Twenty-One
DALTON
Fucknugget
Talk to me.
I’ve been texting for months.
We have to move forward.
You’re my only heir.
Delete . Delete because my father is a cunt.
Delete . Delete because texting for months doesn’t make up for years of neglect.
Delete . Delete because there’s no moving forward from hurting Mom and Valeria and Lander—you prick.
Delete . Delete because we’re not goddamn Habsburgs and we don’t need heirs.
I take that back. If Essie wanted to pop out a few heirs for me, I’d be tracking her ovulation and taking shots on goal like a World Cup final, but it’s not like I need heirs.
Two hours have passed since Essie left my apartment, and I’m waiting for her outside the restaurant where we’re meeting Mom and Porter for brunch. She rounds the corner at that moment, cheeks pink from the sharpness of the November morning air. The snow hasn’t arrived yet, but I can feel it trying to break through the District’s skies. I’ve always been a slut for snow, but Essie hates it. The way she’s clutching the brand-new wool coat I got for her is quintessentially Californian—not to mention cute.
“Hey,” she greets when she’s in front of me.
With a big ‘fuck you’ to caution, I bend and kiss her cheeks—one and then the other.
“Stop that,” she warns, jolting away. “They’re right inside.”
“This is how they do it in Europe. Mom owns a house in Lake Como, and your dad was on a Rick Steves world tour instead of raising you. I’m sure they’ll approve.”
She shoots me a look. “As if you’d ever touch me in front of your mom.”
“No? Well, to start, Alyssa Cavendish is the most sex positive person on the planet. How do you think we all turned out the way we did?”
“She’s the reason you and your two best friends seem to be addicted to sex workers?”
“She’s the reason why all three of us recognize your careers matter and are as valid as ours…or lack thereof, seeing as Lan and Ev—”
“Are now unemployed scrubs,” Essie fills in.
“Exactly. And secondly,” I clear my throat, “…it’s been weird between Mom and me.”
Her eyes narrow. “Since when?”
“Since last December.” Since she got engaged to Porter after six fucking weeks .
Essie inhales through her nostrils. “Dalton Franklin Richmond Cavendish the Fourth, how dare you?” she demands, shaking her head before she points into the restaurant, alarming the hostess inside. “Fighting with your mother? That woman has done everything for you, starting with birthing what I have to assume was your enormous baby form—”
“Oh please . She didn’t have to push me out; she had a c-section.” I pause, realizing what I said. “Okay, yeah, I just heard it. But when it comes to you—”
“Don’t put this on me,” she warns, shooting the sternest glare possible. Then she steps back, looks away, and breathes out like she can expel the anger from her body with that mere exhalation. When she faces me again, her expression is placid as usual. “Come on. We’re late.”
My mother and Porter are already on one side of the booth when the hostess leads Essie and me over. Mom is laughing with her head thrown back, and when she sees us, she hops out and gives Essie the biggest hug I’ve ever witnessed—and that’s saying something because my mom hugs everyone. Like, when I was seventeen and had a bad reaction to shrooms at a party, she had a ten-minute conversation with the dropout who sold me the shrooms, hugged him , and wished him luck on an upcoming job interview—all while I was tripping in the backseat of her car, convinced the seatbelts were pythons.
My mom and Essie finally separate, and Essie hugs Porter—and does a thoroughly convincing job pretending she’s happy to see him.
Porter Lennox is the human version of a pluot: a plum/apricot hybrid. He’s like two weird fruits nobody likes, mixed together even though nobody asked. He’s a few years younger than my mom, and with a full head of light brown hair, he looks great for his age—which is good for him because my mother happens to be beautiful. Then again, he fathered Essie Romero, so it’s not surprising the guy is hot. But good looks aside, he’s just…there.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says, squeezing Essie. He smiles at her. “How have you been?”
“Working,” is her response, muffled into his chest.
He finally lets her go. “Is the internship keeping you busy?” Essie nods, and before she can continue, Porter grins. “Speaking of work, Christian was telling me about his forensics lab this semester.”
Essie glances in my direction before she slides into the booth. Christian is the oldest of Essie’s younger brothers and a sophomore at Boston College.
“He says the professor is a great contact for getting a role at the Bureau after graduation,” Porter continues. “Can you imagine having a son in the FBI?”
“Essie is doing algorithmic trading models for forex,” I mention, holding out my hand. Porter shakes it. I squeeze. He winces and wiggles his fingers after I let go.
Bitch.
Mom hugs me, and I keep it quick before I slide in next to Essie. Mom is opposite Essie, and Porter takes the spot across from me.
“She’s the only one who can do financial modeling,” I comment, tipping my head in Essie’s direction. “Most of the analysts and VPs barely understand it, so hardly anyone can show Essie the ropes. She was the top choice for the intern class.”
“Oh...I didn’t know,” Essie murmurs.
“Of course you were. You’re literally reducing the efficiency barrier to milliseconds and setting us up to carry out forex transactions around the clock. How could you not be the best?”
A softness takes over Essie’s face. “I didn’t realize you knew much about my work.”
“Sounds complicated,” Porter comments before I can tell Essie about the financial modeling course I took after I met her. He picks up a menu. “So, what’s good here?”
I scoff. “Mom, you know everything about banking. You didn’t tell Porter what Essie does?” But once I ask the question, a hand touches my leg—Essie’s. The look she shoots is a tacit order: Let it go.
Yeah, that’s not my thing.
My mom pauses with her lips parted and glances between Porter and me. “Well, Porter has never worked in finance.”
“Neither have you,” I remind her. “He should know what his daughter does.”
My mom’s eyebrows rise—and her eyebrows have a point. Porter doesn’t need to know everything . While my mom is well-aware Essie is a camgirl, Porter has no idea—per Essie’s request. But still, Essie worked her ass off for this internship. Porter should be proud of her; that’s what dads are good for.
Right then, the waiter arrives, and I’m left looking between Porter and my mother, trying to understand how Mom could love him. It was bad enough she married Frank, but another guy who doesn’t care about what their kid does for a living?
“Ow, what? ” I mutter when Essie jams her heel into my shin.
“Your turn,” she replies, bobbing her chin at the waiter.
Fuck. “Sorry about that. How are you? Good?” I pass him the menu. “I’ll do the chocolate chip pancakes with a side of scrambled eggs.”
“And can you make sure they’re hard scrambled?” Mom interjects. “He doesn’t like them runny.”
“No,” I cut in, staring gravely at the poor waiter, a kid with a cool as shit nose ring. “I want them runny. I want them moving around like track stars.”
“Dalton,” my mother remarks with a hand against her chest, “since when do you eat runny eggs?”
“People change,” I reply before muttering under my breath, “ Clearly .”
Next to me, Essie waves at the waiter. “Actually, I’ll do the blueberry stack and a side of scrambled eggs. Hard scrambled.”
The waiter leaves our weird egg standoff, and it’s awkward—even for me, which is saying a lot because in college I made out with everyone in my Psych 101 lab.
Literally everyone. Even the TA.
When the food arrives, I’m on my second mimosa of the morning.
These runny eggs suck.
I’ve resigned myself to slouching quietly and seeing how many mimosas it’ll take for me to get a decent buzz (seven, I’m guessing), when Essie dumps her eggs onto my plate and scoops the runny ones onto hers without anyone noticing. I didn’t think it was possible to fall more in love, but I’ve summited a new peak.
Taking advantage of my free-use policy, I reach over and place my hand on Essie’s thigh. To my surprise, the tights she’s wearing are actually thigh highs.
Let’s fucking gooooo.
My hand goes higher, and Essie shoots me a gorgeous and threatening expression, which spurs me to slip my fingers under her dress—and she’s commando. It’s my turn to shoot her a look, and her response is a mere shoulder raise.
“Essie, when are you arriving in Rhinebeck?”
“Monday before the wedding,” she responds, facing Mom and pretending I didn’t just push a finger into her pussy. She’s so fucking wet .
“Are you taking the train?” my mom asks after delicately dabbing the corner of her mouth with her napkin at the exact moment I spread Essie’s arousal.
“I’m driving her,” I mention, taking up a gentle rhythm against her clit. It feels swollen and attentive, and I wonder if it’s from being in my bed earlier, or if my stepsister likes the riskiness of getting fingered under the table in front of our parents.
“Apparently Dalton’s driving me then,” she manages to say before wrenching my finger out from under her skirt.
When my mother looks at her plate, I slip my fingers between my lips and play it off like I’m licking syrup from my fingers. Essie tastes so much better than maple syrup, and she watches me, shifting in her seat. Needy. Ridiculously horny as usual.
“By the way, Dalt, will you be making a toast?” my mother goes on. When I don’t answer, she says, “I mean, you’re so funny and everyone loves to hear you talk…”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
“Probably for the best,” Porter says, giving my mother a reassuring nod.
…The fuck?
“Care to elaborate, Porter?” I ask, placing my hand back on his daughter’s bare thigh.
“Well, I remember you at our engagement dinner,” he says with an obnoxious laugh. “You were blackout drunk…I assume. Do you remember stacking all the rolls onto your butter knife and pretending it was a snowman?”
“The dinner I paid for?” I clarify in lieu of admitting no, I did not recall that particular wintery party trick.
Porter stares at me—and I stare right back. “Hey, no worries. I like snowmen,” he relents, which makes my mother burst out laughing. “But I figured, with a wedding and an open bar—”
My expression is pure stone. “That I’d make some fuckass toast? You think I would ever embarrass my mother?”
Mom stops laughing immediately when she realizes I’m upset. “Well, hold on—”
“Are we not allowed to talk about it?” Porter asks, glancing around the table, but nobody else is agreeing with him.
“Porter,” my mom begins. “Dalton enjoys himself. And Dalton, Porter has a beautiful sense of humor, which I think you’ll appreciate.”
“I’m just saying—” Porter begins, but he doesn’t get far.
“First of all, Dad,” Essie interrupts, crushing her hand against my thigh now, “Dalton makes half a million dollars a year before his bonus, so whether or not the bar is open has no impact on his drinking.”
She’s not wrong.
“Secondly,” Essie continues, pointing at her father in that classic, Essie Romero way, “he’s a brilliant speaker, and you’d be lucky if he gave a toast. He was drunk at your engagement dinner because his father is a massive asshole who broke up his family, and his mother is marrying someone he doesn’t know. We all cope differently. Not everyone understands how we grieve, but that doesn’t change the fact that we’re grieving, does it?”
Porter’s brow is tight. I don’t know this pluot at all, but I know Essie handed his ass on a platter. When she talks about grief, she’s talking about what he did after his wife died.
“Essie,” he begins, and a contrite look spreads over his face.
But Essie shakes her head before he can continue. “Actually, I’m done here.”
She faces me, and I slide out of the booth so she can get out as well.
With a deep breath, Essie turns to my mom. “Alyssa, it was lovely to see you. Please text me if you need anything before the wedding,” she says in her usual even, melodic tone. Then, she faces Porter. “Dad, I need space, and you’re going to respect that. I’ll be at the wedding.”
“But—”
“Say yes,” my mom cuts in before taking a swig of her mimosa.
Resigned, Porter dips his chin. “Sure, hon. I’ll give you space.”
“Thank you,” Essie finishes before she turns to me. “Are you coming?”
I take out my wallet, pull out two hundred dollars, and leave the bills on the table.
Anywhere she goes, I’m going too.
***
It’s a couple minutes to my car, which is parked on a shady residential street. I open the passenger door for Essie, and when I get in the driver’s side, she’s looking out the window.
“Thank you.” I reach over to take her hand, but before I can, she faces me. Her expression is tight.
“How could you treat your mother like that?” she demands.
...Ah, I fucked up. I clearly fucked up.
“You’re mad at me? I thought—”
“How can you be cold to her? That’s not you.”
It’s really not me, but I shake my head anyway. “She’s different with him.”
“She’s in love . I know you don’t like my dad, and I don’t always like him either, but he’s easygoing and he obviously makes her laugh. Did Frank ever do that?” she questions, shaking her head in exasperation—and it’s my fault.
“Damn it,” I grit before I hit the side of my fist against the steering wheel. “ Damn it. I’m sorry. I fucked up like I always do—”
“ Come on ,” Essie breathes before she faces me again. “Someone did a number on you, and I wish I could wreck their life because we’re going in circles. You’re not a fuck up.”
“But—”
“You’re not,” she insists. “You’re the most chaotic man I’ve ever met, but you’re not a fuck up. You are perfect .”
God, it sounds good. She’s so unbelievably good . I need her. I need to feel her. I need to show her how much I appreciate her.
I move in to kiss her—
“Dalton! What is wrong with you?” she blurts out, swatting my hand away.
“Sorry, are my signals mixed? I thought when you called me perfect you’d be amenable to—I don’t know— making out with my perfect mout h.” I let out a frustrated groan. “Jesus, woman. Do you have any idea how impossible it is to read you?”
“It’s not complicated; it’s a deal. You get my body and that’s it.”
This again. This obsession with our goddamn deal. I bite down, clenching my jaw. “Fine. Fine . I want to fuck tonight.”
“It’s girls’ night.”
“Cancel it.”
Essie laughs out loud. “You’re hilarious.”
I breathe out through my nostrils. “Fuck it,” I decide before scooting my chair back. “Up.”
“On what?”
“Babe, you’re too smart to be asking these questions.”
Rolling her eyes, Essie undoes her seatbelt and moves until she’s straddling my lap. “There,” she says, bracing her hands on me. “Are you happy?”
“No,” I grit, holding her waist. “I haven’t been happy in eleven months. Now, show me your pussy.”
Her brow knots, but my expression doesn’t waver. “Right now?”
“You signed a contract. Free-use. Seeing as this is the only way I’m ever going to have you, I may as well take what I can get.”
Her mouth is a flat line, but she pulls up her skirt, revealing her lush pussy glistening with arousal.
Staring right into her eyes, I take out my cock for the second time today. Her pupils dilate at once.
I grab the phone she left on her seat and prop it against the door, taking care to keep our faces out of the shot. Record . Then I drag my cock along her pussy, and her body loosens. A moan passes over her lips, and she spreads her legs further, exposing more of her cunt to me. She’s so desperate for it. Easy. So entirely unlike the Essie everyone else gets to see.
But I don’t know which version of Essie to trust anymore. How can she not want me like I want her? How can we understand each other like this— touch each other like this—and not be together?
It’s borderline callous is what it is.
“Put it in,” I instruct. When she doesn’t move, I raise my chin. “Go ahead. Fuck me. That’s what you’ll do, right? You won’t kiss me, but you’ll let me do whatever I want with my cock.”
“You’re not being fair,” she protests, pushing down her skirt. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. When she opens them again, her expression is resolved. “I know you’re frustrated—”
“ I’m losing my mind .”
“I know.”
“Do you know how hard it is for me to do this?”
“Can I explain?”
“For you to only touch me when it’s transactional?”
“Dalt, please listen—”
“To be around you and know you don’t have feelings for me?”
“Who said that?” she demands—and it’s like my heart stops. “You think I don’t want you? You think it’s easy for me? I waited.”
“I know, but I was trying not to be such a mess—”
“ This is the mess,” Essie snaps, pressing her palm against my lips to shut me up. “The drinking? The weed? I didn’t care. I didn’t even care that you can’t sit still for five minutes without tracking down a dragon to poke. I like your mess. The bad mess is that our parents got together before we did .”
I blink. Essie has never raised her voice like this before.
She touches her forehead to my chest—against the spot where an X decorates my pectoral. When she pulls back, she places both hands on my cheeks. “Look at me,” she instructs. “Really look at me.”
I do. I look at her, and she continues to be the most entrancing woman I’ve ever seen.
Her perfectly manicured fingers slide over the stubble on my cheeks when she says, “There are two kinds of people: those who sow chaos and those who keep chaos at bay. When they find each other, it’s magical.” She swallows hard enough for me to hear it. “You’re asking me to sow chaos, Dalton. The moment I do, you and I are screwed. We’re going to ruin our parents’ marriage, our careers, and possibly our friendship. So unless you’re ready to be the one to keep chaos at bay, you have to stop asking me for more.”
I breathe out. “I don’t think that’s possible,” I admit, knowing honesty isn’t going to get me what I want—but I can’t lie to her. “I’m always going to want more.”
“Always?”
I nod. Admitting the next part feels insurmountable, but I do it anyway and say, “This deal was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.”
She’s quiet for a beat until she asks, “You’re done with us?” and her voice is soft now. “You’re done with me?”
“Yeah,” I confirm, and I don’t feel like I’m the one actually saying the words. “I’m out.”
Essie’s eyes are shining and her chest heaves with a coarse inhalation. “Okay,” she agrees, nodding. “That’s fine.”
“Baby—”
“It’s okay,” she reiterates as she fumbles for the door handle. “I thought I could handle your reaction, but I was wrong. I can’t bear to see you unhappy. I should have known better.”
“Essie, stop.”
“But I really am sorry—”
“Why are you blaming yourself?” I demand. “I’m not one of your little brothers or Valeria or Cora. I don’t want you to think you have to take care of me.”
“I don’t.”
“You do,” I insist, putting my hands on her cheeks. “You think I don’t know you, but I know you better than anyone. You don’t go to sleep until you know where all three of your brothers and our four best friends are. You always serve yourself last because you like to see what everyone else takes so you don’t hog their favorites. You already know what you’re getting all of us for Christmas. You’re used to taking care of people, but I don’t want that for me.”
Essie doesn’t respond, but her lower lip quivers until she looks away.
I hate this. I hate that I made her sad. “Look, I get it. I know you needed this money, so I’ll do a wire transfer.”
Her eyebrows shoot up and the quiver in her lip is long gone. “You think that’s why I’m upset?”
“Is it—”
“You’re wrong.”
“What?”
“You’re wrong,” she repeats, and her expression is uncharacteristically disdainful. “I don’t want your money. I wanted to do this with you.”
“And I’ll pay for it,” I reiterate. “I have the assets. The schools, the loans—anything.”
Essie glares at me—and she’s never glared quite so seriously before. “That’s what you think of me?”
I’m not sure what to say.
Her stare darkens even more. “I’ve said it before: You don’t really know me,” she states, and the words are corrosive.
I feel them—I feel them through skin and bone and into my marrow.
She shakes her head as she opens the car door. “Bye, Dalton. I’ll tell you when I’m ready to talk.”