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If I had any sense, I would be staring at myself in the mirror dressed in sweatpants or PJs and a baggie hoodie. I’d be wearing my reading glasses, squinting, and my hair would be down, messy, and maybe even still soaked in dried leave-in conditioner. That would teach Arlo that he can’t just order me to be at his beck and call.
But instead, no matter how many times I’ve told myself that would be the way to go, that’s not what I’m looking at whatsoever. I’m wearing denim shorts that barely cover my ass on their best day, which this most certainly is not, fishnets that disappear into my calf-high combat boots, and a long-sleeved shirt that hangs off my shoulders and is tucked into my shorts. It’s partially see-through due to the lightness of the material, and under it, I wear a bralette that pushes my boobs up and also resembles a corset.
Combined with dark eye makeup and my hair lying straight and shiny down to the middle of my back, I look like I’ve done everything in the world to convince Arlo to keep me around forlonger.
Which is probably not what I should be going for…right? The Lost Boysdon’t own me, and I don’t need to encourage their delusions on that fact.
I don’t need to, but here I am, looking like I’m prepared to do just that.
“You’re asking for it,” I tell my reflection, hands going to my hips. “You’rereallyasking for it, Ari. And not in the good, sexy way. Maybe. In the ‘you’re never getting rid of them’ way that we’ve totally talked about for at least a week.” Talked about it in the way that I’ve mentally chastised myself for fucking two and a half Lost Boys and dreaming of what the others would be like as well.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I barely need to glance at it to know that it’s Arlo. When I see his message about being outside, I spare one more thought toward chucking all of this back into my closet and grabbing my nearest sweats and hoodie.
“You’re not going to do it, so stop pretending,” I mumble to my reflection, then sneer at myself a second later for good measure. If I was serious about my intentions, I wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble to lookgoodfor my date.
Before I can talk myself out of my bad decisions, or at least continue to fail at doing so, I grab my keys and head out the door. I lock it behind me, the movements automatic, and glance around in the near darkness until I see a dark Mazda sitting on the street just outside my building. It has to be Arlo because no one around here drives a car like that, if they own a car at all. I sure as hell don’t, and I know for a fact my downstairs neighbor doesn’t either. Though the difference is that I’ll call an Uber, and she’d ratherbiketo work and her grandkids’ house like a heathen.
I’d rather die than bike anywhere, thanks to a traumatic slide down a gravel incline as a child that left me with a faded scar on my knee and bicycle-related nightmares for at least a month.
To be fair, I wasn’t exactly a good cyclist before then. I never had the balance for it, and going down a gravel hill while trying to be fancy and slide around the slight turn was definitely above my skill level bymiles.
The passenger window opens, and Arlo looks out, eyes flicking over me appraisingly as I do the same to him. From what I can see, he’s wearing a snug V-neck and fitted jeans, though, in the darkness of his car, it’s impossible to tell exactly what he’s got on.
“You look good,” he tells me, a smile on his face. “I’m reminding myself that we can fuck aroundatThe Denso that I don’t just drag you back to your apartment and appreciate you right there.”
His words catch me off guard, and I take a moment to just look at him before getting in the passenger seat and buckling myself in. “I look like I missed out on my punk phase in high school and that I’m trying to relive it,” I tell him, keeping a straight face. “I was about five minutes away from painting my face white or spraying a strip of my hair pink. Really, you saved me from myself, and I can probably never thank you enough.”
“Okay, so I definitely think it’s a good thing youdidn’tget to do those things,” Arlo agrees with a surprised laugh. “But have you consideredrippingthe fishnets? It makes you look like you’ve just been fucked and that your partner was too worked up to let you take them off.”
I cover my thighs with my splayed fingers and glare at him threateningly. “You arenotripping these,” I tell him in a warning tone. “They are my favorite, and Irefuseto let them be blasphemed in that manner. Respect the fishnets, or I’ll break your nose.”
“I’m not here for all that,” the tattoo artist chuckles, pulling away from the curb. “But if youreallywant to hit someone, we could call Ezra. He’d be so down for you whipping him; I’m pretty sure.”
“I’m not awhipper,” I retort, though, in reality, I’m just not much of adomme. It’s not in me to be the one on top or the one doling out orders. I’ve never been able to do it without flinching the few times I did try it, and on one particularly memorable occasion where someone wanted me to try, Icriedthe moment my very-soft hit with a flogger came down on their thigh.
I’ll probably never live it down, either. But that’s where selective memory and the refusal to tell anyone about my failings come into play. No one will everneedto know, and that particular friend has long since moved to Miami, where he has no access to anyone that knows me and can’t ruin my reputation.
Or whatever reputation there is to ruin. I doubt any of the Lost Boys are under the impression that I could top anyone, for all that they make jokes about me doing so to Ezra.
“You’re not a top, sweetness,” Arlo corrects, seeing right through my façade and making me wince. “Not on yourlife. And it’s painfully, gorgeously obvious.”
“Not sure how menotbeing a top isgorgeous.”
“Because you look like you’d take anything I give you so damn well. Like you’re made for it.” He flashes me a bright, amicable grin like we’re not talking about anythingsexualand turns his attention back to the road a moment later as the car slows at a red light.
I’m tooshookby his words to respond, so I’m glad that his attention is no longer on me for the moment so that I can take that second to breathe.
“So I haven’t been to a kink club inawhile,” I say, partially changing the subject. I don’t know how to respond to his words, so I’ll take a different direction, I decide as I force my brain to do a restart on my thoughts. I don’t have it in me to let his words play through my head. I certainly don’t wonder what they would sound like a bit lower, a bit more filled with arousal and promise as he’sfuckingme instead of driving the car.
I really can’t let that happen if I’m going to get through just this car ride without promising to do anything he asks. Mostly because the ‘anything’ that any of the Lost Boys might ask might be too much forme.
Even though, in my defense, murder wasn’t too much for me. Watching someone get his fingers chopped off barely bothered me at all. It was the after, when I feared for my life, that I finally felt the first stirrings of unease and caution in my stomach.
Of course, that reaction is still one that I probably need to examine more closely, which I have no urge to do, given…everything.
He wasn’t a good person anyway. The words ring through my head unexpectedly, making me press my teeth together and fight not to cringe. It’s not a valid excuse, even though I’ve started to treat it as one. No matter how bad of a person someone is, they don’t deserve to be murdered in some lakeside cabin and rolled up in a tarp to be disposed of somewhere else.
…Right?
