Page 42 of Fright Night
I hatedJulian when she dated him in the past.
I hated him every time I thought of them together.
Hate is too kind a word for what I felt for him last night after she told me what he did. There was a feeling ofneeding, on a visceral level, to keep Oakley safe. From him, from Dad, from anyone who’d bring her down and make her think less of herself.
Normally I wouldn’t consider myself a violent person, but fuck, she might make me take up the hobby if it means protecting her. Julian’s expression when Cody, Blaze, and I stormed his house might be the second-best thing to happen in life.
Second to everything Oakley is, of course. Her face, her personality, her beauty, her fuckingsoul.
When I was five, my mom left. Said she couldn’t handle motherhood the way she thought she could and took off. To a kid, that was very confusing, especially when Dad hardly had time for me, though he wasn’t mayor at the time. Working in city politics, he hired a nanny to oversee most of my childhood, giving me the female presence he felt was required.
Female presence wasn’t needed. Mom was.
Dad grew more absent the older I got, so I started figuring life out for myself. Anything that didn’t involve sports—which I hated—getting straight As—which I didn’t—or basically anything from his pre-approved list meant he didn’t care. Needless to say, he hated that my friends weren’t the sons of his, and that any school sports teams’ tryouts were not happening. He hated finding packs of cigarettes and rolled joints in my room.
I was never the son he wanted, but pretty quickly stopped caring. Until the few times he used his fists to make his point.
When Jill and Oakley came into our lives, I still couldn’t care. They were a nuisance. Early on, Jill and Dad proved to be vastly wrong for one another, and Oakley being my age meant suddenly this strangely beautiful girl was everywhere in my life. When I tried to ignore her existence, friends wanted to know all about her.
And then…I did too. I got protective when they’d try to talk to her. Angry when she smiled at anyone but me, regardless of the ass of a boyfriend she hung around with.
That’s when we started noticing things about one another. I noticed how our parents criticized her constantly, twisting her into some unhealthy version of herself. Oakley was one of the topics behind an argument that once happened between me and Dad. An argument that ended with a cut on my cheek from a stapler he threw in my direction.
That was the first time I felt Oakley’s hand on my skin and she was an instant addiction. There was no drug sweeter; nothing that’d give me a better fix.
From then on, though we despised one another, we had our moments. The tricks were a game. The dislike was real. But it all went away when it came to her diet or my fights with Dad.
Mom didn’t think I was good enough to be loved. Dad doesn’t think I’m good enough to be his son.
Oakley is the only one who showed any mediocre level of care towards me. Even after years away, some things never change.
So yeah, when she noticed the cuts on my hand from beating Julian’s ass, forcing him to take credit advances to pay her back the money owed, and making it known she’s not to be even thought of in his slimy little brain, I figured it’d only be a matter of time before admitting the truth.
I also assumed there’d only be gratitude and we’d move on. Instead, she focused on the implications this could haveon me, if Julian presses charges. Which he won’t, since we made sure of it.
She cared about the possibility of me getting in trouble. She doesn’t want that to happen.
She’s held the key to me since we were seventeen, and fuck if she didn’t just unlock the door for good.
Never realized how much I needed that.
So, fuck Halloween. Fuck handing out candy—though seeing her kindness towards the neighbourhood kids is sexy as hell. I can’t handle her looking at me like this, not without doing something about it.
I propel her through her front door and slam it shut before pressing her into it. A hand to her throat angles her head upward and my mouth claims hers, whispering something about taking care of her—words lost in a haze of lust and emotion—and then drag her to the couch.
“Stay.”
I rush down the hallway because as interesting as her pyjamas are, there’s a better option. I find it draped over the end of her bed.
Back in the living room, she’s leaning over the coffee table staring at her laptop. Tear-filled eyes glance up at my entrance.
“Thirty-thousand. Knox…”
“Trickster, there’s only a few words I want to hear from your mouth during the next hour. My name, ‘more,’ ‘yes,’ and ‘please.’ Take that money and open up your business. But for now, as cute as the pyjamas are, strip.”
My perfect submissive obeys instantly, removing her clothes, even her bra and panties. Her skin ripples with goosebumps I quickly take care of by pulling my hoodie from last night over her head and her arms. She smirks, her question asked with a quirk of her brow.
“The moment you put this on, I fantasized about fucking you in it.”
