Chapter 10
“Put him back on the team,” I say as soon he picks up.
For a few seconds, all I can hear is silence.
Actually, no.
There’s silence, but there’s also something else. Something thick and heavy, panting. Something that matches my breaths. Only his are punctuated with low growls.
Confused and concerned, I go, “Stellan?”
I swear his growls become louder then.
And somehow, I feel them in my own chest, further messing with my breaths.
“Are you okay?” I go on. “What… What’s wrong?”
Finally, he breaks his silence and in a voice that sounds even rougher and more gravelly than usual, he replies, “This feels like déjà vu.”
“What—”
“And since I don’t like repeating myself, all I’ll say to end this matter is you know what to do if you want me to put him back on the team.”
Now it’s my turn to remain silent and growling.
God.
I’m an idiot for being concerned for him.
Even for a second.
Breathing deep, I declare in a firm voice, “I’m not going to do that.”
“Then I’m afraid we’re at an impasse.”
“You know, I’ve been thinking about it,” I begin, still sitting on the cold floor, propped up against the foot of the bed. “And I think you’re bluffing.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.” I nod. “You’re trying to scare me because you’re angry.”
“I am angry,” he agrees. “And as I’m coming to find out, I do like you scared of me. So yeah.”
“You’re doing all this to teach me a lesson,” I continue.
“Correct again.”
“Which means you’re not actually going to do anything,” I finish.
“Why don’t you wait and find out?”
With my heart pounding in my chest, I seethe. “Are you seriously saying that you’ll keep him benched for this?”
“Yes.”
“Your brother, the captain of your team,” I keep insisting, “one of your best players. A player you need to be able to bring the trophy home. You need him to win. You’ll keep him benched just because you…”
I can’t say it.
I absolutely cannot say it because it isn’t true.
It can’t be, right?
I mean, he doesn’t actually want me.
Not really.
He had an entire year to do that. An entire fucking year where he hardly looked at me. Where he hardly was aware that I existed. That I was in the same room as him. Where all my efforts—and there have been many as evidenced by the conversation I just had with his twin brother—to get him to notice me have failed.
So no, I refuse to believe it.
“I know it may be surprising to hear,” he says, his voice rough, “but I don’t care about a trophy or a win. I never did. At least not as much as it matters to him, your boyfriend. So yeah, I will keep him benched for this.” Then, after a pause as if he knows the effect it’ll have on me, “For you.”
I clench my eyes shut at the jolt I feel.
It goes through my entire body, stopping and jumpstarting things, making me dizzy.
I want to scream that he should stop this.
He should stop saying it, stop lying.
Stop making me go crazy with want and desperation when I’m finally doing the right thing.
But I gather my control and my dignity and open my eyes. “Fine. So how about this? You can’t possibly keep him benched for the rest of the season, just because you have this insane urge to mess with me. It’s impossible. Coach Thorne won’t let you. And if somehow you dodge him, which I don’t think is ever going to happen, you have my dad to contend with. He will lose his shit, okay? He probably is already losing his shit right now. And in case you don’t remember, he’s your boss.”
As soon as I finish, I want to take it back.
At least that comment about my dad.
I don’t like using my father in arguments or as an excuse. It makes me feel exactly what he’d called me back then, a spoiled little rich girl. Not to mention to be a spoiled little rich girl, my father actually has to spoil me and since he prefers to keep his distance from me, it makes me nothing but sad to drop him into conversations like this.
But in this context, it’s the truth.
My father will lose his shit and he is the boss.
Which means Stellan can’t possibly keep this up for long.
“Yeah, that’s a valid argument,” he agrees, and I finally breathe out in relief.
“So then I just have to wait for either Coach Thorne or my dad to?—”
“Except Coach Thorne has a habit of placing his absolute trust in me. Something about me being his responsible younger brother. And your father”—a puff of air escapes him as if he’s both scoffing and chuckling at the same time and doing it with arrogance—“he doesn’t know the first thing about soccer. If I tell him that we don’t need your boyfriend to win, and we don’t, trust me, he’ll get with the program. So again, I can and I will do this. And no one can stop me. Least of all my big brother or your daddy.”
“You—”
“And besides, from what I remember, you wanted me to be your daddy, didn’t you? So here I am,” he says, his tone laced with mockery. “Your new daddy and as long as I have you, the rest of the world can go fuck itself.”
But like a pathetic girl, it makes my belly clench.
Him calling himself that.
It messes with my head, my breaths.
My heart.
I clearly have issues. Big ones.
But I keep my focus on here and now and just burst out the words, “Oh my God, stop, okay? Just stop. Stop saying these things. Stop acting like this. You don’t act like this. You’re one of the good guys. Yes, you’re an asshole to me or whatever, but I refuse to believe that you’d do this to your own twin brother. And for what? For me. You don’t even like me. You think I’m spoiled. You think I’m young. You think I’m annoying and desperate. You said that to me. And I have tried, believe me. I’ve fucking tried to make you see. I’ve tried to make you realize that I’m different. That I may be young. That I may be reckless and impulsive and a little crazy, but I could make you feel something for me. But you haven’t. You don’t. So I don’t know what this is, but whatever it is, you need to stop. Stop fucking messing with him and?—”
“You think I like this,” he says in a thick voice.
Thick and low and growly.
And I realize I’ve never heard him sound like this before. I’ve never heard this tone from him. Is this… anger? If it is, then again, I’ve never heard him angry before and so my entire body takes notice.
My own voice grows lower when only a second ago I was screaming into the phone in my anger. “Like what?”
“This. Whatever this is,” he says through clenched teeth.
And I feel the snap in my jaw. “I don’t?—”
“I’m a shitty fucking brother, all right,” he says, his words low but his breaths loud. “I know that. I realize that. I know that he got stuck with me as his twin. And even though I’ve done everything I can to step up, I know it doesn’t make up for everything that I am. So do you think I like this? Do you think, even for a second, that I like watching my twin brother’s girl? As if she’s mine and feeling absolute zero guilt for it.”
I go still then.
He’s turned me into a stone with his words.
“Do you think I like following your every move? Tracking them like a fucking stalker. Do you think I like this burn I feel in my fucking gut when you smile at him? Or when you laugh.” Another puff of air, but I think this is more anger than anything else. “Do you think I like straining my ears to hear it? Do you think I like pushing people away, shoving them out of my way so I can somehow get closer to you, without anyone noticing, mind you, to catch it?
“Or maybe you think I like going to parties. I like going to bars and clubs and team events. Things I try to avoid at all costs and stay home in peace and quiet. So I can smoke one cigarette a day and read my fucking book. But I still make sure to show up at these fucking things because you’ll be there. You’ll be there laughing and flirting and fucking dancing. And you’ll be doing that without a care in the world. So then it’s up to me, isn’t it? It’s up to me to keep you safe. To keep an eye on things. To make sure no one’s fucking bothering you and if they do, then it’s up to me to gouge their fucking eyes out for looking at you. It’s up to me to break their fingers if they dare to touch you. It’s up to me to break their goddamn brains for even thinking about touching you. Do you know how many parties I’ve attended ever since I met you?”
“H-How many?”
“Forty-fucking-three.”
“I—”
“And there are 52.143 weeks in a year. Fifty-two weeks and one day. So I’ve been to a party pretty much every single week, more or less.”
“You—”
“And do you know how many books I’ve read since I met you?”
“N-no.”
“Zero,” he bites out. “Zero fucking books. Because A: I don’t usually have time to read them because as I’ve explained to you, I’m having such a fucking fantastic time being out and about in the world. And B: Because every time I do pick up a book, I can’t focus because I’m either thinking about this guy I’ve had to warn against looking at you or how loud you were laughing at my brother’s joke to make the said guy look at you.”
“But—”
“So do you think I like that? I like being your bodyguard who keeps you safe from yourself. Or maybe you think instead of the game and my players and doing my fucking job, I like watching you at the stadium. I like remembering your laughably flimsy outfits more than remembering who made the pass or who scored the fucking goal.
“No, actually, what I enjoy the most is this incessant urge to beat up my twin brother. This incessant urge to ruin him and get him out of the way. Creative ways to ruin him and get him out of the way. Ways that defy all logic and reason. Because that’s the only way I can keep myself from doing something drastic, from actually turning them into reality. Tell me, Dora, do you think I enjoy any of it, any of whatever the fuck this is?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer as he keeps going, “You’re a virus, you understand. You’re a disease. You’re an epidemic. The fucking CDC should issue guidelines for the kind of health hazard that you are. And I’m sick of being sick with you. I’m fucking sick of being infected by you. I want you out of my system, my mind, my body. I want you gone. I want to be myself again. I want my peace back. I want my life back. I want my fucking control back and if I have to deign to touch you to make that happen, then I’ve decided that I will. If the only way to get you out of my system is to fuck you out of it, then I’ve decided that I will do that too. It doesn’t matter that you’re not my type, that you’ll never be my type or that my twin brother’s in love with you. I want you and I will do anything, break any rule, fuck anyone over to have you. Until I don’t want you anymore.”
I’m not sure whose breaths are louder, his or mine.
Whose heart is racing more.
It has to be mine.
It has to be.
Because he’s the Cold Thorn, isn’t he?
The one who’s always emotionless and aloof. The one who doesn’t get affected. Who’s made of ice.
But maybe not.
Maybe what I thought was right. He’s as hot as wildfire.
“Y-you…” I begin, halting and stumbling. “You really think about creative ways to?—”
“The other day, I thought about him slipping in the shower and hitting his head.”
“That’s awful,” I gasp out.
“I’m awful,” he agrees.
“And what about other guys? Do you really… threaten them t-to keep me safe?”
He waits a few seconds to answer. “Someone has to do it.”
“And that person is you?”
“That person is always me,” he says. “When it comes to you.”
I bring my knees up to my chest and wrap my arm around them. “Do you really watch me more than you w-watch the games?”
“I missed last season’s winning goal.”
“The one…” I lick my lips. “The one at the championship game?”
“Yeah.”
“It was Ledger. He made the goal,” I inform him even though there’s no way he doesn’t know by now.
“Which I found out about thirty seconds later.”
“What was I wearing?” I ask then.
“What you always wear.”
“Which is what?”
“Some flimsy contraption made of strings and laces. This one was orange in color.”
“It wasn’t a contraption,” I protest.
“It had more strings crisscrossing your back than any dress could possibly ever need,” he protests.
“That’s not?—”
“But then again, for how flimsy it was and how it kept whipping against the wind while basically showing off those two dimples on your back, maybe it did need those strings to hold it all together.”
“You noticed the dimples on my back?”
“Along with a small mole, yes.”
I bring my hand back then and touch the mole through my white dress. It sits just above one of those dimples and it’s really small.
“It’s really small,” I repeat to him.
“Your dress was really revealing.”
“It was just a normal backless dress with a few strings spanning the back.”
“It was also a dress where I could not only see those dimples and that mole but also the crack of your tight little ass.”
I sit up even straighter. “You couldn’t.”
“I could.”
“My dress wasn’t that revealing.”
“It was exactly that revealing.”
“Well, then you should’ve looked away.”
“Is that why you wore it?” he shoots back. “Because you wanted me to look away?”
No.
I wore it specifically so he’d look.
I’ve worn other dresses over the last year for that specific reason alone.
For him to look. For him to watch.
For him to want.
And he does.
God, he does.
That’s the conclusion of it all, isn’t it?
He does want me.
After all this time, after all these tears, all this frustration, all the times I thought even if I dropped dead at his feet, he’d simply hop over my dead body and walk away without sparing me a glance, turns out he won’t. He probably would bend down and carry me somewhere safe.
Because he protects me.
Because he wants me.
“So I did it,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he rasps as if he knows what I’m talking about.
And I guess he does.
“Me, Isadora Agni Holmes,” I keep whispering.
“Yeah.”
“I melted Stellan ‘The Cold’ Thorne.”
“That’s what you wanted, didn’t you?”
Yes.
I wanted that.
I wanted to be his fire.
His flame.
His Lolita.
The only girl who can move him and melt him.
But it’s too late now, isn’t it? I’ve already promised myself to someone else. I’ve already promised myself to my best friend whom I’ve used and hurt. I can’t hurt him twice. I can’t break his heart.
“It’s too late now,” I tell him.
“Is it?”
“Yes, I’m with him.”
There’s a pause here.
Thick and heavy.
Clinging to the air like the chill of winter.
Then in his gravelly voice, he says, “And you can stay with him.”
“But—”
“After I’ve made you mine.”
“You—”
“I’m not asking you to be with me. You understand that, don’t you?” he goes on to explain. “I have no interest in being with you. This isn’t a marriage proposal. All I want is one night.”
I dig my nails into my thighs. “Right.” Digging them a little harder still, I say, “I understand.”
“Shouldn’t take more than that. He can have you once I’m done with you.”
I don’t know why I brought any of that up when I already knew the answer.
But I just… Maybe I needed a reminder of it all.
Of what this is.
Before I completely drown myself in delusion of what I want it to be.
“No,” I tell him.
He holds his silence, but I do hear a sharp breath.
“You can’t have me. Not even for one night. For the millionth time, I’m with your brother.” Then I add, “And you can stop now.”
“Stop what?”
“Watching me, watching out for me. Looking at me, looking at my dresses,” I clarify. “What I wear is none of your business. I wanted it to be, yes. But as I’ve already said, it’s too late now. Besides, he…”
“Besides he what?”
“He does that. He keeps me safe.”
He does, doesn’t he?
He told me that tonight.
He told me so many other things tonight. Things that made me feel awful. Things that made me regret everything that I did in pursuit of the man I’m obsessed with. But of course he’s not my only victim.
I have played games with both of them.
I’ve gotten everything so twisted and snarled.
God, what a mess I’ve made.
But I’m cleaning it up now and if anyone has the right to keep me safe, it’s Shepard.
Not him.
A few seconds pass in silence before he says, “Does he now?”
“Yes,” I reply. “My boyfriend protects me.”
“Except your boyfriend isn’t exactly known for being chivalrous and observant.”
“Well, he is. He’s more chivalrous and observant than you think,” I tell him, defending Shepard. And then because I can’t stop myself from bragging about him, I go, “Exhibit A: one time when we were at a bar, he put his jacket on me because there were a bunch of guys there who were watching me. And he didn’t like that.”
Again, a few seconds go by in silence, followed by, “Is that right?”
“Yes.” I nod. “Which means I don’t need you because I have him.”
“And his jacket.”
I grit my teeth.
God, he pisses me off so much.
And so easily too.
How can anyone have such power over someone?
It’s disgusting.
It’s…
But wait.
I have some power over him too, don’t I?
I do.
He just admitted to it.
And maybe, just maybe, I can use it. I can use my power over him to make him feel powerless for a change. To make him feel as if he’s at my mercy rather than I’m at his.
Just a little. Just for tonight.
“So it doesn’t matter how Shepard and I started,” I continue, feeling giddy and tingly. “What matters is that we’re happy now. We’re perfect for each other. We have insane chemistry. We’re in love and you need to get that and back off.”
“Insane chemistry.”
I do realize that I’m doing the same thing.
I’m using Shep to make him jealous.
But whatever.
Even if these things aren’t true right now, they will be one day. I will make it so. So all I’m doing really is using the future to make him jealous and that’s fine.
“Yes, we do,” I agree, my tone snotty. “We have insane chemistry.”
“How insane?”
“In. Sane,” I say, emphasizing all the sounds and the syllables. “The kind of insane that you probably won’t be able to understand.”
“Try me.”
“Are you sure?” I ask with a smile in my voice. “Because given what you’ve just told me, about how crazy you are about me, I don’t think you’d be able to handle it. And no matter what you’ve done to me, I’m a good person. I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“By all means, hurt my feelings.”
His dry yet arrogant tone just fires me up even more. And I straighten my shoulders and eye the white billowing curtains and the winter night with challenge. “Do you know what I was doing before I called you?”
“What?”
“Talking to him.”
“Yeah?”
“I was trying to cheer him up,” I go on.
“Is that so?”
“Because as you may have heard, his asshole coach benched him.”
“I’m liking his coach already.”
“And do you know what a girlfriend does to cheer up her boyfriend?”
“I’m sure I’m about to find out.”
“She does whatever he wants.”
“Whatever, huh.”
“Yes. What. Ever”—again, I emphasize all the syllables—“he wants.”
“So what did you do?”
I lift my chin. “He likes the way I dance.”
“I bet he does.”
“And remember the white dress I wore the night I met you?”
“Vividly.”
Despite myself, my breath gets stuck in my throat at his vividly. “Well, he likes that dress too.”
“I don’t blame him.”
“And remember those wings?”
“I don’t think I can ever forget.”
Again, despite myself, my heart stutters. “He absolutely loves them too.”
“So then what happened, Dora?” he asks somehow both flatly and mockingly.
And I get so mad and so fucking tingly at him calling me that, that I just let loose. Or rather let loose in a way I know is going to affect him. I’ll make it affect him.
“Well, then, Stellan,” I begin, “as you can guess, I danced for my man. Actually, no, I wore that dress and those wings and then put on a show for him.”
“Yeah, what’s the difference?”
“The difference, asshole, is that when I dance, I don’t just dance, I put on a show,” I explain. “I move my body like I’m doing it for a purpose. I twist my hips like I’m doing it to drive someone crazy. To drive someone out of their mind with want. I want him to lose control, see. I want him to want me with such intensity that he forgets who he is. He forgets his rules and morals. So he not only crosses all the lines he’s drawn in the sand but also completely erases them. So he not only dreams about me in his sleep like a rational human being, but I also want him to see me when he’s awake. I want him to hallucinate about me. I want to be his delusion, his madness. So the difference is that when I dance, I dance like I’m Ecstasy and I’m running rampant in his bloodstream. When I dance, Stellan Thorne, I do it like I’m someone’s biggest temptation. Like I’m someone’s Lolita.”
Never mind that when I say someone, I mean him. Because I’ve done all that for him. Never mind that his twin just told me the same thing and I almost died with embarrassment. And never fucking mind that I have zero shame in me right now even though there’s pin drop silence on the other end.
No, wait.
There’s something beside the pin drop silence.
It’s his breaths.
Kinda like how they were when we had first started the conversation. Which makes me curious once again as to what exactly he was doing before I called. But I’m not going to make the same mistake as I did before.
I’m not going to ask him about it.
Instead, I’m going to keep going. “So, well, again, as you can guess, things got a little heated. You know, between us. Given our chemistry and all that. Which they always do when I put on a show for him, but tonight was different. Maybe it was the way he was watching me, watching my every move. Tracking it, hanging on to it like his entire existence depended on how I twisted and spun, I don’t know. Whatever it was, it turned me on. Big time and…” I sigh and then just go for it, “I got so wet.”
I can’t believe I said that.
I can’t believe I’m moaning right now. As in a little moan and a hitch of my breath as I continue, “So, so wet, Stellan. I don’t think I’ve ever been this wet in my life and that’s saying something because the way your twin brother gets me going”—I sigh and moan again—“it’s no joke. It’s no fucking joke. My panties are perpetually soaked around him and oh my God, I’m dripping right now, Stellan. I’m aching and?—”
“No.”
His fervent growl makes me jump. “What?”
“We’re not doing that,” he growls.
“Doing what?”
“We’re not playing this game.”
I pretend to be innocent. “What?—”
“You’re not playing this game,” he cuts me off, his voice even thicker now. “You’re not fucking with my head. You’re not fucking with me. Not anymore.”
“I’m not?—”
“And just for fucking lying like that, you’re going to show me.”
His words, spoken even more roughly and commandingly, jolt me. “S-show you what?”
“How wet you are.”
“What?”
“Show it to me.”
“Y-you… What?”
“Dancing for my twin fucking brother got you wet, didn’t it?” He keeps growling. “It got you wet that he was watching you like his goddamn life depended on it. He was. He was watching like he always watches you. Like if he moved his eyes away from you even for half a second, his heart would stop beating. His breaths would stop coming and he’d fucking choke to death. And if that gets you wet, then show it to me. Show me what dancing like a fucking Lolita does to you.”
“You are right. I was lying,” I tell him quickly. “It d-didn’t.”
He barks out a laugh. “If you think that’s going to get you off the hook, then you really don’t know what I’m about. You really don’t know how insane you’ve made me.”
“Stellan, you?—”
“Show it to me.”
“I’m not showing you my?—”
“I’m not asking you to show me your pussy.”
I don’t know why I jolt when he uses the same word I was going to use.
But I do.
Maybe it’s his thick, growly voice. Or maybe it’s the fact that all that bullshit I spewed was not exactly a lie. As in I did get wet. Only it wasn’t because of his twin brother but him. And now he’s asking to see it.
“What is it with you, huh?” he asks impatiently and angrily. “I ask for one night and you think I’m pledging my undying devotion to you. I ask to see how wet you are and you’re ready to flash me that pussy. Why the fuck are you so desperate?”
“Oh my God!” I scream into the phone. “You’re the one who… I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. I don’t understand?—”
“So let me explain it to you then,” he bites out. “If you flash me your pussy right now, I’m going to have to abandon everything. Tomorrow’s prep meeting, tomorrow’s practice, my job, my fucking team. And I’m going to have to get on the first flight back.”
“What?”
“To you.”
“M-me?”
“Yes.” Then, “If you flash me that wet fucking pussy of yours, then I’m not going to be able to sit here, am I? I’m not going to be able to sit in this fucking hotel room, in my bed, in the middle of all the scattered books that I don’t seem to have any interest in anymore. I’m not going to be able to smoke my cigarette that I was very much looking forward to all day. Or focus on the game reruns and play strategies. If you flash me that fucking pussy, Dora, then I’m not going to be able to function until I get a taste of it. Until I lap up all that pussy juice and analyze exactly what you taste like, exactly what your flavor is. I think you’re tart like the cherries. But you could also be sweet like honey. Or maybe you’re a mix of both.
“But until I find out, I won’t be able to concentrate. I won’t be able to think of anything else and you’ve already messed with my control enough. You’ve already fucked with my head, my fucking life enough. So we’re not doing this. We’re not fucking doing this. You’re not lying to me and spewing some bullshit about how you have an insane chemistry with my twin brother or how wet he makes you when I know for a fact, I know, that you’re still a fucking virgin. And you’re definitely not showing me your wet virgin pussy when I’m not there to actually do something about it, is that clear?”
“Y-yes.”
“Good,” he says. “Now, what you’re going to do is slide those messy panties of yours down your thighs and take a picture of them. And then you’re going to send me that picture right the fuck now. And before you get any ideas, if there isn’t a picture of your wet panties on my phone in the next five minutes, I’ll make sure that he pays for it at practice.”
My heart somehow both pounds and seizes to beat for a moment. “If… If I send you the picture, will you let him back on the team?”
He exhales sharply.
“Stellan, please. I?—”
“Fine.”