Chapter 58
Paloma
“P? You okay?”
I nod. “Just nervous.”
Bennett’s music is soothing and soft in the cabin of the car but I’m distracted, folding and unfolding the bottom of my maxi skirt with its ditsy floral pattern. It’s a little too cold for it, but I want to make an impression—modest, but girlish. Pretty.
I desperately want them to like me.
When he notices I’m still fidgeting toward the end of our two-hour drive, Bennett reaches over and smothers both my hands in one of his massive paws.
“It’ll be perfect.”
“Yeah,” I agree, easy under the weight of his calming, intense presence.
Adam’s house in Beacon Hill is smaller than this one by quite a bit—this mansion is wealth in a different way.
Bennett explained, albeit briefly, that his parents were both from wealthy families. While his dad is from a long line of extravagant and continuously building wealth, his mother’s family came into money more recently. I wonder if his parents’ marriage was arranged for business purposes.
They’re not a family drama show, I chastise myself, focusing back on the ornately gated driveway and beautiful fountain that is currently covered in a thick blanket of snow.
Bennett’s mom is just inside the entryway, beautiful and tall with a waterfall of honey curls that she’s perfectly styled into waves. Her eyes are crystal blue, lighter than Bennett’s, and she scans them over me once—twice—and then rushes to greet her son with a gentle hand to his cheek.
There’s a moment where Bennett almost flinches away from her, but he settles into the quick touch and grants her a closed-lip smile.
“Mom,” he greets, then turns toward me and pulls my hand from the clenched fist at my side and entangles our fingers. “This is my girlfriend, Paloma.”
“Nice to meet you, dear.” She eyes me for a moment before blurting. “Are you all right with hugs?”
“Yeah.” I smile and open my arms. She engulfs me quickly, tight.
“You don’t know how hard it is to not hug my child—but you know, he’s different.” She pulls back and shakes her head. “It’s just difficult, sometimes.”
The comment feels wrong, brutal and hurtful despite the gentle tone.
I spare a glance at Bennett, his hands in the pockets of his fancy slacks and bottom lip thoroughly bitten. He looks ashamed. Stepping back, I reach for his hand and tuck it into mine.
My mouth opens—to defend him or to yell at her, maybe a combination of both—before Bennett stops me with a tight squeeze of my hand and a subtle shake of his head.
His mom says something I don’t hear over the slight pounding in my ears—a little fury mixed with confusion and frustration.
Bennett kisses my forehead and pulls away, nodding to his mom. “I’ll help him bring the food in.”
Him. Bennett’s stepdad.
I quickly straighten my spine, reminding myself that I’m not done with the first impressions just yet.
“Do you drink, Paloma?” Bennett’s mother calls as I follow her into the expansive dining room. She’s pouring herself something from a bottle that costs more than a year of my tuition, I’m sure.
I shake my head demurely. I’m eighteen, but more importantly, alcohol reminds me of things I’d rather forget. There are a lot of reasons I choose not to drink.
“No,” I say. “Thank you, though, ma’am.”
“You can call me Helen.”
She winks and ushers me into one of the seats at the grand table. It’s meant for a large group, but she’s only set the four places in the center. Taking a seat diagonal to me, she hands me a glass with a minuscule pour of white wine swirling in the bottom.
“Try it, sweetie,” she urges. “It’s not every day you’ve got the opportunity to drink this fine of a vintage.”
I don’t want to, but I want his mother to like me, so I take it and swallow it down brutally.
If it tastes any different than a boxed wine, I’m not the one to know, but I paint a charming smile over my pinkened lips.
“It’s good,” I muster. She nods approvingly, lipstick sticking to the rim of her glass as she takes down another large gulp of her bubbling champagne.
Her mouth opens to speak again, but just then Bennett comes through the door with a large platter of salmon on a thick wood plank. It looks delicious and fresh, beautifully cut into sizable portions. He serves all four plates before returning to the kitchen.
“This looks—”
The words halt half out of my mouth, throat going bone dry as the empty glass in my hand slips from my grip, bounces off the table, and lands heavily in my lap.
Blond hair slicked back, a graying goatee, and haunting pale green eyes.
Ethan Marks, my nightmare in the flesh, stands across the suddenly too-small table with a cheshire grin and a bowl of grilled vegetables.
He’s staring at me happily, like I’m his surprise birthday present.
I want to stand, to excuse myself and run, but instead I’m frozen.
A deer in headlights; prey caught, frozen in a predator’s snare.
“Ethan,” Helen says, smiling over her shoulder at him. “This is Paloma, Bennett’s beautiful girlfriend. Paloma, this is my husband, Ethan.”
Her husband. Bennett’s stepfather.
My stomach sours; tears fight to spill free. I clear my throat and blink rapidly to push them back.
“Pleasure, Paloma,” he says, setting the bowl across the table.
“Isn’t she a doll?” Helen says, grinning brightly at me. It’s a compliment, and maybe I should say thank you, but I can’t hear anything besides my own heartbeat thundering in my ears. It feels a little like I’m dying.
“That she is,” he agrees easily, reaching his hand out to shake mine. “Nice to meet you.”
I don’t want to touch him—but they’re both staring at me and Bennett is still gone.
I reach a shaky hand toward him and he grasps it in both of his, almost massaging the skin with his thumbs in the overly tight hold. The desire to wash my hands is so overwhelming, I stand and stumble back over my chair.
“I—um—” My voice is shaky at best as sweat pools on the back of my neck. “I need to use the restroom, please.”
“I can—”
“Sit, Helen,” he commands lightly, kissing her cheek. “I can show Paloma where it is. I need to change my shirt anyway—I smell like a grill.”
“All right,” Helen concedes, giving him another sparkling smile as he refills her glass so she doesn’t have to move.
Suddenly, I don’t want to go—not knowing he’s with me—but I don’t see how to get out of it.
I stay guarded, a few steps behind as we trek through the long hallway, right to the sharp turn from where I can’t see back toward the kitchen and living room.
My heart hammers against my ribs as he opens a door and stands, waiting for me.
“Right here, Paloma.” He speaks my name like an unwanted caress. I hesitate before swallowing hard against the thick lump in my throat and walking in, trying to grab for the door before he can—
He slides in, shoving me back and closing the door tightly behind him.
“Get out,” I try to snarl, but it comes out a weak, squeaky plea.
“Look at you,” he says, taking a step toward me with each word until my body is back against the wall of the half-bath. It’s a small space; bright light from an extravagant chandelier above makes everything harsher.
“S-stop—”
Ethan reaches toward my face and my limbs finally react. I grab his wrist, stopping the movement just before he can touch my hair.
“New hair color?” He yanks his wrist from my grip and reaches for my hair anyway—like he owns me, the touch all proprietary. “I love the change. Makes you look all grown up.”
I pull back, slamming my body into the opposite wall.
“You need to leave, now. I—” I swallow loudly, trying to imbue my voice with strength I don’t feel. “I’m going to—”
“Tell Bennett?”
My snarl is half-baked, like a hapless child facing off against a cruel adult. “What makes you so sure I haven’t already?”
“Because I know you, Polly.” He smirks, watching the taunting nickname hit me like a slap. “Did you tell him?”
“I will.” It’s a lie—I don’t think I could tell Bennett if I tried. Risk having him look at me with disgust? Knowing the girl he’s cared so gently for isn’t who he thought?
Ethan steps closer, hands raised like a peace offering. I press myself up against the far wall, a terrified, cornered animal.
“I’ll tell Bennett,” I say again, begging my voice not to wobble.
“And what would you say?” He smiles, head tilting to the side. “That you seduced me? Begged for me repeatedly? You want to tell Bennett that you used to fuck his stepdad and beg to sleep next to him, so you didn’t have to go back to that trailer?”
My stomach rolls so violently, I worry I’m going to throw up. Heat swelters against my neck and face, head shaking.
It’s not true. It’s not true.
And that same small voice screaming inside of me Stop! Stop! Stop!
“I was fourteen.” My voice is weepy despite trying to make it cold and defensive. “Y-you—you took advantage—”
He laughs and the sound makes my nausea worse.
“All right, Paloma. You were fourteen, sure. Fourteen and begging a man more than twice your age to save you, to take you away, right?” He laughs. “Playing the victim since day one, are we? Tell him if you want, but don’t go around telling him a lie.”
He’s right. I hate how easily he paints the picture of it all—because I did beg him to take me with him, called his number and cried for him to carry me away from it all. But I was scared and—
You asked for it.
Shame settles sharply between my ribs; my heart aches with the pressure.
Tears pour down my cheeks, my body giving up, losing the fight against it. I go slack, hand grasping the sink counter like it will hold me up.
“I know you best. And Bennett is my stepson.” Every word is a strike to my heart, a kick to my already beaten body. “And you, Polly,” he coos, “are not who you’re pretending to be.”
“Okay,” I acquiesce.