Ruthless Rival (Cruel Castaways #1)(15)
Conrad was a hotshot Wall Street wolf who ran a hedge fund company. Arya tried to explain to me what a hedge fund was. It sounded dangerously close to gambling, so of course I made a mental note to check it out when I grew up. Conrad worked crazy hours. We rarely saw him. And between her weekend-long shopping sprees in Europe and country-club luncheons, Beatrice seemed more like a flighty older sister than her mother. Quickly, Arya and I settled into a routine. We went to the building’s indoor pool every morning and raced laps (I won), then lay on Arya’s balcony to dry off, faces tilted up to the sky, the chlorine and sun bleaching the tips of our hair, competing over who’d get more freckled (she won).
We also read. A lot.
Hours spent every day tucked under the big oak desk in her family’s library, sucking on boba slushies, toe fighting with our legs stretched across the Persian carpet.
That summer, we read The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Treasure Island, The Outsiders, and all the Goosebumps books. We devoured thick spy novels, trudged through history volumes, and even blushed over a couple of kissing books that made us declare in unison that touching someone else that way was super gross.
Though to be honest, the more time passed, the more the idea of touching Arya like that didn’t seem gross at all. Maybe even the opposite of gross. But of course, I wasn’t dumb enough to let myself think about it.
Our friendship didn’t go completely unnoticed. Conrad did walk in on us a few times while we were reading or watching a movie. But I think what was obvious to me from the beginning trickled into his conscious too. That Arya was way out of my league. That her beauty, strength, and sophistication terrified me, and that I could barely look at her straight on. She was in no danger of being corrupted.
“He wouldn’t know what to do with an opportunity even if your daughter would present him with one,” I once heard Arya’s mother say, letting out an impatient huff, when she thought Mom and I had already left for the day. It was one of the rare times she was at home. I found it interesting Beatrice knew what Arya would and wouldn’t offer me, seeing as she hadn’t exchanged one word with her daughter all summer.
I was tucked in the shadows of their walk-in closet. My mother asked me to steal something small from there each week so she could sell it. This time, Arya’s parents had walked in before I could complete my mission. I squeezed the Gucci belt in my fist, sweating buckets as I retreated behind the layers of gowns hung on one side of the wall.
“People outgrow innocence. He is not one of us, Bea.”
A metallic laugh filled the air of their en suite bathroom. “Oh, Conrad. It’s a bit late for you to become a prude, don’t you think? Such hypocrisy. Is it a wonder I can barely look at your face?”
“Darling, you’re the prude between us, and you’re also too damn naive. All you care about is Aaron, shopping, and your plastic friends, half of which I fuck behind your back.”
“Who?” she demanded, turning toward him sharply. Her entire face changed. She looked . . . weird. Older. In a span of seconds.
It was Conrad’s turn to chuckle. “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Stop playing games with me, Conrad.”
“Games are the only thing I have left with you, Bea.”
My fingers dug so deep into the belt that the buckle bit into my skin and popped it open, blood filling my fist.
Mr. Roth had no idea his paper tiger of a wife was right. That the only time Arya and I had touched in a way that wasn’t innocent that entire summer was when Arya herself had initiated it.
Two weeks ago, we’d broken into Mr. Roth’s study, where he kept his Cuban cigars. I wanted to steal one and share it with my Hunts Point friends, and Arya was always up for mischief. It was a lazy afternoon, and the penthouse was empty. We found the engraved leather box just when my mom got back from the supermarket. The surprise click of the door made Arya drop the cigar case with a loud thud. Footsteps reverberated across the hallway, the sound ricocheting in my stomach like a bullet as my mother approached to investigate.
Arya grabbed my wrist and dragged us both to the space between the filing cabinets and the floor, where we were smooshed together under the belly of the console, limbs tangled, hidden from view. We were chest to chest, our hot breaths mixing together, fruity bubble gum, slushies, and a kiss that could never happen permeating the air, and suddenly, all the times I’d been told not to touch Arya made sense.
Because the need to touch her shot from my spine to my fingertips, making the pit of my stomach feel empty and achy.
Mom walked into the room. We saw her worn-out sneakers from our spot on the floor as she turned 360 degrees, surveying the area.
“Miss Arya? Nicholai?” Her voice was shrill.
No answer. She cursed softly in Russian, stomping one foot over the marbled floor. Adrenaline made my veins tingle.
“Your father will be very mad if he finds out you’ve been in here.” Mom tried and failed to lace her tone with authority. My eyes held Arya’s gaze. Her whole body shook with a giggle. I pressed my palm against her mouth to stop her from laughing. She poked her tongue out and licked between my fingers. The shot of pleasure that bolted through my spine made me dizzy. I let go of her immediately, gasping a little.
After a few minutes, Mom finally gave up and walked away. We stayed completely still. Arya took my hand and flattened my palm over her chest, her smile so big it threatened to split her face in two.