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His eyes remain on mine, and I swear his pupils dilate and dissolve a few times. “That’s all you had to say. Get dressed and bring spare clothes.” He turns and leaves. What. Was. That. I bite my tongue while grabbing clothes to wear. Tillie and Nate probably heard that, too.
My phone dings and I pull it out of the strap that’s on my arm, tugging it out of the case and opening it, I see I have three new messages. I open the latest one.
Tillie: Heard that. Now you have to wear something sexy that shows your tits. #Titsoutfortheboys
I flick out of her message and open the next one while making my way into the bathroom.
Unknown: Hey, Saint. It’s Madison. Please don’t share this number. Can we talk?
I pause at that. The number started with a +64, so I already know she’s not in America, Canada, or Mexico. Before going to the next text, I send her off a reply.
Saint: Sure. I think we’re leaving for somewhere today, but I can call you when no one is around.
The speech bubbles pop up instantly.
Madison: Okay. Thank you.
Turning on the shower, I remove my clothes while opening the final text.
?: He didn’t bite, huh? I know someone who wouldn’t say no…
I exit the message and get busy with washing the sweat and disappointment off my body. Since my hair is sweaty, I start washing up fast and once I’m finished, I climb out of the shower, drying up and wrapping a towel around myself. I blow out my hair until it’s in soft tresses when my door opens and Brantley’s on the other side.
His eyes connect with mine in the mirror. “How long are you going to be?” He’s always this grumpy. I’m familiar with it, but after last night and his little episode before, now I feel somewhat annoyed.
Annoyed by his rejection.
I stand from my makeup stool and squeeze the towel that’s scrunched where my breasts dip. I turn to face him completely and watch as his eyes fight to remain on my face. “You thought I would fuck you?” Those words ring through my ears, only fueling the annoyance that already rolls around in my chest. My thighs clench. There’s a hunger in my belly that food couldn’t satiate.
He pins me with his stare, the muscles on either side of his jaw twitching as he clenches. “Don’t you fucking dare…”
I flick my wrist and the towel falls around my ankles.
“Fuck!” Brantley kicks the door closed, locking us inside as I move to my bed and reach for my underwear. His hand is on my wrist, pulling me into his chest. My long hair grazes over the top of my tailbone when his hand is on my chin, yanking my face up to his. “I am not the one to play games with, Dea, because I don’t play them.” He leans into my ear. “I end them.”
I search his eyes. “I was getting changed. That’s all, and anyway.” I pull my chin out of his grip and slide my panties on. “You wouldn’t fuck me anyway—” I can’t finish that sentence because just as I’m reaching for my bra, his hand is behind my neck, shoving me facedown onto my bed, his chest to my back while his legs separate mine. He gently slides my hair away from my face, running the tip of his finger over the curves of where my boob spills out the side.
“You’ve got it twisted.” He leans down until his lips are lightly touching my neck, over my tattoo. “I don’t want you because I know that I’ll break you.”
I blow the rest of my hair out of my face, even though I’m partially squashed into the covers. “I get it.”
He pushes up from me, and I climb off the bed, clipping my bra on while trying to ignore his heavy presence behind me. I believe him when he says he doesn’t want to have sex with me, but I don’t believe him when he says he doesn’t want to break me. I see it in his eyes that those are his favorite things. Broken girls. I just have to figure out if he’s the one who does the breaking.
I slide on white skinny jeans with small zippers on the sides near my ankles. His eyes fall to my fingers where I’m doing up the button.
“What? I can’t wear this either?”
His focus snaps to me instantly. “I’m canceling yours and Tillie’s friendship.”
“You could, but she is my sister.” I slide on my Yeezy crop top in army green with fashionable cuts and slices, shoving my feet into my Vans and my phone into my pocket.
“I’m ready.” But when I turn around, he’s already gone.
I don’t know where we’re going, nor did I ask. I watch in the side mirror as the front of Nate’s Lambo rolls behind us. In front is Bishop’s Maserati, and behind Nate is Eli’s Ferrari with Hunter behind him in a F150. We haven’t spoken since my bedroom, which isn’t out of the ordinary. Brantley and I mastered comfortable silence a long time ago. “Rags2Riches” is playing on the radio, and when Brantley drops it down into second gear, his eyes flick up to his rearview mirror, a smirk on his face. It’s the first time I’ve been in the Bugatti. He hardly drives it, always opting for his old Demon or his Aston. All of the boys’ cars are black, but Brantley’s Mercedes AMG GTS Pro and his Bugatti is matte. The Bugatti sits so close to the ground that I’m almost certain if we run over a stone, it would tear the bumper off. I slam into the seat as we move to the other side of the road and zip past Bishop, who has his middle finger pressed to the window.
