Risky Business ｡ Stranger Things

7 : Bride of Frankenstein

Her skin was flushed, glowing with a pretty pinkness even in the darkness, that was only broken by the lines of moonlight slicing through the blinds into her family's lounge room. Prue felt like she was overcoming a fever, and perhaps it was a fever of sorts. Her skin felt damp as she lifted herself off Billy's lap, settling down beside him on the couch. Prue's long brunette hair was astray, falling over her shoulders in messy tangles. She adjusted the top of her satin dress back over her chest and slowly peaked over at Billy Hargrove shirtless and still breathing heavily with his head lolled back against the couch: he looked wild yet content with dreamy eyes, like a sleepy golden lion after a long day tracking and hunting. Sweat glimmered on his naked chest and half-moon nail marks scarred his shoulders. His eyes lazily shifted back to her, now fixing the skirt of her dress back over her legs.

"Thanks for the souvenirs." He gave a low chuckle, gesturing towards the nail marks before reaching into his pant pockets to fish out a cigarette. He left his pants unzipped and resting loosely on his narrow hips, barely covering the lower region of his navel or the V-shaped muscles leading into his briefs. Prue noticed her blood-red lipstick smudged against his swollen mouth, the vibrant colour stark against his skin and stubble.

"You can't smoke in here." Her voice was throaty, unsure. She was troubled by the eerie feeling that she had lost something but had gained something else entirely: but she didn't feel different, at least not in the way she always believed she would. Actually, the whole experience was rather messy and chaotic but it made her blood rush and swell like nothing else.

"Sure," he replied with a curt nod. Prue couldn't tear her eyes away from him and she hated that she still found him brutally handsome while he was relaxed, sweating and partially naked on the Owens' family couch. "What are you looking at me like that for? We're not gonna snuggle if that's what you're waiting for." His voice was cold, hostile even, but somehow he had maintained his casualness. As if this situation wasn't at all foreign or awkward for him, which ignited annoyance in Prue's bones. It also put the whole situation into focus; it was like Prue had been doused with cold water. She sat forward on the couch, her shoulders bowed inwards.

"This was a mistake." She got to her feet and her knees nearly buckled. Her breathing was still shallow and sweat had gathered between her shoulder blades and at the nape of her neck. She wanted nothing more than a shower now, to wash away any evidence of Billy Hargrove off her skin, but she was concerned that he had managed to seep into her blood, tangling himself around her bones; and just like with pretty much everything else he did it, it made her angry and irritated.

"A fucking great mistake." He gave her a wide grin and she wanted to punch his teeth out all of the sudden. She turned on him, standing over him, clutching at her dress so it wouldn't slip down.

"No. It was a mistake. I—we—it was wrong!" She was struggling to put all the emotions rushing through her blood into words. What was she really feeling? Shameful? Guilty? Exhilarated? Alive? She ran her fingers through her hair roughly, conflicted with just about everything. Orange-yellow light flooded the lounge room suddenly, chasing away the shadows, and there was a rumble on the air and tires grinding against the concrete driveway. Her stomach filled with icy dread and fear. "You need to go now!" she screeched, dashing to pick up Billy's black leather jacket left forgotten near the front door. Billy didn't seem concerned, hell, it looked like he was amused. She pitched the jacket at him while he dragged himself off the couch, his pants still loose. She pushed him towards the kitchen as the headlights shut off. Considering the time, it was most likely her father, Dr Sam Owens, returning home from Hawkins National Laboratory. Prue was frantic, still pushing at Billy's muscular body while he laughed. "Hurry up! That's my dad!" Billy opened the back door in the kitchen that led to her darkened backyard where the moonlight shimmered on the pool water.

"Afraid for me to meet your father? Maybe he'll like me?" His voice was sarcastic as he shuffled into his jacket now outside the back door. She didn't even bother entertaining him with an answer to that question: her frantic behaviour and nervous face was a clear enough answer.

"This doesn't leave us, okay? Don't tell a single soul! Do I need to make myself any clearer?" she said in a steely voice and the power and desperation behind her words scared even herself.

"Crystal clear, baby. Hey—thanks for tonight, it was fun."

"God, just leave!" She shoved at him again, hard in the chest, before pulling the door closed in his face and scurrying upstairs to her bedroom as the front door swung open on its hinges. She shed her satin dress, gingerly fingering the rips through the expensive black satin, before pulling her pyjamas over her hot and sticky skin. Prue heard footsteps on the staircase and jumped on her bed, reaching for her novel on the nightstand.

Sam Owens popped his head through the opening. His tie was loose around his neck and shadows were gathered under his eyes. "Hey, honey. Get into any mischief?" While his voice was warm, the tiredness on his face was cold and there was tension in his shoulders like he was burdened with something terrible.

Her throat felt tight and she forced a smile onto her lips that were most likely still smudged with lipstick. She was grateful that her lamp didn't give off a lot of light. "Of course not, Daddy."

He nodded his approval. "Don't stay up too late reading," he said before heading to the master bedroom down the hall. Once she heard his door close, she finally allowed herself to breathe. She was eternally grateful that her father only saw what he wanted to see: his good and loving daughter tucked up in bed with a novel instead of his daughter in a manner of disarray and with Billy Hargrove stuck on her skin. She settled against her pillows, feeling disgusted with herself. She rubbed her lips—lips that Billy had touched—and when she pulled her fingers away, blood-red lipstick had transferred into the valleys of her fingerprints. She felt like a monster: sticky and warm and gross with a buffet of emotions causing a ruckus in her body. But no, she was just a teenage girl alone on Halloween with the echoes of a boy she believed she loathed gracing her skin.