Page 6 of The Good Girl

Chapter Six

Tristan

“Tristan, are you listening?” a soft voice asks, and I look across the sofa to see Blythe watching me. Her blue eyes are sad, because I’ve drifted away again, and I haven’t been listening to a word she’s said. I should feel bad, but I don’t. Instead, I find myself wishing that her eyes weren’t blue but green. Like Elena’s.

“What day is it?” I say abruptly, standing and grabbing my jacket. We’d been getting high in my pool house, but there was somewhere else I wanted to be—someone else I wanted to be with. It has been about two weeks since our run-in on the roof, and if I didn’t know better, I would say a certain someone was avoiding me.

“It’s still Friday. Why? Where are you going? We need to talk about this,” she pleads as I move closer to the door.

No, we didn’t. She was going to whine about why I wasn’t having sex with her anymore. I’d tried telling her that I just wanted to be friends and that it was over between us, but it wasn’t enough. That didn’t stop her from trying to corner me and seduce me when the others had left.

“Let yourself out when you’re done, I need to be somewhere,” I call over my shoulder as I leave and make my way into town. My father was rarely here, so no one other than Blythe would miss me tonight.

Every Friday night, Elena comes down to the dance studios in town and stays there until it's time to lock up. I first saw her a couple of months ago, by accident when I was leaving Blythe’s family's bookshop after a dirty hook-up in the storeroom. I’d followed her because it was dark, and I was curious, but since then it’s become somewhat of an addiction. She hadn’t been the last two weeks, but I heard through the grapevine (okay, I’d asked her cousin Tabitha) that she had a tiny fracture that needed her to rest, which no doubt disappointed Randolph.

I actually bought an apartment in the building opposite, dipping into the trust fund my mother left me when she died so that I could watch through the window as Elena unleashed everything she kept bottled up. Every plié, every pirouette was dripping in anger. With each sweep of her elegant arms, she regained her control and her composure but not before she lost it. She was completely absorbed in the music, in her emotions, and it was hypnotic. She was the perfect person on paper, beautiful, smart, poised, class vice president, cheerleading captain, on the debate team—everything the daughter of the mayor should be. But in reality, she was forcing herself to be something she wasn’t. She was desperate to lose control, to give into the dark side, but she couldn’t. For that, I hated Randolph Montgomery, he made her into a pretty little doll, a puppet dancing for him. I grin to myself, opening a can of beer as I watch her move into an arabesque position, with her leg in a straight line behind her. I was going to cut those pretty little strings soon enough, and then she’d be free.

She dances for hours, careful not to go up onto her tiptoes as she switches between ballet, street, and contemporary. Her body is slick with sweat and clearly exhausted, but her facade is back firmly in place as she closes up and locks the door. I can’t make myself leave. Instead, I wait, pulling on my jacket, tugging the hood up, and following her home in the darkness. I hate that she walks home alone, where is her overbearing daddy now when it’s almost one a.m.? I stay on her tail until she buzzes herself into the gate at her mansion and disappears behind the stone walls.

This town is fucked up in its priorities, and that’s why I refuse to be a good little boy for my father. It doesn’t matter if I fuck it up, I can just throw money at it and the problem goes away, so where is the incentive to work hard like Elena? Once I get home, I’m not ready to sleep, even though it's almost two a.m. Instead I head up to the attic rooms.

My mother died when I was seven, leaving me behind with a man who couldn’t stand the sight of me. Kathleen Radcliffe had been an artist, painting, sculpting, and taking photos of anything that made her smile, and some would say that I’ve inherited her talent. I think that’s bullshit because art is hard work. It’s bleeding onto the paper, imbuing it with everything you have, and then hating it all anyway. It’s something I’ve been practicing since I was a child, and whenever I see Lena dance, I want to paint.

I set up a blank canvas, light a joint and grab my oil paints. Turning on my music, I lose myself. The long lines of her body, the gentle slope of her neck, the way her back arches as she moves, the anger on her face. I paint her. I devour the memory of her. Her wispy blonde hair clinging to her damp skin as her chest heaves from the exertion. I catalogue it all in my mind. The fire in her eyes as she tries to keep her composure, the way her mouth twitches as she thinks about me. I always have that effect on her, and I’ve learned to recognize that after her run-ins with me, she needs to dance more than usual.

Elena was my friend once, when we were little kids. We were the children of two of the most influential families in Silvercrest, of course we were going to be thrown together at every major event, and in the beginning, I thought we had found solace with each other as we shared knowing looks and eye rolls at our parents. As we got older, it became more obvious what our families had in store for us, and that’s when she started pushing me away.

Dawn light filters in through the window, and I sit back to look at what I’ve created. I may not have painted all the facial details in, but it was her. Everyone in The Society knew that she was mine, but they didn’t seem to realize that I was hers too. I didn’t want Lena to marry me because she had to, I wanted her to want it, and that’s why I was changing the game a little. I was going to take that hate she had and turn it into something more. I started small, just hanging out where I knew she would be. Today wasn’t a fluke, I knew she’d be in the coffee shop, and as much as she pretended Blythe didn’t bother her, I saw the look in her eyes. I saw the rage simmering beneath the surface. I was going to keep bringing that temper out until Lena faced it and saw it for what it was.

Chapter Seven

Elena

The week just seems to vanish these days, and the need to head to the dance studio keeps calling me, making my skin itch as I try to hold out until Friday. It was only Wednesday. My family owned the studio but rented it out to a dance school that allowed me to use it when I wanted. Fridays were the quietest days, and so, it had become routine for me, a way for me to sort through my thoughts and simmer down the emotions that threatened to boil over when things became hard. And this week was proving harder than usual.

“Is everything okay, El? You’re quiet today,” Serena says as we eat out lunch out on the fields behind the school. We’re sitting on picnic blanket we’d grabbed from the boot of Serena’s car. I drove, and my Mercedes was parked securely in the garage, but my father insisted that I was driven everywhere by a chauffeur or Serena, which was fine with me.

I nod in answer to her question; with elections coming up, my father was being more stringent than usual. He was determined to make everything perfect, including me, as he signed me up for more violin lessons despite the fact I wasn’t musically talented and gave up violin four years ago. He had it in his head that I should be good enough to play at a masquerade ball he was hosting in a few weeks’ time. I also had to lose ten pounds by then too, as the dress he’d chosen for me wouldn’t fit right otherwise. I stab my salad with my fork and force myself to swallow a bitter mouthful.

“I need to go and get a book out of the library,” I say with a sigh as I put my lunch back in my bag and get up, brushing stray pieces of grass off my skirt. “I’ll meet you during the study period after lunch.”

My stomach growls as I look about the shelves; with cheer practice daily, I was starting to feel the lack of carbs. Damn Claudia, my father’s publicist, and his campaign manager, Frank. They were the ones who told him my image needed to be wholesome, accomplished with just a hint of sexy innocence. What the fuck was sexy innocence? Finally, I find the book I’m looking for. It's a violin technique book that I’m hoping can help with the music I’m attempting to learn. I tiptoe to reach it, as it’s on one of the higher shelves, when I feel a warm hand on my hip and the faint smell of weed lingering.

“Need a hand, Princess?” he murmurs into the back of my neck as he reaches up above my hand, pressing his body closer against mine, as he grabs the book with ease.

I turn, which is a big mistake as my head is now just below his face and the fucker is grinning at me. His eyes hold a mischievous gleam, and I try not to focus on the fact that up close I can see flecks of gold amongst the chocolate brown tones.

“One day, I’m going to wipe that smirk off your face,” I growl through clenched teeth.

“I hope so.” He places a hand against the shelf, blocking me in, and leans forward. “I’ll be here waiting.”

I don’t know why I do it. Taking my heel, I dig my foot into his slowly. He doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t look away, instead he smiles again. Why was he so fucking infuriating?

Handing me the book, he smirks. “Violin technique?”

“What’s wrong with that?” I hold the book against my chest, trying to create a shield of some sort as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

He chuckles as I swat away his hand. “Nothing. I just thought you gave up the violin years ago?”

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