.
“No!”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure that boy doesn’t lose his mind to the wrong woman and have a whore of a daughter to show for it.”
As he’s about to swing, a voice comes from the other end of the room. “Do we have a problem?”