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“Girls can be wild, too.”
He laughs—it’s startling, a low chuckle from his belly. “Yes,” he says. “I suppose they can be. You’re not pregnant, are you?”
“Um…no.”
“Good girl.” He smiles now, but somehow it’s not a comforting smile. He gives my shoulder a strong squeeze. “Let me know if that changes. We can work something out.”
I want to die on the spot. Is this how rich people talk? Self-debasement and abortions before dessert? What planet are they from?
My mother materializes, as if she can sense my discomfort. I feel like I need her right now; I’m a child with my hand in the lion’s mouth.
She plays with a strand of my hair. “How’re you doing, ducky?”
“Tired,” I say, feeling very small.
“I know,” she murmurs, her long nails brushing my forehead. “We’ll head home soon.”
“Your daughter has guts, Mrs. Stratton.” He winks at me, like we share some scandalous secret, and I retreat tighter against my mother. “Make sure she doesn’t lose them.”
10
Kenzi
Falling asleep, it turns out, is going to be a task.
The boat isn’t huge. Even with my door closed, I can still hear Four and my mom knocking around in their bedroom. They’ve both had too much wine, and it makes Pearl’s laughter pitchy.
I groan and bunch up my pillow around my head to try to block out the sounds. No luck.
Then I remember—bingo. My Walkman is tucked into the wooden shelf that holds my belongings. I pluck it out and open the player, popping Donovan’s mix in it. Then I slip my headphones over my ears, flop onto my back, and press Play.
Immediately, hard smashing drums and wild guitar riffs blow my ear drums. Smashing Pumpkins. Tool. The Pixies. If Donovan were a sound, this CD would be it. Angry and cynical, but beautiful, too. I’m surprised there’s no My Chemical Romance, but I guess that’s too “mainstream” for him. Donovan always has to be slightly left of the beaten path. The sounds are like a bruise, blue, purple, with streaks of sunset red. The familiarity of it is comforting, even if the noise is raucous and chaotic, and I close my eyes to it.
The track changes. The bass is low and heavy. The beat of the drum matches my own pulse. The singer’s voice is dark and obsessive.
I feel my mind drift. I imagine I’m back in the belly of the Healing Touch. The dishes are piled up in the sink. Only this time, we let them sit. Jason’s tall frame traps me between himself and the kitchen counter. Those impossibly blue eyes don’t leave my gaze. His hand goes to the side of my face, but I don’t pull away. I let him trace his thumb over my bottom lip.
“Open,” he says, and I part my lips.
He crooks his finger inside the warm cavern of my mouth. My eyes don’t leave his, not once, not even as I suck the digits, sliding my tongue against his long fingers.
“You’re beautiful,” he tells me. “A beautiful, filthy girl.”
In my fantasies, Jason is equal parts reverent and dirty. His removes his fingers from my mouth and pushes them underneath my dress. He dives his hand without flourish inside my panties and pushes his fingers against my slit, which is already dripping wet for him.
He makes a noise, like a laugh, and his Adam’s apple bobs. “Is this for me?”
“Yes,” I whimper.
“You are desperate,” he sneers. He’s teasing me. Belittling me.
And in the safety of my dark fantasies, I spread my legs for more.
“You’re trouble,” he says. “And trouble has to be broken.”
When he pushes inside of me, he breaks me.
Are you broken? Are you broken, Kenzi?
