Page 13 of Crushed By Love

I turn them off and stuff them into the hoodie pocket. I’ll return them tomorrow. It’s the least Cooper can do for making me clean up vomit in the middle of the night.

Ding! A text message pops up on his phone’s lock screen. Do I touch it? No. But do I look at the text message? Absolutely. It’s from his father, and when I scan the message and register what I’m actually reading, my body goes cold.

Dad: It’s obvious that I got her for Ethan. I know all about your playboy tendencies and I usually look the other way but I won’t in this case. She’s not yours.

I stare at the text, wondering what it all means, a sinking feeling in my gut that Conrad King might be talking about me. But no, that doesn’t make sense. I’m not something someone can just get for somebody else. I’m being big-headed about this––my knee-jerk assumption must be wrong. This text could be about anyone. There’s a parade of women coming through the house, it’s probably one of them. Or maybe someone from their life back in Manhattan. An escort of sorts? Somebody else . . .

I pick up the phone and click on the text anyway.

The lock screen pops up and I can’t read any further into the conversation. There’s no way to know what Cooper texted his father to prompt such an unsettling reply. Shit, I suddenly wish I knew more about tech than I do right now.

Ding! Another text pops up on the screen, also from Mr. King.

Dad: I mean it, Coop. Stay away from Arden. This is important.

I stare at my name for a long moment.

“What the hell?” My stomach is twisting into an unbreakable knot and I suddenly feel even more sick than when I did while cleaning up the vomit, because this text hits me center in the chest. This is a violation.

With a shaky hand, I set the phone back down exactly where I found it and dart from the room. My mind is spinning, the party’s chatter, thumping music, and sharp scent of alcohol dulling. None of that matters. I make my way back downstairs.

Mr. King brought me here for Ethan? What does that even mean?

My first thought is sex, and the initial shock of the text messages is quickly replaced with anger. I’m not a sex worker. I’m an eighteen-year-old housekeeper. This is wrong.

But … Ethan can get any girl he wants.

And if bringing me here is some kind of present for their son, then why did Mrs. King demand I stay away from him? Did she just say that to make Ethan the desirable forbidden fruit dangling in my face all summer long? She doesn’t seem like the type, but I don’t know her. There’s got to be more going on here, but it doesn’t matter because I don’t want them in any capacity. Are they attractive? Yes. Have I been tempted? Undeniably. But no amount of attractiveness and temptation can make up for the fact that they’re entitled assholes.

I’m hurrying down the stairs to the basement, my mind so preoccupied that I trip over my own feet.

Six

Losing my balance, I face-plant over the last four steps, ending up sprawled out on the floor. Drowning in shame, I hiss quietly to myself as the pain eats at my knees and elbows. I turn back to glare at the stairs only to find a beautiful Bree bounding down them. She’s a dream woman in a tiny black bikini with a matching sheer cover-up. A delighted expression is painted on her sultry face. I really shouldn’t let her make me feel insecure but she’s everything I’m not.

“I know it’s a party, but you really shouldn’t drink on the job,” she says with a mocking laugh.

On the inside, she’s rotten—I’d rather be me than be rotten. And maybe it’s the shock of the text messages, the frustration of being awake right now, or just that I’m fed up with her, but I am all of two seconds away from losing it on her.

I can’t.

If I lose it, she wins.

So I scramble to my feet and walk away. Of course, she’s not going to let me go so easily. Quick to catch up, she waves her iPhone in my face. “Can I get your okay on something before I post it?” She plays a video and ice-cold embarrassment freezes me to the spot. There I am on her phone getting shut down by the bouncer at the club. It’s a quick video, punctuated by background laughter.

“You want to post that?” I say woodenly. “Go right ahead. I don’t care.”

I do care, but she can’t know that.

She scoffs. “It’s a joke, Ardie. Where’s your sense of humor? Besides, I’m not posting you on my socials, you’re a nobody. But I still had to make sure you saw it. I couldn’t let something so funny go to waste. Isn’t it hilarious?”

Her question is a test. Am I going to play along with her bullying or am I going to stand up for myself? If I give her what she wants, she won’t stop. And if I don’t give her what she wants, she also won’t stop.

“I don’t think it’s funny.” I turn to face her head on, steeling myself for a possible fight. “I know all about girls like you, Bree. I’ve dealt with this pity shit my entire life, and you know what?”

She stiffens and her voice drops an octave. “What?”

“You can’t hurt me. I grew up fighting for myself and I’m not stopping for you. But I have real problems, and sorry but you’re just not one of them.”

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