Needing Her Page 2

  “What’s your name?” I ask her. I never know their names.

  She cautiously looks up. “Sophia.”

  “Sophia, I need you to leave now. And I don’t want to see you again. If you see my name listed, let another girl take the job. I will not tell them that you spent the night, but you have to be more careful next time. They’re very strict about the rules. If it had been anyone else, well, you know what could’ve happened.”

  She shakes her head. “No. I don’t. What could’ve happened?”

  Did they not tell her? Maybe she’s new. This is the first time I’ve been with her and she looks like she’s about 20 or 21. Maybe she just started. Still, they should’ve told her the rules and the punishment for not following those rules.

  “You could get hurt.” I need to be honest with her. Breaking the rules has gotten other girls killed. I don’t know that for sure, but I assumed that’s what happened to them when I never saw those girls again.

  She moves off the bed, holding the sheet up to cover herself. “They never told me that. When I started, nobody ever said anything about—”

  “Sophia, I don’t have time to discuss this with you. I need to get to work.”

  She nods. “Yes. I’m sorry. I’ll leave.” She picks her lingerie off the floor and starts putting it on.

  I walk past her toward the bathroom. “The driver is waiting downstairs to take you back.”

  “Thank you,” she says.

  I look back and see her trying to zip her dress up. I go over and zip it up the rest of the way.

  She turns and puts her hand on my arm. “You’re a nice man, Pearce. You’re not like the others.”

  And then she reaches down to grab her high heels and scurries out of the room and out the door.

  A nice man. She couldn’t be more wrong. If she only knew the things I’ve done.

  I am not a nice man. I’m a Kensington.

  CHAPTER THREE

  3

  RACHEL

  I haul my groceries up the three flights of stairs to my apartment, sweat dripping off my forehead. It’s times like this I really wish this place had an elevator. It’s an old, charming building and I love living here, except for the stair issue. And normally I don’t mind, but today it’s brutally hot and humid outside and the stairwell is even hotter.

  It’s fall in Connecticut, so why is it so hot? I guess it’s technically not fall yet. It’s only the first of September. Maybe in a week or two it’ll cool down.

  My phone rings just as I reach my apartment. I quickly open the door and race to the kitchen, dropping the four heavy bags on the counter.

  I grab the phone from the wall, yanking on the cord to untangle it. “Hello?”

  “Hi, honey, it’s Mom.”

  “Hey, Mom. I just walked in the door. I’m a little out of breath.”

  “You should move to a better place. One that has an elevator.”

  “I don’t need one. It’s good exercise to walk up the stairs. And this place is close to school.”

  I’m a grad student at Hirshfield College, a small liberal arts college in New Haven. It doesn’t have much for student housing and the apartments around there were all full, so I ended up getting an apartment close to Yale, but Hirshfield is only a few miles away.

  “Your dad and I sure miss you,” my mom says. “Two weeks just wasn’t enough time.”

  “I know.” I start unloading my groceries, starting with the freezer food. “I miss you guys too, but classes are starting and I couldn’t take any more time off from work.”

  I’m a history major and work part-time at a museum. I work at the front desk, but I also give tours, which is my favorite part of the job.

  “I’ll be back at Thanksgiving, Mom. That’s only a few months away. I hope Dad isn’t planning on frying the turkey again.”

  My parents live on a farm, and last year my dad almost burned the barn down while trying to make the turkey. My mom wouldn’t let him have the fryer anywhere near the house so he took it out near the barn and it caught on fire. Luckily, he stopped the fire before it did any real damage.

  “Your father’s turkey frying days are over.” She laughs. “The turkey will be going in the oven this year. Oh, before I forget, your father wants me to get the plane tickets for your graduation. But if you’re moving back, I was thinking maybe your father and I should just drive out there and help you with the move.”

  I graduate in December and my mom’s comment right now was her not-so-subtle hint that I should move back to Indiana after graduation. She wants me to live close by so she can constantly watch over me. She’s been extremely overprotective of me ever since my twin sister died of cancer. She died when I was six, and after it happened, my mom thought I’d get cancer too, so she took me to the doctor whenever I had even the slightest hint of a cold.

  Even now, she worries about me constantly. And not just about my health. About everything. She doesn’t like me driving alone. She doesn’t want me going out after dark. She doesn’t want me dating a guy unless she knows his family.

  She has so many rules and so many restrictions that I felt suffocated living under her roof. I love her and I know she means well, but I needed some space, which is why I was secretly thrilled when Hirshfield offered me a scholarship that covers half of my tuition. It gave me an excuse to leave Indiana and finally live on my own.

  I’ve lived here for a year now and I love it. It’s new and different and I feel like I’m on my own mini adventure. I just turned 24 and finally feel my age. Living with my parents I always felt like a kid because they refused to let me grow up.

  “Mom, go ahead and get the plane tickets. I don’t know what I’m doing after graduation. My lease goes until the end of December and I’m hoping to have a job by then, so I’ll be moving to wherever that ends up being.”

  “They have history museums in Indiana. You should at least apply.”

  She suggested this when I was home last week. She even gave me some brochures for Indiana museums. She drove all the way to a tourist information booth off the highway to get them. I just took them and didn’t say anything. She knows I don’t want to go back there. I want to get a job at a large history museum in a big city, like New York.

  When I don’t respond, she says, “Well, I guess I’ll get the tickets. Your father and I can always drive out later and help you move.”

  I reach in the bottom of my grocery sack to get my ice cream. The sides of the box squish in my hand, causing the top to pop off and ice cream to spill out all over. “Mom, my ice cream melted and made a huge mess. I need to clean this up. I’ll call you later. Tell Dad I said hi.”

  “I will, honey. Bye.”

  The ice cream is now in the sink. I rinse my hand off and grab a paper towel to dry my hands, then go to the air conditioning unit that’s wedged in the window and turn it to high. The fan speeds up but the air coming out of it isn’t very cold.

  I unload the remaining two grocery bags, putting everything away except for a package of chocolate chip cookies. I get a bowl out and scoop some of the melted ice cream in it, then rip open the package of cookies and crumble some over the ice cream, making a cookie sundae. It’s my favorite dessert. I especially love it when the ice cream melts into the cookies, so the fact that my ice cream melted is actually a good thing. It’s just the way I like it. It’s 6:15 so I should be eating an actual meal, but for now, this is good enough.

  I go to the couch and turn on the TV. I don’t have cable so my options are limited. As I’m flipping through the channels, sirens blare outside my window. That happens a lot. Police sirens are always going off. My apartment isn’t in the safest area. It’s run-down and has its fair share of crime. But I’ve never had any problems, maybe because I’m always careful and keep my doors locked and don’t go out much at night.

  My parents have been here a few times to visit and when my mom saw where I lived, she became even more worried about me. She’s convinced I’m going to be murdered li
ving here.

  There are a lot of homeless people that hang out in my neighborhood. I’m guessing at least some of them have been in prison and had nowhere to go when they got out so ended up on the streets. And there are some guys who live in my building who look like your average college guys but I’m almost positive they’re drug dealers.

  I know it’s a dangerous area, but I don’t let it bother me. Maybe I’m naive or overly optimistic, but I choose to believe people are inherently good, but then something happens and they get down the wrong path. Not that I think criminals are good. I’m just saying that everyone deserves a second chance and we shouldn’t judge people based on mistakes they made in the past. Doing so just keeps them going down that wrong path and they never find their way off it.

  That’s why I volunteer at the homeless shelter one day a week. I teach reading and writing to whoever wants to learn. A lot of these people never finished school and never even learned how to read, so they can’t find work and are stuck living on the streets. Some of them have been in prison but now they’re trying to turn their lives around and I want to help them do that.

  I haven’t told my parents about my volunteer job. They’d approve of me helping people, but not if they saw the area where the shelter is located. It’s in a really bad part of town.

  The air conditioner is starting to cool down my apartment but I still feel hot and sweaty so I take a quick shower. After the shower I’m hungry for some real food. As a graduate student who only works part-time, I don’t have much money, so I try not to eat out or get takeout. But tonight I’m too hot and tired to fix anything and I’m really craving a pizza. It’s the night before classes start so I might as well enjoy my last night of freedom with a pizza splurge.

  I order a large combo, then wait on the couch, flipping through channels, trying to find a movie to watch. I’ve seen every movie I flip past. Back in high school, my friends and I watched a ton of movies. There wasn’t much else to do in a small farm town.

  “Shit!” I hear a girl yell it out in the hall. “Dammit!”

  I spring from the couch and race over to look out the peephole. A girl around my age appears to be moving in next door. Boxes are lined up next to her. All of the apartments come furnished, which makes moving in easy since you don’t have to mess with furniture.

  I go out into the hall. “Need some help?”

  The girl jumps a little when I say it. She must not have seen me come out of my apartment.

  “Maybe.” She’s jiggling the door handle, trying to open it.

  “Those doors are tricky. You have to hold the handle really still and then turn the key.”

  She laughs. “So I’m doing the exact opposite of what you’re supposed to do?”

  I laugh too. “Yeah, kind of. Want me to show you?”

  She hands me the key and I open the door without a problem. “You just have to practice a few times.”

  “Thanks.” She takes the key back and shoves it in the pocket of her shorts. “I’m Shelby. Your new neighbor.”

  “I’m Rachel. I’ve lived here for a little over a year. I’m a grad student at Hirshfield.”

  “Oh, yeah?” She smiles. “So I’m living next to a genius.”

  I smile back. “I said Hirshfield, not Yale. I’m not a genius.”

  “Hirshfield is just as good as Yale, so if you go to Hirshfield, you’re a genius. Hardly anyone gets accepted there. And I know that because I used to work in admissions. I was a secretary. Now I work at a law firm. Still as a secretary.”

  “How do you like it?”

  She shrugs. “It’s okay. It’s just a job. Something that pays the bills. I only work there three days a week.”

  I glance at the stack of boxes by her door. “You want some help with the boxes?”

  “Sure. Thanks.” She moves her hair behind her ear, then tugs on her earlobe. “Shit. I lost my earring.”

  “What does it look like?”

  She shows me her other ear, which has the remaining earring. It’s an angel wing with a fake diamond in the center. “They were cheap earrings so it’s no big deal.”

  “I can help you find it.”

  “That’s okay. I think it fell off in the car. I’ll look for it later.” She points to the floor. “Watch out for the glass. My vase fell out of one of the boxes. That’s why you heard me yelling out here.”

  I look down and see green shattered glass surrounding her sandaled feet. “I can clean it up. I have a dustpan.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get it later. Come inside.”

  We each take a box and go into her apartment. It looks just like mine, but it’s hotter and stuffier in here because her air conditioning’s not running.

  She goes over and turns it on, then stands in front of it, the fan blowing her long blond hair around. She’s wearing tight red shorts that show off her long legs. She’s about 5’9, same height as me. We have a similar body type; thin, but we still have curves, although she has way bigger boobs than me. Her tight white tank top can barely hold them in.

  “What’s with this weather?” she asks. “Why is it so freaking hot?”

  “If you want, you can come over to my place until yours cools off.”

  She stares at me. “Where are you from?”

  “Indiana. Why?”

  “I knew you weren’t from around here. You’re way too nice. So…Indiana. That’s considered the Midwest, right?”

  “Yeah. I grew up on a farm. My parents still live there.”

  “A farm girl from Indiana,” she says with a fake Southern drawl. “Well, that’s just about as wholesome as they come.”

  I know she’s kidding, but I don’t like it. I hate it when people joke about where I’m from. I get enough disrespect from my professors who act like I’m not as smart or as driven as the students from the East Coast. It’s not at all true. I work harder than anyone else in my graduate program and I have the highest grades to show for it. I also have a job, whereas my classmates don’t work at all. Most come from wealthy families and don’t need to work.

  “I’ll go get some more of the boxes.” I walk to the door.

  “Hey!” She runs after me, stopping me. “I’m sorry. That was rude, wasn’t it? I didn’t mean it that way. Really. I just get nervous when I meet smart people because I didn’t even finish high school. I have my GED. Anyway, I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know anything about people from Indiana. You’re the first person I’ve met from there. For all I know you’re not wholesome at all. You could be a crazy whore who sells drugs on the side.”

  I laugh. “Okay, now that was insulting. Do I look like a crazy drug-selling whore?”

  I’m wearing tan shorts, a white t-shirt, and sneakers, my long brown hair still wet from the shower and no makeup on.

  She runs her eyes over me and taps her lips with her finger. “Hmm. I’d say no on the drugs. But with a body like that, you could easily—”

  “Stop.” I jab her shoulder, kiddingly. “I’m not selling my body on the streets. I don’t even sleep around. I’m not that kind of girl. You’re right. I’m a wholesome Midwest girl.”

  She tilts her head and gets this sly grin on her face. “How wholesome? Wholesome as in you’ve never done it before?”

  I roll my eyes. “Not that wholesome. I mean, come on, I’m 24.”

  “Did you do it with a farm boy? What are they like? Are they any good?”

  I walk out in the hall and grab a box.

  She follows me out there. “Shit! Did I offend you again? I’m such an idiot.”

  “You didn’t offend me. It’s just that I don’t kiss and tell.” I go back in and set the box on the living room floor, then sit on her couch. “But yes, I have been with a farm boy. Several actually.”

  “What does that mean?” She drops the box she was carrying and races over to the couch. “You can’t say something like that and not tell me.”

  “Nope. Sorry.” I put my feet on her coffee table. “I can’t
tell you anything.”

  “Was it a threesome? With two guys?” She scrunches up her face. “Now that would not be wholesome at all.”

  I laugh. “It wasn’t a threesome. I was just letting you think it was more scandalous than it was, in order to dirty up my wholesome image.” I pick up a throw pillow from the couch, tugging at a loose string along the seam. “I just meant that I’ve had boyfriends who grew up on farms.”

  She lifts her legs up and crosses them in front of her on the couch. “Were you serious with any of these guys?”

  “Um, yeah, I guess. I dated one of them for almost a year.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  I set the pillow aside. “I’d rather not.”

  “Why? Did he cheat on you?”

  “No. I just don’t like talking about him.”

  Someone knocks on a door out in the hallway. I get up from the couch. “I have to go. The pizza guy’s here. Hey, do you want to join me? I got a large.”

  “You’re offering me dinner?” She jumps up from the couch. “You’re so sweet! I’ve decided I love people from Indiana.”

  I laugh. “And where are you from?”

  She sighs. “New Haven. I’ve never left. Probably never will.”

  I walk toward the door. “Come on. Don’t worry about drinks. I’ve got cold pop in the fridge.”

  “What’s pop?” I hear her say as I go out in the hall.

  “Soda!” I call out behind me.

  I always forget and say ‘pop’ and people here have no idea what I’m talking about. Once I ordered a pop at a diner by campus and the waiter told me they don’t sell popsicles. From then on, I made sure to always ask for a soda, but in everyday conversation I sometimes forget and call it ‘pop.’

  The pizza guy’s waiting impatiently at my door. “It’s $11.59.”

  “Yeah, sorry.” I squeeze past him when he doesn’t move and unlock my door. I go inside, grab some cash, and hand it to him. “Keep the change.”

  I take the pizza and he turns and walks down the stairs, counting the money as he does.