Page 2 of Screwed (Dad Bod Contracting 4)
“Huh. I like to think I’m pretty adventurous in the sex department—or at least, I used to be—but I can’t say I’ve ever done it outside,” I say.
Laurel bumps me with her shoulder. “You should try it sometime. It’s a lot of fun.”
I huff a laugh. “Assuming I ever have sex again, sure.”
Laurel eyes me. “Meaning what? You’re in a dry spell?”
“A dry spell? Nah, not really. More like…a self-imposed celibacy.”
“For how long?”
I hesitate to answer. “It’s going on three years.”
Laurel chokes on a gasp. “Are you serious?”
I nod and shrug. “Yeah.”
“On purpose?”
“Yeah.”
Laurel is silent a while as we stroll slowly across the dew-sparkled grass. “Can I ask why?”
I sigh. “I…I guess for you to really understand that, I’d have to give you the backstory as to why I moved here at all.”
“I’m listening.”
I let out another long, tense sigh. “Okay, so…the first thing you should probably know is that I’m from a wealthy East Coast family. My great-great-grandparents made a bunch of money in shipping and the railway back in…god, like…the eighteen hundreds? My subsequent great-grandparents and their kids, and then my own parents, all expanded the family holdings through various investments and business enterprises. So, basically, my parents paid for me to go to Brown University with the spare cash they had lying around in a safe. That kind of old, old money.”
She examines me with new interest. “Really? I’d have never guessed.”
I smirk. “That’s the point, actually. I’m sort of…estranged from them. They were shitty parents. They gave me every available luxury in life—a Mercedes for my eighteenth birthday, a stable full of horses each worth tens of thousands of dollars, birthday parties that cost more than most people make in a year, a no-limit credit card, yada yada yada. Imagine the most spoiled rich kid from, like, Clueless or whatever, and that was me. But money was all they had to offer. They didn’t know how to love, probably because they grew up the same way—spoiled but neglected, which is a weird combination that’s pretty much guaranteed to fuck you up.”
“I can see how that would be.”
We reach the barn and Laurel tugs a giant sliding door aside—it slides open silently and easily, revealing the darkened interior of the barn—rafters high overhead, the smell of hay strong in the air, the whicker of a horse, walls, slats, shadows. She reaches to one side and flicks on a light—and with a quickening flicker, fluorescent lights come to life, bathing the barn in light. The floor is strewn with hay and straw, and along one side are several stalls, three of them containing horses—a tail swishes in one, a head peeks over another, and a pair of ears shows from the farthest stall. A loft high above, accessible via a ladder along the wall opposite the horse stalls, is filled to capacity with hay bales. Near the ladder a swing hangs from the rafters via thick chains, a folded blanket on it.
“This is one of Ryder’s and my favorite places to come and talk,” Laurel says.
“I can see why,” I say, plopping down on the swing. “So, that’s my background, so to speak. In high school, I was in the popular crowd, more because of my parents’ money than any particular merits of my own, but still. I hated them, hated living with them, and couldn’t wait to go to college so I could get away on my own. I had plans, you know? I’d been to a couple rallies for some hoity-toity East Coast politicians, and had attended a few debates, and I just sort of fell in love with the energy, the ideas, the sense of being part of shaping the country itself. Granted, I was an idealistic teenager, but still, that’s what I fell in love with, and it’s what I pursued when I got to college. Back then I was idealistic, naive, full of piss and vinegar and determination, you know? But being innocent and sheltered, I was also…god, so much different than I am now. Believe it or not, I was open, I was passionate, and I made friends with anyone and everyone. Back then, I was the girl who became the center of any party I went to.”
Laurel smiles at me, sitting beside me and kicking the swing into motion. “Actually, I can see that pretty easily.”
I arch an eyebrow at her. “Really?
She shrugs. “Sure. You put on a pretty convincing show with the aloof tough-girl act, but I see a softie underneath all that.”
I snort. “Soft? No, not by a long shot. I grew up neglected and unloved. The closest thing to affection I ever got was an occasional, awkward hug. So, no. Soft is one thing I’ve never been. Fun, open-minded, easy to talk to? Sure. Soft and nice and sweet? No way.”
