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I don’t know how he got into my yard so fast.
Was he listening? Was he paying attention to me? No way. There’s no way he’s been looking at me just like I’ve been looking at him.
Unless…he has been. Between how friendly he was last night and the way he spurned my mother…oh my god, those times I swore somebody was watching me.
Was that him? Was I possibly not crazy?
The thoughts swirl around in my head until they melt together, and I eventually nod off. I dream of the way Vincent glared at David, speaking to him as if he were no more than a bug on the bottom of his shoe. Vincent swooped in to protect me.
No one’s ever protected me like that before.
When I wake up, the house is empty, and Mom’s car is gone. I roll my eyes, figuring she’s gone out to find her own Santa Claus to get drunk with. Maybe this will be one of her longer benders, and I can have the house to myself for a while. A girl can dream, right?
Sitting up in my bed and stretching, I remember that I have Vincent’s phone number now. Anytime I want to, I could call or text him. Just to hear his voice. Not that I would, though. That would make me look like a clingy girlfriend. God, we’re not even dating.
I shake the last bits of sleep out of my head before standing up, grabbing my romance novel, and heading downstairs. I put on a pair of fuzzy snowman socks, pad down the stairs, and curl up on the couch in front of the Christmas tree.
With the snow outside, the setting sun, and warm glow of Christmas lights, I feel cozy for once. This, honestly, is my ideal Christmas. Reading on the couch, no one to bother me, a beautiful tree to look at. I take a deep breath and relax, reading voraciously. Before I know it, I’m losing myself in the story.
I’m nearly done with the Elf King novel but read slowly to take in every bit of depravity the king puts his peasant princess through. In the scene I begin with, he treats her to a full day of rejuvenating magical spa treatments, but she is forced to make love with every servant and Mage that applies the treatments on her. All while the Elf King watches.
Even though the Elf King is described as wiry and blonde, I imagine Vincent’s bulging shoulders and dark eyes as I read. I imagine myself as the peasant girl, unmoored in a new world and discovering her blossoming sexuality. All for the viewing pleasure of a mighty, all-powerful king. Knowing that if she refuses, he will send her and her family back into poverty. Knowing that in order to survive, she must give in to his every whim.
The idea of being submissive appeals to me. Maybe for no other reason than I would have no idea what to do in bed once I got there, but I think it is more than that. All my life, I’ve had to take care of myself.
When I find a man to deflower me, I want to be taken care of. Maybe it’s weird, but I just really want a man to take control, to tell me what to do and when to do it. It seems so… freeing. Not to have to worry about anything because someone is taking care of you in every way.
I slam the book shut and hide the cover under my thigh when I hear a key in the door. Ugh, Mom’s home. I can hear her drunken giggles as soon as she swings the door open, letting a beam of weak light into the hallway.
“Fa-aa-ith!” she calls in a drunken singsong voice.
I roll my eyes, confident that she can’t see me until she stumbles into view with a strange man on her arm. She’s still wearing the emerald green dress from last night, but now it’s so wrinkled and stained that it looks like she found it in the gutter. Or maybe laid in the gutter herself. The guy on her arm has his eyes half-open.
I don’t know what it is about the guy. But the moment he walks in the room, my blood runs cold. He’s squat, with a good amount of bloating around his jaw. He leers at me drunkenly, but his eyes are too sharp—dark and cold. I don’t think he’s as drunk as Mom is. He might not be drunk at all.
“Faithie, honey,” my mother slurs, one eye drooping half shut. She pats the guy’s face, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of me. “This is Franco. He’s Italian.”
“Rico,” he says to me, lightly flipping the R sound.
“Faith, this is Rico,” she says, stumbling to one side. “Rico, I’m gonna go get us some more wine, be riiiight back.”
Mom pats his face and chest again before stumbling off. Rico stays standing in the entrance to the living room, leering at me with those cold eyes. With my mom out of sight, he apparently drops the drunkard act.
“You’re very beautiful, Faith,” he says, and something about the cool tone in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. Every nerve ending screamsget out of here, NOW!
I stand quickly and decide to make a break for it, trying to walk as far around him as possible. He watches me the whole time, and I try to duck my head, but the moment I’m within his reach, he lunges forward and grabs me by the wrist. I yelp, but he puts another finger to his lips.
“Wouldn’t want to alarm Margaret now, would you?” he croons, spittle flying onto my face. I try to jerk away from his grip, but he holds me tighter. Suddenly, his eyes land on my novel.
“Please, let go of me,” I say, pulling away. He grabs my novel with one hand, and he inspects the cover, a painting of the half-naked peasant girl clinging to her king. His bushy eyebrows rise halfway up his face as he takes in the sultry cover.
“The Making of a Princess,” he reads sarcastically. “You’re very naughty.”
“Just let me leave, okay? You and my mom can do whatever you want. Just leave me out of it.”
“No, no, no, sweetheart,” Rico purrs, tutting slightly. He brushes the book against my cheek, and I startle away, but he still has that grip on my wrist.
“You see, sweetheart, your mother owes me a lot of money. I mean alot. She will do anything to pay me back. Give me anything.”
