Page 157 of Wanting What's Wrong

I open up one and find the clothes that the others were wearing when I got here. Torn seams, buckled zippers, buttons almost pulled completely off. But they’re works of art. Each one matching what the dolls are wearing. I pull the fabric of a blue satin dress to my face, inhaling deeply as I think about all the hours she must have put into this.

And I took that from her.

At first, maybe it was for her own benefit. Not letting her see how her hard work had been ruined. But it’s gone on too long for that excuse to hold water anymore. I should have shown her these things and let her memories come back if possible.

Fuck. What have I done?

Hating myself, I open the other suitcase. A few of the things aren’t hers, but that’s not the cleaners’ fault. They weren’t to know that Mina doesn’t wear red and black Louboutin heels. The fact that there’s only one of them means one of the girls that was here went home with one bare foot, but I don’t give a shit about that. I toss the few things aside that don’t look like theybelong and draw out a pack of paperwork neatly tucked into a folder.

Darkness crowds around me. My own selfish needs spinning a web from which I’m not sure I’ll ever be released.

Why didn’t she tell me? Or fucking Dutton, her driver, the brother of a team mate who I planted and made sure got hired as our family’s new driver while also fucking paying him some sweet coin on the side to keep an eye on her. He sends me daily reports when she’s around. Pictures, notes, anything and everything he can.

So why did he leave out this deal about the design contest? I’ll be on his ass about that as soon as he gets back but right now all I can do is stare her loopy, neat writing on the pages the, the letter still folded in an envelope from Marie Claire magazine in New York.

We’re delighted to offer you a place in the show…

Jesus. Dutton mentioned something about her being super focused on making some new clothes, but he didn’t say anything about the actual contest. A big show in New Yorkthis week, and I had no idea.

My fingers are numb as I read the application, how her excitement comes through in every word she wrote. No wonder she was accepted, even without the fucking amazing work she does, nobody could possibly turn down someone with this much enthusiasm.

Under the application, there are sketches in colored pencil. Not gallery-worthy or anything, but it’s pretty obvious who the subject is. Me looking bored, me looking mean, me looking grumpy. Is that really how I look all the time?

Not these past few days, that’s for sure. I’ve changed.

I dig deeper, finding a tattered leather diary. It falls open, and my name jumps out from the page. Little fantasies, things she imagined us doing together. Innocent by the standards of my thoughts, but still…

She was thinking about me while I was thinking about her. But when I had the chance to do the right thing, all I did was take her for myself.

I have to tell her the truth.

As I stand, my phone rings in my pocket, and in a daze I answer, putting the phone to my ear.

“Jackson! How are things going, kid? Resting up that throwing arm I hope!” Harson Hilton chuckles, his voice darkening my mood even more. “Son, I want to get things moving with this contract. Need to get you all squared away and confirmed. You’re in Harbor Shores, right? My Cindy said she saw you. I’m stuck here in New York but I’ve got a private jet just sitting on a runway waiting. Get your ass over to the Charlevoix Airport, I’ll fly you on up here in style and we can get the ball rolling. Soon as that’s done, I’ll make sure all your family’s other littleproblemsgo away.”

I’m shaking my head, a growl rumbling in my chest. “I’m looking after my sister this week, Harson.”

“Well, hell, bring her along. I bet she’ll love a ride in a private jet and a few days in a five star hotel. My treat. We’ve got the fashion week going on up here, too. She likes fashion, right? What girl her age doesn’t? Maybe she can tag along with my Cindy. And you know how much I love those all American family values.” Harson sounds so fucking pleased with himself as my stomach knots. “You should too. Cultivate that image and you’ll go a long way Jackson. I don’t do messy, remember that. You, your pretty sister, your beautiful stepmom and proud father are what I’m buying into with this deal. We’re going to make so much fucking money son. You are the image of the American dream. An NFL dynasty family. You maintain that apple pie image and we’ll have no problems. No fights, no Twitter, no surprise knocked up girls. We’ve got doctors for that. Now get your ass to the airport.”

“No,” I say, my jaw tight.

Fuck, I don’t want to go to New York. I want to stay here with her. But if I tell her the truth right now, I’ll destroy that anyway.

Jesus, this is all a fucking mess.

Before he can come back with anything, I grunt and add, “I’ll let you know, Harson,” and throw the phone across the room.

I didn’t tell her. How could I?

Besides, maybe she’s already pregnant.

The thought comes to me without permission, but once it’s in my head, it’s hard to shift it. I’ve filled her up more times than I can count since that first time in the back yard.

In the bedroom, kitchen counter, floor, with the refrigerator open, against the wall in the pantry, shower, bathtub, car…

She could already be knocked up, and if she’s not, I’ll try harder.

It’s wrong, but also fuckingright.

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