Page 40 of Duke
She reached out and slipped her hand under mine, palm to palm, and gave my hand a squeeze. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, now you know.” I glanced at her. “My turn.”
She sighed. “Let me guess…you want to know about my rules.”
“You’ve mentioned them a few times. So, yeah, I’m curious.”
6: RAPUNZEL
I wasn’t even sure where to start, honestly. My rules were complicated, and had arisen from more than one situation. I’d never explained them to anyone. Which was weird, considering how many girlfriends I had, and how often we talked about boys. But then…none of those girlfriends were really…friends. Not close friends, not the kind I’d unburden this kind of thing to. This was deep, and hard to talk about, and real. Which begged the question…why was I telling Duke? If I didn’t trust my inner circle of friends with this, then why was I trusting Duke with it?
Because even those dozen girls that formed my inner circle…I still didn’t totally trust them. They were wealthy, beyond wealthy, like me, but…they weren’t on my level socially. They didn’t have famous parents. My mom had been, and still was, one of the most famous actresses in the world, and my dad was a rock god, on the scale of Stephen Tyler and Mick Jagger. Some of the girls actually came from more money than me, so it wasn’t about money. It was about status. It was about the red carpet that got rolled out whenever the Kennedy name was mentioned, the constant press around my parents’ every move, and then add to that the fame I’d earned on my own withTemple, my reality show…everyone wanted to be close to me. I didn’t trust anyone to care about me forme. No one. I’d learned this hard way. I’d had too many so called “friends” sell stories about me, tip off my whereabouts to paparazzi so they’d be photographed with me, or invite themselves on vacations, or try to finagle their way into my house when they knew the cameras were running.
Duke? He didn’t give a shit about any of that. If anything, he was derisive of it.
I trusted Duke, literally with my life at this point, and I just didn’t see him being capable of trying to cash in on knowing me, or having fucked me.
“Fancy?” Duke asked. “You in there?”
“Yeah, sorry. Just…thinking.” We were on the freeway at this point, cruising at a steady seventy-five.
“About?”
“How weird it is that I’m talking to you like this.”
“Why’s it weird?” He asked, his thumb still constantly flipping that button back and forth on the scary-big shotgun.
“Because I don’t talk about myself with my girlfriends.” I twisted a lock of hair between my fingers. “I talk about boys, or gossip about who’s fucking who, or fashion, or pretty much anything else. But…I never talk about this shit with my girlfriends.”
“Why not?”
“Well, that’s what I was just trying to figure out.”
“And?” He prompted.
“You don’t seem impressed by who my parents are, or how much I’m worth, and you don’t seem too keen on getting your fifteen minutes of fame out of me. If you’re gonna use me for anything, it’s gonna be my body, and—I’m more okay with that than I am with you trying to use me to get fame or favors or money.” I paused, but then kept going to keep him from saying anything. “I guess it’s just weird, because I’ve known a lot of the girls in my inner circle of friends for eight or ten years. I’ve known most them since we were little. Our parents are friends, and a lot of us have traded boyfriends back and forth. But…we’re not the kind of friends that confide in each other, because none of us trust each other. Especially me. I don’t really, truly trust any of them.”
He frowned, and scrubbed the scruff on his jaw. “Doesn’t seem like much of a friendship, if that’s the case.”
“It’s how things are, the way I grew up. Famous parents and more money than god? Everyone wants a piece. I’ve been sold out and betrayed more times than I can count, so my cynicism is well-earned, I’d have to say.” I sighed. “But you’re different. And again, it’s weird because I barely know you. It’s been what, a few hours? But I’m literally trusting you with my life, so it doesn’t seem like that much of a stretch to trust you with some dirty history.”
Duke didn’t answer right away. I’d noticed that about him—if the answer was especially important he thought about his response before he spoke; it was a rare and unexpected quality. “I’ve got no use for your money, and even less for your fame. Shit, I don’t even like being photographed for passport pictures, much less want to be have some picture of me out there in magazines with a bunch of bullshit speculation about my life or whatever the fuck.” He glanced at me. “Plus, I take trustveryseriously, Temple. If I say you can trust me, you’re getting the full force of everything I am as a man behind my word. I don’t say that to many people. I mean, professionally, my word is my bond—if I say I’ll get your kid back, or shut down a blackmail attempt, then it’s as good as done. But personally, I trust about as easily as you do. Which is to say not at all.”
I realized we’d been holding hands for several minutes now, and for some reason that made my heart beat harder. I swallowed and stared at our joined hands, mine underneath his big paw, his fingers curled down to enclose my smaller hand. It felt…natural—not at all weird.
And that was weird.
“So,” Duke prompted. “Your rules.”
“When I was nineteen, I met a guy named Lane.”
“Sounds like a pretentious goof-tard.”
I laughed. “Yeah, he kind of was,” I admitted. “But he was…good-looking, in a pretentious, Beverly Hills goof-tard sort of way. And he came from serious, serious money. Like, Bill Gates, Koch Brothers, Warren Buffet sort of money.”
“I know a guy like that,” Duke said. “He’s actually a really good dude.”
“There aren’t that many people out there with that much money,” I said. “Who is it? Maybe I know him.”