“Yes, I care.” Daisy scuttles alongside me, struggling to keep up. “I care about both of those girls. I’ll make sure I have a long talk with them about the ills of intoxication. Thank God they happened to be at the Black Bear and not some sexed-up frat house.”
I let out a groan at the thought of some idiot taking advantage of my sister just because she couldn’t control her drinking.
“I’d appreciate you talking to them. I know Owen would, too.” We hit the night air once again, and Daisy steps in front of me with that intoxicating scent that follows her around like a mist, her sweet perfume—the only thing good about this night so far. “I’m going to have a talk with my sister, too.”
“Go easy on her.” Her eyes grow heavy as she looks to the ground. “There’s nothing worse than disappointing your family.”
My heart breaks because I know she’s speaking from experience.
“I will.”
“Jet—” Her lips quiver as she looks up at me from under her lashes.
“Is she okay?” Cassidy cuts her off as she runs over with Piper and Scarlett.
“They’re both fine.” Daisy glances up at me, and her mouth contorts as if she wants to say something, but the words won’t come out.
“I’ll see you later.” I nod toward her buddies before taking off.
I head home and throw myself in the shower, hoping to wash away the memory of my sister lying in a heap over Ava’s lap. I get out and wrap a towel around my waist, not bothering to get dressed, not bothering to dry off. I clean the fridge out of all its malt liquor libations and dump them into the garbage can outside the back door.
“Whoa!” a small voice cries from the shadows as I dump the last of the bottles. “You could have found a home for that.” Daisy steps forward, her chest pumping as if she ran all the way here.
“I kind of like the symbolism.” A low growl rumbles from me as I let the lid slam shut. My father liked to drink. He let it control him, and that’s when I instated my one drink limit. Only God knows if I have any of my father’s natural tendencies, but I’ve never been in the mood to find out. And now that I’ve officially set a moratorium on all future liquor purchases—at least those that need to find a home in my fridge, that shouldn’t be a problem.
“Symbolism is a good thing, I guess.”
I hold the door open for her, and she walks straight to the hall before turning around. Her eyes scour over my chest, bumping over my tattoos, riding all the way down to my towel, and for a second I contemplate letting it drop, but Lucky—and what I’m praying isn’t her newfound hobby—has me rattled.
Daisy’s chest hiccups as she opens her mouth to say something.
“Goodnight.” I walk right past her and hit the bed without turning on the lights.
Lucky bounces through my mind, then my father—my mother with her bruised arms, her bloodied lips, her black eye. Lucky doesn’t realize the fact she’s playing with fire. Maybe it’s time to talk to her—tell her about what my mother went through. I wish my mother were here to help me do this. There are some family secrets a person shouldn’t have to shoulder alone.
The door opens and closes softly with a click. A pale figure moves in the dim light as Daisy appears at the foot of the bed. The moonlight drips off her, gold like honey, as she slowly, teasingly takes off her sweater. Daisy pulls off every last ounce of clothing like a second skin, renewing herself in the light like a goddess coming into her own, and she is.
Daisy climbs onto the mattress, and her shapely silhouette enlivens every cell in my body. She gets on all fours and crawls over until she’s seated on my lap, the weight of her tits falls over my chest and pulls a guttural groan from me.
“The things you do to me,” I whisper.
Her finger falls over my lips before she finds a better way to silence me—with her sweet, sweet mouth. She pulls at my hair, runs those nails over my chest, pulls at my hard-on like it’s her new favorite toy, and it just might be.
It’s true.
Daisy Pembrooke has no idea what she’s doing to me.
The Vagina Dialogues
Daisy
All daylong classes moan by in agony—about as fun as having my skin peeled off slowly. You would think that, after a good three weeks have drifted by, the novelty of who I am and what I’ve supposedly done would wear off, but I’ve listened to fresh quip after quip just this afternoon.Hey, Daisy! Heard you’re sitting on the senatorial staff! Heard you’re in the running for the senatorial DNA award! Rumor has it you’re familiar with the Gross National Product!And last, but not the least, by a mocking long shot,Congrats on being the head staffer of the senatorial erection!
The most hurtful aspect of all this negativity hurled my way? It was hurled my way by girls. That’s right. My own species has turned on me.
As soon as I get out of my last class, Interpretive Art, an entire hour of sketching, which is shaping up to be my favorite, I hop into my car and a watershed of tears begs to let loose. I catch my reflection in the mirror and press my lips tight in a weak attempt to hold back the deluge. I can’t succumb. If I open the floodgates, I may never be able to close them again. Instead, I suck in a cool breath of air and blink like mad until the feeling subsides. Then, I do what I should have done weeks ago—I drive straight to Stilettos.
All the way down to Jepson, I think about the crazy nights I’ve spent with Jet. His strong arms encapsulating my body, his heated kisses that have the power to take my breath away.
