The Virgin Duet(24)

“Good,” he says, and heads to the bathroom. I hear the shower turn on, and I roll over to reach for my phone. I have one message.

Sam: I need to see you.

Dread fills my stomach. I’m not sure why. I’ve been trying to get ahold of Sam for weeks without any luck. I’ve been worried but I’m also relieved that I haven’t had to chase him all over town to make sure he is okay. I haven’t had to make sure he isn’t hanging out with the wrong people, but maybe all I’ve done is left him to his own devices too long, and now he could really be in trouble.

“What’s wrong?” Bray says, interrupting my thoughts. I must have been lying here worrying for longer than I thought. He has a towel wrapped around his waist, and I regret not joining him in the shower. It’s something we haven’t done yet, but is mostly definitely on my new over-sexed to-do list.

“Just Sam,” I reply, and his face turns cold. I ignore him, because whenever Sam’s name comes up Bray gets more pushy than normal. He thinks he’s being sly, offering to take care of things when it comes to Sam. Like dropping off money for him, or paying the rent, but I know he doesn’t like me hanging around him. I also know that if I broach the subject it will probably be a fight, something Bray and I haven’t really had before, and I’m not itching to try it out. I like the new Bray, he’s sweet and doting, and I’m not inclined to have the cold looks he seems to give everyone else directed at me.

He continues to just stare at me, waiting for me to give him more information.

“He wants to meet up.”

“No.”

I narrow my eyes at his response. No? Like he can tell me what to do.

“I’ll go see him if I want,” I say, getting angry that he thinks he can boss me around like he does everyone else he speaks to. He doesn’t understand how many times Sam protected me from things that could have shattered me, some of the beatings he took for me. If I can protect him now, then I have to try.

He takes a step back and I can see he’s thinking about his next words carefully. If he says the wrong thing, I might bolt, and he’s right. I could. I don’t like being caged and that’s the feeling I’m starting to get. He thinks he can control what I can and cannot do, and he’s mistaken.

“I just meant not today,” he finally says, and I’m not sure I believe him. He walks over to me and cups my face with his big hands, pressing his forehead to mine.

“We have a lot going on today, can’t we deal with this tomorrow? I have three meetings, and the benefit tonight, Tink. I don’t want to have this on our plate today as well.”

I soften at his words. He’s saying it as if our days are intertwined and anything on my plate is also on his. It’s nice to think that someone else is with me, that I’m not having to worry about them but they are worrying about me.

“Okay,” I say, placing my lips to his for a soft kiss. Bray pushes his tongue into my mouth, deepening the kiss until he’s on top of me. I reach to pull his towel away, but he grabs my wrist, stopping my movement.

“I have to go,” he says through gritted teeth. I let myself go lax against the bed and try to hide my disappointment. I’ve been trying to get him to work less, tempting him to stay home with me more, but it never seems to work. I wonder if he’ll always be like this, but I squash that thought as soon as it enters my head. I won’t always be his. This is just temporary. A girl like me doesn’t end up with a man like Bray. But I’ll always hang on to the fact that I was his first.

Placing one last kiss on my lips, Bray pulls himself from the bed and finishes getting ready.

“Tomorrow, right, Rebecca?” he asks before he heads out the door. I know when he uses my real name I’m either in trouble or he’s being totally serious.

“I’ll call him tomorrow,” I confirm, not wanting to get into it right now. He’s right, we have enough going on today.

Nodding his agreement, he’s out the door.

Hours later the stylist shows up and starts her makeover. Immediately I can tell from the look on her face that she isn’t too happy with what she sees. In fact, she’s pissed that she’s going to have to dye my hair.

“The pink and purple have to go,” she says, eyeing my hair.

“No, I like it.”

“Fine, if you want to embarrass Mr. Spencer at the benefit, have at it,” she says, and I feel my stomach knot. Maybe she’s right. It would be best to blend in and get this night over with. I can’t seem to look forward to dressing up and going out because I’m so nervous.

Nodding, she gets to work and doesn’t say much as she does my hair. She decides on a dress while my new color is setting, before she does my make-up—something about matching my make-up to my dress. I don’t understand all of it. She goes to the closet and after a few moments comes back with a floor-length, strapless navy-blue dress.

Four hours later, I barely recognize myself in the mirror. I do look pretty, beautiful really, but I don’t feel like me.

The freckles that sprinkle my nose are gone, due to the layer of foundation, blush, and bronzer she put on me. I didn’t ask what anything was, but I think the woman wanted to educate me as she worked. My eye make-up is heavy and it makes my eyes seem a lighter purple. The make-up is flawless, but it’s not what I’m used to, and I look much older than my eighteen years.