CHAPTER 4

Dorian

I drag deep on the cigarette, smoke filling my lungs, nicotine buzzing in my veins but doing jack shit to calm the rage swirling in me. I’m out front, propped against the railing along the porch steps, replaying what just went down with Katherine, not with her stiff-ass father or my mother.

Whatever circus those two have planned, I couldn’t care less. My mother has had more rings slipped on her finger than I can count—five proposals, three husbands. This isn’t my first rodeo where some uptight asshole in a tailored suit strolls in, shakes my hand, and pretends he’s my brand-new dad.

At least this one isn’t cradle-robbing. Before Ella decided CEOs and now apparently politicians were her thing, she went through her rocker stage. That was a wild ride. My favorite disaster was the wannabe twenty-three-year-old she swore she was going to marry. The guy looked seventeen at best, strutting around as lead singer of some bubblegum boy band. The idiot actually had the balls to look me in the eye and say, “I’d like to be a mentor, you know, like a father figure.”

I busted him in the face for that. Ella freaked out, tossed me in a psych ward for three months, and let the shrinks dig around in my head about how my tantrums were from not being loved enough as a baby, about not being breastfed enough. Pathetic. Poor little me, just a kid crying out for hugs. What a bunch of bullshit. She tied the knot with that clown anyway, and the marriage disintegrated in a week.

So yeah, Ella’s chaos is nothing new. I couldn’t care less about whatever she and Senator Harrison are playing at.

What’s eating at me is Katherine. I can’t stop replaying that night with her. I figured she’d be out of my system, but she’s been stuck in my head, lodged there like a splinter. Then today, my mother drags me out of nowhere, basically hijacks me, and forces me onto a plane to DC with some big announcement about her engagement. 

Like she couldn’t have said something three days ago at graduation? Or over the weekend at the New York apartment? Of course not. Ella thrives on secrets. The only reason I didn’t tell her to fuck off was the promise of first-class seats and unlimited whiskey.

I drank the whole way and ignored her rambling. Because honestly, hearing about another marriage doesn’t even register anymore. But then she blindsides me after we land. We’re in the car, pulling away from the airport, and I’m slouched in the front seat, glued to my phone, when she casually drops his name. Harrison. My brain almost misses it. Then it hits. Katherine’s dad. I swear I thought I misheard.

“Senator Harrison?” I ask.

"He’s got a daughter in your class, I’m aware," she mutters, fidgeting like she’s waiting to be caught doing something wrong. Her teeth gnaw at her nails; I always want to tell her she looks like some nervous middle schooler when she does that, but I keep my mouth shut. "That’s not completely insane, right? It’s not, is it?"

"Of course, Ella," I reply, my voice dripping with mockery. I try to sound relaxed even though my chest is hammering. "Totally normal for you to get engaged to the dad of someone who sits in my classroom. Why not go all the way and snag one of the faculty?

Hell, I could introduce you to a few of my buddies. More your speed, don’t you think? I figured teenagers were your flavor, but I guess Senators are the upgrade?"

She shoots me a look sharp enough to cut glass, her expression burning with irritation. "You’re not screwing this up for me, Dorian!"

I keep my eyes glued to my phone, pretending to type even though the screen’s empty. My head won’t let go of the fact that it’s Katherine’s father. Which means Ella’s dragging me straight to Katherine’s house.

Straight to Katherine.

Miss Perfect herself. Harvard-bound, never-mess-up, rule-follower Katherine. The one with a permanent steel rod stuck up her ass. All ice, all business, all the damn time.

Except that night.

That night.

I’d thrown myself at her more times than I can count back at Brighton. Why not? It’s not like Miss High-and-Mighty is ugly enough to hide her face in a bag. Actually, the exact opposite. She’s drop dead gorgeous. And completely untouchable.

The lacrosse guys have this stupid game where they hand out score sheets for every senior girl, ranking who’s "worth it" in bed. They call it "Brighton Bingo." I never play, because I’m not some meathead loser. Sure, I screw around, but writing it all down on paper? Pathetic.

 Still, to the lacrosse crowd, Katherine’s the jackpot square. Everyone knows she’s out of reach. Rumor went around that maybe she didn’t even like guys, but then she hooked up with some lame player for a few months. He was probably the only guy in school not desperate to get inside her, and he only dated her to cozy up to her dad.

I never really thought I’d get anywhere with Saint Katherine. For the last two years, we’ve had our thing, if you can call it that. Mostly tossing insults, exchanging glares, the occasional sarcastic jab. At this point, I only hit on her because it amuses me. 

I like that she calls me a jackass and looks at me like I’m dirt, instead of slipping into the backseat of my car and offering up her best friend for a threesome. Girls have been throwing themselves at me since middle school. Everyone wants a taste of celebrity cock.

Too much pussy. That’s my curse to carry.

But Katherine isn’t like the rest of them. She never tried to get close, never begged for attention, just dismissed me as the filthy slut everyone knows I am. And honestly? That makes me respect her judgment. She’s not wrong.

That’s why I nearly shit myself when her message pops up, inviting me to spend a night at some hotel with her. I figure it’s a prank, but it’s only a week before graduation, Brighton is dead quiet, and I’m bored out of my skull. So I think, screw it, what’s the worst that could happen?

When she actually walks through that door, nervous as sin, I almost choke. She’s dressed in this plain black number with sleeves, the hem practically swallowing her knees, paired with clunky black heels that scream suburban mom. And the cherry on top? A headband. We’re eighteen years old, for Christ’s sake. Who the hell over the age of thirteen still wears a headband?

I’ve nailed models, actresses, rich girls who party until dawn. A chick in a church-lady dress and preschool headgear shouldn’t even make my dick twitch.

Yet somehow, it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.

I just stare at her, for once completely blank, no sarcastic remark on my tongue. My cock doesn’t care though. Every drop of blood in my body drains south. I’m solid steel. Apparently, I’m turned on by virginal headbands and Amish-style outfits that cover every inch of skin.

She slays me when she finally speaks. "I decided before I leave Brighton next week, I want to find out what the big deal is."

The only thing screaming in my head is that girls like her, the ones buttoned-up and prim, are always the absolute freaks behind closed doors.

That’s the truth.

It’s all the pent-up shit they bury. Or messed-up daddy issues. Who the hell knows?