by Angel Lawson
He looks at me for a suspended moment, gaze moving back and forth between my eyes. He finally sighs, reaching up to cup the back of my head, pressing it back to his shoulder. His voice rumbles beneath my ear. “I didn’t say it wouldn’t be worth it.”
We fall asleep like that, wrapped up in each other, breaths evening out. When I dream, it’s just like before—on the floating dock at night, with the fireflies and the calm and the anticipation.
Only this time, I can see Reyn on the shore, silhouetted by the twinkle of lights, watching over me.
20
Reyn
“Get cleaned up,” Dad says when I walk in the kitchen. I’m dripping with sweat from a morning run that was supposed to be one loop around the neighborhood, but ended up turning into four.
I grab my water bottle off the counter, still breathless. “Any particular reason why?”
“Because we’ve been invited to watch the Vanderbilt game at the Halls’.”
I freeze with the bottle halfway to my mouth. “We’ve what?”
“You know how they are about game day,” Dad says, finishing breakfast as he flips through his mail. It’s started stacking up. “They’ve invited people over. Including us.”
“Including me?”
I know my father and I resemble one another. The green eyes, the sharp cheekbones. The hint of arrogance and impulsivity. It’s a little unnerving to look at him sometimes.
“Specifically you, as a matter of fact. Denise made sure I knew you were welcome.” He carries his plate over to the sink. “It’s an olive branch. We’re going to take it.”
What my father doesn’t realize is that the branch has not only been extended, but the tree has been climbed. Vandy and I are good—better than good—like, ‘slept in the same bed all night for the best sleep I’ve had in ages’ good.
I left before dawn, sneaking out the way I came in, through the window and off the small overhang. I crept back into my house, ignoring the woman’s jacket on the coat rack and going for a run instead. I didn’t want to lose the feeling from the night before. What it was like to have time with Vandy. To touch her scars. To hold her in my arms. To wake up and watch her sleeping, face placid and soft, and run a careful fingertip over the curve of her delicate cheek bone, unable to fight the awful awareness that I could have destroyed this.
But I hadn’t.
She says she’s not ready for sex and I’m okay with that. I wasn’t as careful with her as I should have been. I won’t make that mistake twice.
An hour later, I follow my father into the Halls' house. It’s a midday game and we come bearing gifts; a six-pack of locally brewed beer and a bag of organic chips. I scan the room, eyes peeled for my girl, but I don’t see her. I do take in the foyer, full of shoes and keys and old mail, and then the formal living room, which looks elaborately unused. It’s been a long time since I’d been in this house—at least not through the upstairs window.
Nervous about meeting with the Halls again, I linger in there, looking at all the photos on the mantle. I remember when some of these were taken. Emory, in the eighth grade, holding up an MVP trophy. That year had been crazy, with everyone vying for a good spot in Preston’s underclassmen programs. In another, more recent photo, Emory and Vandy are posed for one of those boring professional shots that never quite look natural. It’s taken outside, probably by the lake, and it looks warm, bright. Spring maybe, going by the dress she’s wearing. Half of Vandy’s blonde hair is pulled back, clipped above her ear, and everything about it is picture-perfect. Hands folded neatly on her knee. Shoulders straight. Not a single hair out of place.
Her smile is as flat as her eyes.
She’s absolutely stunning, but beneath the pretty face, nice dress, and shiny hair, there’s something dark swimming under the surface. The more I look, the more I can spot it in the other recent photos, too.
“Hey dude.” Emory startles me, sidling up, following where my eyes just were. He scowls. “I know what you’re thinking.”
I doubt he does. “You really didn’t know?”
His voice drops to a low murmur. “That she was high for most of these? Not really.” He gives me a sidelong look that seems a touch defensive. “She’d just been through a lot of difficult shit, dude. It’s hard to know what’s normal and what’s not.”
I shake my head. “No, I get it.”
There’s a roar of laughter from the family room, shattering the stillness, and Emory smiles easily. “So hey, I wasn’t sure if you’d come.”
I follow him into the kitchen, explaining, “Warren didn’t give me much of a choice.” I drop the chips on the counter, and from here, I can see my dad giving Mrs. Hall a hug. “But it’s okay. I guess it’s time to finally break the ice or whatever.” Despite my words, my hands feel clammy. I keep rubbing them on my thighs.
He snorts. “I think you did that the other day when Vandy fell asleep at your house.”
“Fair point.”
He nudges me toward the patio. Once we’re outside, I grab a soda out of the cooler and pop the top.
“How are things going with her, anyway?”
I’ve got the can halfway to my mouth when I freeze. “What do you mean?”
He rolls his eyes. “With the rites, duh. You two have been partnered up so far. I know the tattoo was hard on her, but it sounds like it went okay?”
“Right, yeah.” I rub my thumb over the condensation on the can. “She came through like a champ. I told you, she’s a lot stronger than she seems.”
He bumps his can against mine. “Well, I appreciate you looking out for her. I know things have been tense for you two, but I don’t trust anyone else.” Wince. “And also, you were right.”
“About what?”
“About the Devils maybe being good for her. She needed to do something, and she already seems more involved this year. I mean, obviously it may be the fact that she’s not using anymore, but she seems invested in school, the club, her newspaper gig.” He glances over my shoulder and lifts his chin. “I do wish she’d stop hanging with Sydney so much, though.”
I turn to look, seeing Vandy and Sydney in the kitchen. Whatever they’re talking about, they both seem tense and look kind of annoyed. My eyes take in Vandy’s clingy black sweater and gold pleated skirt slowly. It’s easy to notice that she looks well-rested, easier still to notice that she looks hot as hell. She catches my eye and her face instantly flushes. It’s enough of a hello for me. Sydney glances my way and greets me with a small, flirty grin.
Yikes.
I exhale. “Yeah, I’m not a fan either. She seems pretty hung up on what an amazing friend she’s been to you sister, but I’m not sure I get that vibe.”
“Nope,” Emory agrees. “That girl is all about herself, trust me.” When he looks over again, his expression perks up. Aubrey’s here.
I watch the way his face changes, realizing, “You really like her, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess I do,” he says, straightening his Vanderbilt-gold oxford. “She’s way less complicated than Campbell.”
I remind him, “That’s a pretty low bar, considering Campbell is a controlling bitch.”
“She is.” He laughs. “Actually, that’s one of the things I liked most about her, but I won’t lie. It’s nice to be around someone who’s not scheming world domination all the time.”
He claps me on the shoulder and walks through the patio doors and into the kitchen. Aubrey beams when she sees him—seems like everything there is mutual—and he slips his hand around her waist. A spike of bitterness runs through me. What I’d give to walk up to Vandy right now and kiss her hello, mark my territory while everyone watches. God. Her parents would flip out. My father would send me back to military school. And Emory? He wants his sister to have a babysitter, not a boyfriend.
I know my place here. The troublemaker. The criminal. The one who isn’t good enough. I’m welcome in this house, under supervision. What would they say if they knew I’d spent the night upst
airs with their daughter? That she’d had her warm body pressed up against mine? That I’d woken up that morning to her soft thigh thrown over my morning wood?
They’d call Fucking Jerry, that’s what they'd do, and it would be the last time I’d see her.
My instinct is to swipe something, quell the impulsive urges that heighten when I’m feeling shitty, but if something goes missing, I’ll be the first one they question. Vandy seems semi-tolerant of my habit, but not necessarily in her own home.
Plus, it’s not an expensive object I want in my hands.
It’s her.
I walk back inside, skirting the crowd forming around the TV. Kick-off just started and Mr. Hall corners me, beer in his hand. His other hand looks like it wants to ruffle my hair, but I’m probably an inch taller than him now. Instead, it lands on my shoulder, heavy and loud in that aggressive way old guys always like. “Little Reyn McAllister! I’m glad you could come. I know you’re not a Vandy fan, but it should be a good game.”
I give him a smile. “You know, I think as I’ve gotten older, Vandy has started to grow on me.”
He gives a surprised laugh. “Denise will be excited to hear about that.”
As he continues to talk, asking me a little about school, some about Mountain Point, and a lot about football, I keep tabs on his daughter across the room. She’s standing behind the couch, where Sydney is trying to engage Aubrey in conversation. My girl looks so fucking good in that sweater and skirt, it’s killing me to know how close we’d been just six hours ago. That I’d had my hands on those legs, that skin, my mouth on that neck. From here, I can see that she’s wearing little black boots with a raised heel, and I’m starting to think she knows how much I love her legs. And fuck, now my dick is getting hard and I’m talking to her dad and, “Excuse me, sir. I, uh, need to use the restroom.”
“Go ahead. I need to get focused on the game. I have quite the wager with Mark Bradshaw over the point spread. You know where it is, right?”
I nod and toss my soda can into the recycling bin, but I’m diverted by my dad, who takes to parading me around the circle of clean-cut adults gathered in the family room. It’s all artificial, small-talk bullshit that makes me want to punch myself in the face. Everyone here already knows me, but you wouldn’t know it by the way my dad keeps gesturing at me with his beer, rattling on about my rushing yards. It’s not like he can be genuine, anyway.
Allow me to reintroduce you to my son! Yes, he is a criminal. We have his juvenile detention release papers framed, right next to his sixth-grade perfect attendance certificate, isn’t he swell? Yes, he stole your watch. And your wife’s garden gnome. And your daughter’s phone—twice, because she’s incredibly fucking stupid. He also hasn’t spoken to his mother in three weeks. No, she didn’t want him. But he’s tidy and quiet, and isn’t a massive cockblock, so I let him sleep in my house. Don’t we look so much alike? If you ever get locked out of your house or car, you should totally give him a call.
Mark Bradshaw asks, “So what schools are you applying to?”
Way to lead with the easy questions there, Mark. I vaguely remember him falling victim to my middle school hood-ornament spree. I’d managed to collect six Mercedes, thee Jags, and my crowning achievement, one off a classic Rolls Royce belonging to a state senator. Never got caught. They’re still buried in a box at the back of my closet.
I answer, “I don’t think I’m going to apply this year.”
My dad whips his head toward me. “What’s that mean?”
Duh. It means that I have no idea what I’m doing next week, let alone the rest of my life. “I’ll probably just take a year.”
My dad barks a cold laugh. “Take a year for what?” I give him a look. Do you really want to do this in front of all your rich buddies? Apparently not. “Well, there’s still a lot of time. Why don’t you go check out the spread in the dining room?” The words sound perfectly casual, but I can tell from the sharpness of his eyes that this conversation has only just begun. Nice selective parental tendencies.
A quick look around tells me Vandy is no longer by the couch, but Sydney, who’s standing between me and that dining room spread, catches my eye, and gives me a wink. So that’s a no on the food, then.
A few moments later, my phone buzzes with a text from Vandy. It’s nothing but two emojis; a tree and a house.
I can’t get away from this place fast enough.
It’s a little cooler outside, less stifling, and the path into the tree line stretches out before me like a lifeline. I feel around in my pocket as I walk, fingers finding the money clip—sadly empty—I’d swiped from Mark Bradshaw’s pocket, easy as pie.
Mine now.
When I reach the treehouse, I climb the ladder and pop my head through the door, searching.
She looks back at me, all wide-eyes and long legs.
“Hey,” I say, taking the hand that she’s offered me. I don’t let go when we’re face to face. “What are you doing out here?” I reach out to the hem of her sweater, adjusting it just so. She looks even better up close, the fan of her eyelashes sweeping down when her eyes track the gesture.
Her smile is soft. “I needed some air. Sydney wouldn’t shut up.”
“About what?” I abandon the sweater to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
“You, actually.” I raise an eyebrow, and she continues, “How hot you are. How off-limits. How she heard you were secretly dating someone and that’s why you ditched the post-game party last night.” Her cheeks turn red and she looks away. “How she’d like to meet you in the Stairway to Hell and give you the kind of welcome you deserve.”
“Oh.” I grimace. “That’s…a lot.”
“She’s a lot.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Nothing.” She shrugs, this time reaching out to adjust the hem of my shirt. “I said I had to go get more ice from the freezer in the garage and ran out here. I saw you before, with your dad. You looked like you were about to bolt, so I figured I’d give you somewhere to run to.”
“I didn’t even know I was coming here today.” I run a hand through my hair, feeling the last of my agitation slip away. “Did you know about this?”
“You and your dad coming? No.” She rolls her eyes. “Well, they told me about ten minutes before you got here. You know, to keep me from ‘worrying’.”
“Sneak attack, huh? They seem to do that a lot.”
“Well, this is a surprise I can handle.” Her eyes are stunningly blue, up close like this. I watch as they drop to my mouth. “So, who are you hiding from?”
“Everyone.” I hook a finger under her chin, tilting it upward. “Well, everyone but you.”
She bites her lip on a smile. “Good.”
I snake a hand around her waist, leaning in to quietly confess into her ear, “You’ve been making me crazy from across the room.”
Her breath hitches when my lips graze her soft earlobe. “I know the feeling.”
She turns and we kiss slowly and carefully, like maybe we’re both wondering if this thing we’ve got going on still works in the harsh light of day, and the thing is?
It really fucking does.
Whatever this is, it’s doing it for me; night, day, any time in-between. Every time we kiss, I think that this hungry, desperate mania for her will start to fade, but it doesn’t. Not even close. I can feel it now, this crazy-hot thing sliding through my veins. It’s daunting, sensing how much I need to hold myself back, taking this slow when all I want to do is take.
“How long do you think we can get away with staying out here?” I ask, my hands sliding over the curve of her ass.
“Long enough to take off the edge?” she replies, and her words come back to me from the night before, about being horny. They’d turned my blood molten then, and the memory does it again, feeding this feral thing inside me. It’s still a surprise, knowing that Vandy has an edge. Mine is razor sharp and currently trying to stab her in the lower belly.
&nb
sp; She places her hands on my chest and pushes me backward. There’s an old musty futon that Mr. Hall donated from the attic when they first built this place. Emory and I slept on it a few times when we were kids. My calves hit the edge of the cushion and I fall back, pulling her with me.
She lands in my lap, her legs, her thighs, straddling around me. I’m somehow both putty in her hands and so rigid that my bones feel like they could rattle with the slightest movement. She looks me right in the eye when she descends, pressing herself against my cock.
I suck in a measured breath, eyes falling closed. This could be fine for me. Just the weight of her against me, the pressure and the stillness. It’s hardly anything, but it’s almost enough to topple me right over.
And then this girl rises over me, dragging us together, and my jaw locks with my groan. “Fuck.”
She puts her hands on my shoulders and does it again, rocking into me. Her voice is barely a breath. “Is this…?”
I answer by grabbing the back of her neck and slotting our mouths together, licking into the seam of her lips. Her tongue meets mine and she rocks again, the friction so sweet that it has my blood thrumming.
When I was coming home from Mountain Point, I had this idea of what things would be like at this point. I’d be neck-deep in pussy, face buried between someone’s legs every weekend, so fucked out by Sunday that I’d have to sleep the day away. I was sorely disappointed when I couldn’t actualize any of it, but now?
Her little punch of breath when she grinds into me, the way her fingers thread through my hair, the heat of her eyes when they open, the softness of her lips.
This is so much better.
I kiss her like I’m drowning, and maybe I am. I try to hold it back, to reel my hands in, but they shove beneath her sweater and run over the soft, warm skin of her back instead. Vandy has the perfect skin there, a long swath of girl-soft smoothness that tempts my fingertips to go higher, lower. She arches her back in response, making a quiet sound into my mouth as she rocks against me.
I freeze when she pulls away, worrying that I’ve gone too far. But in one swift movement, she peels off the sweater. She sits before me, chest heaving, eyes burning into mine, and I gently finger the strap of her bra. She wears these basic little white things and holy fuck, they’re hot as hell. It’s insane, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen her topless. It isn’t even the second time. But it’s the first time I’ve seen it like this, her red flush blooming down the swell of her cleavage, inviting me. She grinds down on me, a move that has to be pure instinct, and I carefully close my palms over her tits, testing.