Chapter 4 #3
Rule six suggests I should ask, but heh.
Speaking my mind is totally a trap. All the rules after three are total traps, so I will not be doing any of them, thanks.
Saying what I’m thinking has never once worked in my favor.
I’m not even good at it. Somehow, the vomit mess of words that escapes me only makes things worse.
I don’t know how to collect my thoughts and communicate in a way that is effective.
Any time I’ve tried, the situation immediately escalates into how I don’t actually have the right to speak at all.
I once asked my brother if he could please clear his dishes off the table and put them on the counter by the sink for me, and Mom cut in to say how she’s seen me also leave my dishes at the table so I should leave him alone.
Then neither her nor my father cleared their dishes anymore. Ever. In some kind of cruel solidarity or punishment for my daring to ask for something when I’m not perfect either.
Meanwhile, I’m still wondering if I have ever left my dishes at the table, if she just said that because she didn’t like what I was saying, or if it even matters at all because it was my job to do all the dishes, regardless of where they’ve been left.
“What’s wrong, cupcake?” Lukas murmurs, absently looking through my notebook. He’s found my crème br?lée recipe. He’s found out that I’ve drawn tiny flames around the step where you’re supposed to caramelize the sugar with a blow torch.
Embarrassment over how insipid and childish I am sours in my throat.
I should have known better than to think my little recipe notebook would be private.
Right now, I am very much the property of a man whose behaviors I have not yet learned.
And King has never once given consistent in the chaos of his brand.
He’s wild and dramatic. Entertainment seeps from his very pores. Every interview, every interaction…
He’s funny and kind and sincere and genuine and always smiling, but it’s really no wonder how he’s managed to launch into the public eye so often.
His scandals have always been along the lines of yeah, no, I didn’t assault that guy; he was groping a fan.
I merely yanked him away from her, politely, and here’s all the footage, so why are we still talking about this?
I like King, when he’s not kidnapping me and buying me a million things and giving me unclear rules to follow while flipping through my personal notebook and laying his head near my lap while I’m in pj’s that don’t have pants.
That is to say, I suppose I like King and I may have liked Lukas three days ago, but it’s gonna take me a minute to assess how I feel about him now.
“I’m excited,” he murmurs, boyish, and I get a little stuck on the tenderness in his smile. “Thank you for coming home with me, Clara.”
I don’t really think I had a choice, right?
But then, no. Morana shut his proposition down immediately earlier. I had every choice. I just didn’t…speak up. Wetting my lips, I say, “Thank you for everything today. I hope I wasn’t too much trouble.”
“You’re worth all sorts of trouble,” he says, turning past the final page I’ve written on, finding the next blank, and letting my book flutter closed. “You’ve yet to cause any.”
That’s good to know.
Sitting up suddenly, Lukas frames my face in his hand. “I wish you’d cause all sorts of trouble for me. I think I’d like that.”
My cheeks heat, and I squeeze my pillow tight.
His fantasy gaze slips, falling on my lips and simmering. His thumb coasts across my mouth, igniting all sorts of things I’ve never experienced before. Gentle, he asks, “May I kiss you?”
My stomach knots, and I can’t get my mouth to work, so I simply…nod…and hope it’s only a kiss.
“Do you want me to kiss you?” he asks.
I’d rather throw myself from the balcony, even knowing a three-story drop into rose bushes is unlikely to kill me. Fighting for use of my mouth, I whisper, “I…don’t know. If you want to…it’s okay.”
His gaze lowers to my lips again, and he paints the pad of his thumb across them. “I really do want to. But I want you to want me to. Why don’t you say please?”
Oh, I’d really rather not. Nevertheless, my lips part against the warmth of his caress to obey.
“Or…” he interrupts me before I can utter the embarrassing word, “…you could also say no. You could hit me with your pillow and tell me to leave you alone.”
I would love to. My hands bunch in the fluff of my pillow, and I picture beating him back with it, but I don’t budge.
“Let’s take a moment and practice something, hm?”
“Practice?” I echo, so quietly.
He nods, moving his hand from my chin, to my head, where he ruffles my hair. “I want to kiss you. You aren’t sure that you want to kiss me, so you don’t want to kiss me, understand?”
Not…really.
“Unless you’re completely positive you want to do something, you should default to not wanting to. Just in case. Play it safe. Does that make sense?”
“Oh…” I blink. “Yes? I…think so?”
“So, since you don’t know if you want to kiss me, you…” He motions for me to finish.
I tremble. “…don’t want to?”
“Excellent. Well, get rid of the question mark. But good start. So now I say…” He cups my jaw, and gets close, sending a thrill of convoluted emotions plunging into my chest as his voice goes low, sultry, determined.
“Oh, come on, cupcake…” he purrs. “It’ll be fun. You’ll like it. And that’s when you…”
Cave. Like an overmixed muffin.
When I don’t answer, he sighs and fills in the blank for me. “Hit me with your pillow.”
Oh, wow. Was that the right answer? I’m having a very good time holding onto my pillow for dear life, actually, but I will take your suggestion into consideration.
When I remain stiff, he pulls back with a heavier sigh that curdles every fluid inside me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I don’t think I understand this game. You probably don’t want to kiss me, though. I’m not sure I’m very good at it.”
“Who told you that?” he asks.
“I…did?”
His brow arches.
Breaths short, I say, “I’ve never been kissed before. So I don’t know how to do it well. And I tend to need a lot of practice for things, because I’m not very smart, and—”
Violence.
Sheer, unfettered violence pours off him and shuts me up.
His eyes close, sparing me from a fraction of his intensity. Very slowly, he says, “You’ve never been kissed before, but you were going to let me kiss you just now if I wanted to, on a whim?”
I wish his eyes were open so I could just nod. Every word leaving my mouth feels like a dagger I’m about to choke on. “Yes?”
His eyes snap open, hitting me full force. “Hate that.”
What does he expect from me? He just spent thousands on me.
Don’t I owe him something now? That’s how the world works.
I don’t get a say in it. Everyone is always focused on give and take.
My parents raised me. They fed me, clothed me, kept a roof over my head, gave me an education, so now I respect and obey them.
I owe them my entire existence. It doesn’t matter what I want.
I’m in debt.
I was born into debt, because debt is the only way you get this far alive.
“Let’s try a boundary…” Lukas begins, regaining something akin to patience. “Tell me that if I try to kiss you against your will tonight, you’re not making chocolate muffins for me tomorrow.”
“Oh, I couldn’t say that,” I offer, frail.
His fists clench. “Whyever not?”
It takes a great big effort to inhale. “You’ve bought me a lot of nice things and you’ve asked me to do one small thing in return. It would be mean to manipulate you like that.”
“Manip—” A muscle in his jaw ticks, and my heart races.
“I’m so sorry,” I exhale. “I don’t think I understand what you want from me.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “You can kiss me if you want. I’ll stop being stupid. I’ll try to be good at it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
His weight leaves my bed. “You’re not stupid. And…I have a feeling you’d be impeccable at it, Clara,” he murmurs.
I squint, daring to look at him.
“But all I want from you…is chocolate muffins. ’Kay?”
Just chocolate muffins?
Rustling my damp hair again, he forces a small smile.
“I want chocolate muffins tomorrow morning. That’s all.
Don’t worry about anything else. I was messing around.
I’m sorry. It was a silly game. You’re not stupid; I am.
” He motions at my laptop. “Keep up the great work. You’re doing beautifully, and I’m proud of you. ”
My heart flutters, for some reason.
“O…kay?”
“Night, cupcake. Sleep well.”
Biting my cheek, I hold back tears as Lukas leaves, then I melt into my nice soft bed, and try very hard not to cry myself to sleep.