14. Penelope
Ididn’t know kissing like this was real. Hawthorn has kissed me more than once, but it never felt like this. We’ve definitely been in much more explicit situations, but for me, this kiss is the most intimate thing I’ve ever experienced.
Hawthorn and I are enemies, or we were. I’m not sure whose side I’m on anymore or even where the lines are drawn, but regardless, we aren’t allies. Yet my lips are twisted with his, his tongue is in my mouth, his thigh is grinding against my soaked sex, and I don’t care who’s side he’s on or what war we’re engaged in, I just want more.
Nothing good can come from this, but for the very first time, he’s kissing me in spite of who he is, in spite of who I am, and what our circumstances are. He’s kissing me because he wants to, and I’m kissing him because I just don’t seem to be able to help myself.
In his arms it feels like nothing else in the world exists. All I can smell is his clean, fresh cotton scent, and all I can hear are the sounds of my own gasps and moans.
Heat is pooling in my stomach, but I don’t want this to become sex. Sex with him is amazing, but each time we’ve done it, I’ve felt like I’ve lost a piece of myself, but I never took anything from him. This kiss is more, or at least it feels like more. Maybe I just want it to be more.
As quickly as it started, the kiss is over and Hawthorn releases me, looking at me strangely for a second like he has no idea what the hell to do, before he throws open the door and leaves.
Slumping down onto the bed, I exhale, confused and frustrated and needy. I’m needy for him. For his touch, for his kisses, for the way when he’s around, I don’t feel like the worst person in the world.
A sharp rap at the door startles me, and I jump up from the bed and dart across the room. My heart leaps excitedly in my chest as hope becomes a swarm of butterflies in my stomach because he came back.
Fumbling with the handle, I open the door, my lips parted, ready to smile. Only it’s not Hawthorn, it’s room service: a uniformed hotel worker with a wheeled cart piled with silver-lidded plates. The food that Hawthorn ordered, that I can’t eat.
A weight settles on my chest, right over the spot where my heart is, but I refuse to allow it to be my heart that’s hurting. I’m not stupid enough to allow a boy to hurt me. That was one of the first lessons that my mom taught me. “Never allow yourself to care about any of these boys, Penelope. None of them care about you, only the size of your bank account.”
Swallowing down the nausea that burns the back of my throat, I step aside and allow the server to come into the room and arrange the food onto the dresser, the only available surface in this box of a room. Signing the bill, I add a tip and then close the door behind him as he leaves.
Staring at all the plates of food that Hawthorn ordered, I have the sudden urge to fling them across the room. He left, he just left. I shouldn’t care, but I do. This boy was my first kiss, my first touch, my first everything. I’m still not sure if he took or I gave, but it doesn’t really matter either way.
But it does matter because as I stand here alone, staring at the food he ordered for us to share, it’s impossible for me to pretend that I don’t care anymore. I do care. I care far too much, and I have no idea what to do with that.
My cell beeps, and I turn away from the pile of room service and reach for my phone, tapping at my screen and seeing a message from him. A fresh bout of hope surges to life inside of me until I read the single word he sent me.
Hawthorn
Eat.
A broken, feral gurgle of laughter bursts from my throat, and I clap my palm over my mouth to stifle the awful sound while I type out a reply.
Me
Fuck you, Hawthorn.
His reply is instantaneous and just as frustrating.
Hawthorn
Eat.
Me
I DON’T EAT ANY OF THESE FOODS.
Hawthorn
You do now. EAT!!!
I know I should ignore him. How dare he text demands to me after he left? But even if he’d stayed, he has no right to tell me what to do—except when we’re having sex, because his growly authoritarian voice makes me liquefy into a puddle of mush, and the way he orders me around is the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.
Resolved not to touch the food, my stomach growls, and I try to think back to the last time I ate. I’ve had my usual green smoothie each morning, but I don’t remember what else I’ve eaten.
I stopped craving food years ago. I barely even recognize the feeling of hunger anymore, but as the scent of garlic and bacon and chocolate fills the room, I find myself tiptoeing cautiously over to the silver dome-covered plates. Tentatively, I lift the lid on the first plate, then immediately drop it down again. My mom isn’t even in the country, but I can still hear her telling me over and over that she’d rather be dead than fat and that no matter how much money I had, I’d have to pay someone to marry me if I gained even a pound. I’ve lived by her rules for so long now that even after she’s abandoned me, I still don’t seem to be able to rebel against them.
My cell beeps, and I shuffle toward the bed and grab it, using it as an excuse to turn my back on the food.
Hawthorn
Penelope, EAT THE GODDAMN FOOD. Send me a picture of you eating, and for every plate you empty, I’ll give you an orgasm.
Sucking in a shuddering breath, I crawl onto the bed and cover my face with my hands. Even though it’s only words on a screen, I can hear the demand in his text, and my head pulses as I try to figure out what to do. Part of me wants to do what he says, but I know I can’t eat anything on those plates.
After what might be a minute, or an hour, I roll off the bed and tiptoe over to the food. Picking up a fork, I lift the lid on one of the plates and inhale deeply when the scent of rich garlic fills my nose.
Pasta. It’s been years since I’ve been allowed near anything that smelled this good, and the creamy pasta looks delicious. Carefully, I spear a single piece, then dart a look over my shoulder like I’m expecting my mom to jump out of the closet and yell at me.
Lifting it, I part my lips and slip the fork into my mouth. The moment the creamy sauce hits my tongue, I groan with pleasure. I savor the taste, but lower the lid back over the plate before I move to the next dome. Lifting the lid, I drop my fork, then pick the enormous burger up and take a small bite. The meat is rich and greasy, the bacon is crunchy, the cheese is melted and delicious, and the bread is thick and soft. Placing it back on the plate, I pick up a single fry and slip it into my mouth, closing my eyes as the hot, salty potato dances across my tastebuds. Covering the burger, I pause before I lift a different lid, groaning at the sight of the decadent dark chocolate brownie and the pile of whipped cream sitting beside it.
My hand shakes as I pick up a spoon, and it takes me three tries before I manage to actually break off a sliver of the brownie. Inhaling sharply, I lift up my free hand and flip my middle finger into the air. “Fuck you, Mom,” I cry, before I slide the spoon into my mouth.
The moan that falls from my lips sounds pornographic as the chocolate and cream coat my mouth, making my knees weak as I roll the tiny sliver of cake around my tongue, trying to prolong the taste for as long as possible.
Once I’ve sucked every trace of chocolate from the spoon, I re-cover the brownie and place the rest of the food on the floor in the hallway, only keeping the bottle of water and the glass filled with ice. Maybe someday I’ll be able to eat an entire brownie without hearing her voice in my head, but not today.
I don’t text Hawthorn again, and he doesn’t text me. No matter what he said about wanting to save me, I need to learn to save myself, and staying away from him is the first step to doing it.
* * *
My cell beeps to let me know that my car has arrived, and I sigh wistfully at the bed, wishing that I could just stay here and sleep, but knowing that I can’t keep missing school if I want to actually graduate this year. Because I’ve spent most of the last four years forcing my sister to take my classes for me, my GPA is a perfect 4.0. There’s no way I’ll be able to keep it that high when I’m the one taking the tests and writing the assignments, but I still have to maintain reasonable attendance to be able to graduate.
Unlike yesterday, I don’t bother trying to time my arrival to avoid the hordes of kids that congregate on the school steps before the bell rings. The constant barely-concealed gossip and amused glances I received yesterday made it pretty clear that the news of my newly disinherited state has spread like wildfire, so there’s no point trying to hide from it.
The moment my car slows to a stop, I pull in a long, slow breath, fortifying myself for the day ahead. I don’t want to be here, but I have nowhere else to go either.
Sick of my own self-indulgent thoughts, I lift my head up and stride purposefully into the school, smiling sweetly at anyone who stares at me as I walk past. It’s time to remember that I’m not some pathetic little girl who needs to be protected. I owned these halls until I gave it up to save me and my sister from a future ruled by money and greed. I need to stop cowering and remember who I am.
Bolstered by my internal pep talk, my stride becomes more purposeful, and I make it to my locker without anyone else looking at me.
“Penelope,” my sister calls, rushing toward me.
Sighing, I open my locker and pull my bag that I left here yesterday free before turning to face her. As usual now, she’s not alone. Gulliver is at her heel, with Kip, Davis, and Hawthorn all circling around her like her security detail.
Refusing to even glance at Hawthorn, I look at my sister, not bothering to speak, as I rest my back against my locker and wait for her to say whatever it is she wants to say. Izabella is nothing if not tenacious in her pursuit of a relationship with me.
“Have you heard from Mom and Dad?” she asks after a second.
“The last time I spoke to either of them was at your engagement party when I gave you your gift. Both of their cell phone numbers have been disconnected, and according to their new housekeeper, they’re out of the country,” I say, trying to hide my hurt.
Izabella jolts back, clearly shocked, and I try not to hate her when the guys all close in around her like they want to share her pain.
“They just left?” she asks, and I can hear the slight catch in her voice.
Sighing, I nod. “They just left.”
She nods, like the physical action is helping her process.
“I need to get to class,” I say, unable to hold her eyes now that they’re filled with hurt.
“So, are you going to move back home now?”
A wry, humorless laugh falls from my lips. “The new housekeeper informed me that our beloved parents have left strict instructions that no one is allowed onto the grounds without their permission. So no, I won’t be moving home,” I say, spitting the word like it’s poison.
“But what about all your things?” Davis asks, shocking me with how genuinely concerned he looks.
Shrugging, I look away, not wanting to see even more pity on their faces.
“You can’t even get your stuff? Your clothes and shit?” Hawthorn asks.
“I haven’t tried, but as I was basically told I’m not allowed on the premises, I’m going to hazard a guess at no. It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters,” Izabella cries, reaching for me.
Leaning back, I avoid her touch, ignoring the hurt that flashes across her face.
“I’m fine. I’ll be fine,” I growl, taking another step back, before I spin on the spot and walk away, leaving my sister and her boys behind me.
The rest of the day is horrific. I know it’s my own fault, but taking classes without my sister’s help and my parents’ bribery is awful. The teachers all seem to be deliberately calling on me, like it’s my fault my parents stopped paying them to give me As.
By the time I crawl back into my hotel room, dump my school uniform outside my door to be cleaned again, and flop onto the bed, I’m exhausted both mentally and physically. I keep replaying the conversation with Izzy and her boys in my head. They all seemed so appalled that I’d been banned from the house and couldn’t retrieve my stuff, but I wasn’t surprised that our parents would be so petty.
My new credit card was waiting for me at reception this morning, so there’s nothing stopping me from going to buy the things I need, but I just don’t seem to be able to find the energy.
Somewhere deep inside me, I know I’m more resilient than this, that I’m more than capable of looking after myself and coping with my parents’ absence. Hell, Izabella and I did it for the majority of our lives. But right now, all I feel is raw and exposed.
For so long, my only purpose each day was to do as I was told. Everything else wasn’t my responsibility because the money and my parents shielded me from everything except the pursuit of my inheritance. It was my only job, my endgame. All I had to do was play by the rules, and my future was set. And I was okay with that. That was my role, my destiny, and so it was okay to do whatever I had to do to get my inheritance.
Only no one ever prepared me for what to do when everything went to shit. My parents get to run away, but I’m still here, and now I have to try and learn to live with all the things I’ve done.
Izabella thinks that the way I treated her is the worst thing I’ve done, but she couldn’t be any further from the truth. I’ve manipulated, flirted, and lied over and over again, and the only guy who didn’t lap it up is, ironically, the one who fell in love with her.
A sharp rapping at the door makes a prickle of awareness course through me. Even without looking, I know that it’s Hawthorn. Sighing tiredly, I roll off the bed and slowly pad to the door. He shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t want him here, but even though a part of me wants to ignore him, I know I won’t. Hawthorn is everything I shouldn’t want and just don’t seem to be able to resist.