Page 50 of Wicked Little Secret

He doesn’t care. He’s grinning crudely as he wedges a knee between my thighs to part them, my plaid skirt having ridden up.

“One… hic… one fuck for the road,” he slurs, then laughs. “You know you owe me.”

He sits up on his knees long enough for his free hand to fumble with the zipper of his jeans.

I’m still writhing in a wave of panic when it happens.

Samson’s unfastened his jeans and pulled his dick out. His grin widens, and he moves to lean back over me.

Someone comes up from behind before he ever gets the chance. They’re clutching a giant rock they must’ve picked up off the ground.

A giant rock they use to bash Samson over the head hard enough there’s acracksound, and then another and another. His skull splitting open.

Samson loses consciousness at once, collapsing half on top of me.

Shock freezes me to the bone. I’m left paralyzed and speechless, heart beating faster than it ever has before, as I blink up into the deep shadows of the grassy area.

Familiar eyes stare down at me—dark and forbidden like a mystery that’ll never be solved. Eyes that belong to none other than Professor Adler, the rock-turned-attempted-murder-weapon dripping blood as it hangs at his side.

12

THERON

CHERRY WAVES - DEFTONES

“Just once itwould be cool if you weren’t such a grumpy dick.”

Theo’s lectures always strike a balance between being stern like our mother and crass like some filthy-mouthed biker in a grungy bar. She adds a dirty look in my direction as she buckles herself into my BMW.

I insisted on driving despite the fact that it’s my birthday. I needed my emergency means of escape if necessary.

“It’s not some punishment, you know,” she says when I answer her with stubborn silence. “It’s supposed to be a joyous occasion.”

“I don’t celebrate my birthday. How many times do I have to tell the both of you?”

“Dad thought it would be a good idea.”

“Dad also thought it would be a great idea to fuck his personal assistant. How’d that turn out for him?”

“You heard him and Mom. They have an arrangement.”

“Which would explain why our mother has been overseas on a sabbatical for ten months.”

“Don’t expect me to explain the ins and outs of theirfucked up marriage. They’ve been together for a million years. They still love each other in their own way.”

Theo’s comment isn’t worth dignifying with an answer.

She can make up as many mind-bending excuses to pacify her turmoil about our parents as she wants, but I prefer to be more grounded in reality—they’re married in legal status only and have no real affection for each other.

Love has been absent from our family for as long as I can remember. I was six wondering why my parents never hugged or kissed like the parents on television. I was eight when I accidentally stumbled upon Dad and the nanny in his private library. By age ten, I stopped cooperating with the farce of a family photo we took every Christmas.

At thirteen, as I went through the ringer known as puberty, I realized I never wanted to be anything like them. Successful but miserable. Married but alone. Living a lifetime of what ifs and maybes. Sneaking around in the dark because the light meant exposure.

I wanted no part of it.

I was young, naive, hopeful in my own way, noticing the opposite sex for the first real time. Their delicate beauty as they matured alongside me captivated me. It fascinated me as I fell in love—or so I thought—with the pretty girl nice enough to smile at me.

Then it was the bookish girl who asked me about the book I was reading.

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