by T. L. Martin
It doesn’t matter that my old life ended at fourteen when I was adopted into wealth; shadows from my year on the streets will always find me. Mr. Doau might be able to hold that part of my life over my head, but there is a silver lining. At the least, he’ll lose his precious job if I come forward with how he likes to spend his money on thirteen-year-old girls. Forget his job—he deserves to be locked up. Maybe we both do. It’s not like I turned down the money. Still, in class, I let myself daydream about it, ruining him. But I’d have to be willing to ruin my own future in the process, and that’s out of the question.
Passing the bio classroom, I take a right at the corner. I feel him before I see him.
The air buzzes with electricity. Static prickles my skin.
The mob of students fades into the background as we lock eyes, each of us coming from opposite ends of the hall. Closing in on one another. Falling into whiskey-colored eyes, his dark brown hair is messy from football practice. Time slows with each step, and I wish I could hit pause and freeze this moment forever. Just me and whiskey. His sidekick, Zach, yaps beside him, but Easton’s stare holds mine.
Five seconds, tops.
That’s how long it lasts. Yet, in those seconds, the sheer warmth of his gaze shatters the ice wall I’ve built over the years. The way he looks at me is all-consuming. Heavy on my skin. It’s a secret, a blip in time that’s all ours. Our arms brush as we pass each other, and the simple contact drums inside me like a heartbeat.
In another life, he might do more than just look.
In another life, we might even talk.
But this is reality, and reality is a ho.
Easton and I are so far from equals we aren’t even on the same planet. Everyone knows respectable boys date respectable girls, and respectable girls don’t get propositioned by their teachers. Respectable girls don’t have the reputation I’ve gone out of my way to earn over these past three years.
But mostly, respectable girls don’t fantasize about their brother.
Eva
I finish tying the straps of my cropped halter top behind my neck, then run my fingers through my dark, loose curls.
Easton’s mom, my adopted mom, is tucked away in her room for the night—with a bottle of gin locked between her lips like a pacifier, no doubt—and his father is working late, which means the place will be quiet. Knowing Easton, he’s probably sitting at the kitchen island, buried in homework. A true rebel.
After scheduling an Uber, I slip my phone into the back pocket of my skin-tight jeans, exit my bedroom, and make my way down the hall and stairs.
“Niño tonto, always work, work, work with you,” Maria, the housekeeper, chides downstairs. “You should be out with your friends.”
“Don’t tell me you’re getting sick of me,” Easton drawls, making my movements slow. I stop on the bottom step, hidden behind the wall. “You know all I think about when I’m with them is you.”
“Oh, cállate.”
I hear a smack, then he laughs, faking a pained sound. “Damn. Have you been working out?”
“Hey,” she mutters, and I can practically hear her blush. “Niño tonto. No sabes que es bueno para ti.”
I bite my lip to hide my smile. Despite being half Colombian, I have no idea what she just said, but that doesn’t make their banter any less amusing. Maria is a plump Mexican woman in her sixties, and the tight lines embedded in her lips are from constant scowling. As much as she tries to dislike everyone, she loves Easton. It would be hard not to. Everything about him is magnetic, and when he talks, it’s the worst. His voice is naturally sexy and just husky enough to make any girl turn scarlet when it’s aimed at her.
Straightening my spine, I abandon my hiding spot behind the wall.
The second I enter the kitchen, his gaze licks my skin, igniting a fire low in my stomach. I stroll across the polished hardwood without a glance in his direction. If we were anywhere else, I’d stare right back. But when we’re home, under the same roof as Mommy Dearest, catching Easton’s stare is the surest way to get him to look away and go back to pretending I don’t exist.
When I was fourteen and his parents first adopted me, I instantly knew Easton wasn’t like the others. The ones who get off on touching damaged, underage girls. Even though he’s only one year older than me, it took finishing puberty—and three years of shameless taunting—to get him to stop looking at me like a poor little girl who needed to be saved. I’m seventeen now; my curves are all woman, and I’m sure as hell not looking for a savior.
I watch him from the corner of my eye as I open the fridge. The orange juice is right in front of me, but I make a show of bending over more than necessary while pretending to search for something else.
His gaze feels like hands running over my bare midriff, and I moisten my suddenly dry lips. I could really use that orange juice right about now, but his undivided attention is more satisfying than anything else could be.
“You are the one who should stay home, jovencita. ¿A dónde vas? Another party?”
I glance over my shoulder to see Maria wiping down the kitchen sink, her judgy eyes swinging to me.
My voice is bored as I return my attention to the fridge, opting for a bowl of cubed watermelon instead. I could use the extra hydration. “It would be rude to turn down an invitation, Maria. I thought you’d be proud of my impeccable manners.”
She tsks while I get a fork. “You could dress un poco mas. Like this, all the boys will follow you home.”
Finally, I glance at Easton. He’s quick to look down at the textbooks in front of him, but I don’t miss the dark flash in his eyes. Apparently, he is not amused.
Arching an eyebrow, I set the bowl directly across from him on the island and push a watermelon cube around with the fork. “Who says I don’t want someone to follow me home?”
Warm gratification floods me when Easton’s grip tightens around his pen. A muscle in his jaw twitches, but he continues working on whatever it is he’s writing without a hitch. I wonder just how far I’d need to push to get him to snap that pen in half.
We might have stare-offs from time to time, but our games are always silent. Throughout the three years I’ve been Easton’s “little sister,” he’s only spoken to me when provoked. Even then, I can count the number of full sentences he’s said to me on one hand. Well, there was one time he said more, though it was a night I was broken. A night I’ll never forget. But that was years ago, and I’ve worked hard to never reveal that side of myself again.
“Jovencita, you do not need another boy following you around.”
“No? Maybe a man then?” I muse, sinking my teeth into a piece of watermelon.
Across the island, the fluid scrawl of pen against paper grows faster, rougher.
“Ay, no. No, no. You need a good boy.” She turns on the faucet to wash her hands. “Uno como Easton.”
His body stiffens, his pen strokes faltering for half a second. He doesn’t look up from his work when he grumbles, “You give me too much credit, Maria.”
I lick some of the watermelon juice from the corner of my lips. “Hmm, what do you think, Easton?” I taunt. “Would a good boy like you be able to handle a girl like me?”
His gaze slides up, and my heart skips a beat when it lands on mine. My skin burns. His golden-brown eyes are always studying, absorbing every detail. Like a tornado, they catch me when I’m unprepared and don’t release until they’re done with me. His expression darkens, and it raises goose bumps on my bare arms. That single look is all it takes to remind me even “good boys” can be very, very dangerous.
“Don’t be estúpida.” Maria’s voice yanks my focus away, and I let out a breath as Easton returns to his homework. “Of course, he could.” She says it matter-of-factly, like she doesn’t understand why I’d even ask such a silly question. “Pero why would he when he has un ángel like Whitney?”
I roll my eyes and shove a watermelon cube into my mouth, but flames simmer under my skin.
The blatant reminder of Easton’s girlfriend should be the quickest way to put out the fire. But if knowing he’s legally bound as my brother for the rest of my life doesn’t do the job, I’m already a lost cause. “Ann thi ii wahhh yoa mah fahrit howkeepah.”
“¿Qué?”
“I seh,”—I pound on my chest with my fist, trying not to choke when I swallow the rest of the watermelon—“this is why you’re my favorite housekeeper.”
She huffs, and I catch the smallest quirk of Easton’s lips. He swipes a palm across his jaw and over his mouth, trying to cover the expression, but I’ve already seen it.
Butterflies swarm in my stomach as I put away the watermelon and glance at my phone. “Well, I have an Uber to catch. I’ll try to keep my pants zipped until I get back.”
Maria shakes her head.
I stop beside Easton on my way out, intentionally brushing his arm with my own when I pick up his glass of orange juice. Like usual, the glass is completely full. It’s not the first time I’ve stolen his beverage. I don’t get why he bothers pouring juice in the first place if he never drinks it.
As I gulp it down, I stare right at him. Daring him to stop me. Of course, he doesn’t. He’d have to talk to me for that to happen.
He just watches. Calm, almost bored, as he reclines in his chair.
My stomach is so full it hurts, but I don’t stop.
Dark amusement passes through his eyes, making mine narrow.
Just for that, I finish every last drop.
I set the empty glass in front of him, smile, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Thanks.”
He cocks a brow, and I walk away with my pulse beating to an all-too-familiar rhythm.
A rhythm I’m shamelessly addicted to.
Eva
One week later, I feel it.
While few and far between, I’m not the only student at Caspian Prep who walks to school. Most of the others move at a snail’s pace, like they’re trekking to prison for a life-long sentence. I don’t see the point in dragging out the agony. My motto: Get in and get the hell out. So I’m used to people glaring at my back when I push past them on the sidewalk.
But this time, I slow as the feeling of being watched skitters across my skin. It’s like cold fingers behind my ear, making me shiver and pull my hoodie over my head. I scan the manicured lawns and sparkling BMWs as I walk, but nothing is out of the ordinary.
Paranoia isn’t new to me. When I was thirteen and first figuring out how to survive on the streets—in The Pitts, no less—the feeling followed me everywhere. Some nights, I even contemplated crawling back to my worthless dad, but fear alone couldn’t make me that stupid. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be looking over my shoulder in the first place.
Now, with each step I take closer to school, I try shaking the paranoia off. I move faster, my eyes fixed on my surroundings. But the feeling doesn’t shake. I’m practically jogging by the time I cut across the school parking lot and enter through the back doors.
“Well, if it isn’t the daddy fucker.” Carter smirks, his blond hair a shaggy mess around the pointed angles of his face.
Stupid poem. He’s been stalking me between classes ever since, but this is the first time he’s said anything about it.
I somehow manage to suppress an eye roll, walking right past him and his small group of friends. A couple of them snicker. Marco and Elijah stay quiet; the first because he wants in my pants, the second because he’s already been there and is hoping for a repeat. Unfortunately, Carter leaves them behind to catch up to me.
His arm slips around my waist. “So that’s what you’re into now, huh?” His voice is quiet, but the menacing undertone is loud and clear. “Creepy sleazebags?”
I shrug his arm off and offer my sweetest, fakest smile. “Believe me, if I was into creepy sleazebags, you’d be first on the list.”
Just as I push open the door to the women’s bathroom, he grips me by the wrist. His fingers cut into my skin as he tugs me against his chest. When I reluctantly meet his gaze, his blue eyes are cold.
I grit my teeth. “Get your hands off me.”
“I thought you liked it when I touched you.” His lip twitches, but it’s humorless. He brings his mouth to my cheek. “Don’t you remember? When you spread your legs and begged for it? Over and over, like a bitch in heat.”
Bitterness slithers up my throat like bile. I can’t even say he’s lying. But the smug expression on his stupid face, the way he’s looking at me like he thinks he knows me, it fuels my fury like a match to gasoline.
He knows nothing about me or the reason I slept with him that night. The truth is, it could have been anyone—anyone just to make it all go away.
“It was freshman year, Carter. You can’t really expect me to remember it as well as you seem to,” I lie, because I wish it were true. “Besides, if I’m still your best fuck, maybe the real problem is you.”
My words are still settling in the air when I yank my arm from his grip and enter the bathroom, letting the door slam in his face behind me. He pushes it back open, but he stills when a girl brushes past him and shoots him a disgusted look before entering one of the stalls. As he stands unblinking in the hallway, I flash a bitter smile, turn around, and listen to the door fall shut with him on the other side.
I grip the edges of the sink and stare at my reflection. I inhale. Exhale. Slow and steady. My olive skin looks a shade too pale this morning, my brown eyes still wide and on alert. As much as I hate Carter’s constant reminders about that night, and his assholeryness in general, he’s not the reason my hands are unsteady when I check that the girl is still locked in a stall and untuck the two-inch shard of opal glass from the waistband of my jeans.
Despite the years that have passed, I can still make out half the flower that was etched into the vase before it shattered. I glide my thumb across the dull edges stained with red, unable to look away from the faded smears.
It’s so much more than a shard of a vase. It’s more than the weapon I once turned it into. It’s a reminder of what almost was, and what I overcame. A promise to survive. And a secret I’ll take to my grave. But it’s also a reminder to stay alert, to abandon weakness, and to never forget where I came from before the Rutherfords swept me up into their ivory tower.
Because people like him—the one whose blood is caked on the shard beneath my thumb—they never stop searching. And people like me, well, we never stop running.
Which is why paranoia is never just paranoia for me.
After carefully tucking the piece of glass back under my waistband, I splash cold water on my face, pat myself dry with a paper towel, and throw my curls up in a ponytail. A flush sounds from the stall behind me. As the other girl washes her hands, I remove my jacket and stuff it into my backpack.
In a way, I have Whitney to thank for my outfit. It wasn’t until she started a school-wide petition for “freedom of expression” and “individuality” that the board finally nixed their bland uniforms. Some of the guidelines still get me in trouble—my black top is too small, showing glimpses of my silver navel piercing whenever I move—but Mr. Doau will make sure I get detention regardless of how I dress, so fuck it.
The girl exits the bathroom, and I follow closely behind her. I’m halfway over the threshold when a white T-shirt blocks my path, rough hands curl around my wrists, and I’m forced back into the bathroom.
“What the—”
“Tell me the truth, Eva,” Carter breathes in my face.
He’s backed me into the wall, locking my wrists at my sides. A wave of panic hits me, cold and sudden. I swallow it down.
“Why do you do it?” he asks. “Why do you fuck everyone but me now? Is it your way of getting back at me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Carter.” I sigh, feigning boredom just to piss him off. “Nothing I do is for you.”
His already thin lips tighten, becoming almost nonexistent, his grip crushing my wrist bones and twisting my skin. Pain shoots up
my arms, making me wince, but I refuse to make a sound.
When the pressure only increases, my chest heaves, and panic rings in my ears.
The bathroom door swings open, and a breeze hits my skin.
“Girl, I heard about that over a month ago already.”
Two girls pause mid-step as the door shuts behind them. Their lips part to form small circles, eyes widening while they take in the sight of us.
“Um, okay,” one of them eventually says. “We’ll come back later.”
They disappear before the last word is fully out.
I look back at Carter, whose eyes keep darting to the now-closed door. My expression remains bored, but my words are clipped. “Unless you want everyone at school to witness your embarrassingly clingy side, get the hell off me. Now.”
He hesitates before complying.
Rubbing one of my sore wrists, I turn and grab the doorknob. We’re both breathing a little harder than normal as we exit the bathroom together, my neck and palms clammy.
Almost immediately, whistles bounce off the walls. People stare with mixed expressions, some confused, others horrified, most disinterested. Some of the guys tip their chins at Carter, giving him the signature nod of approval. I can’t see Carter’s expression, but I’m sure he’s playing it off like we just fucked around.
Whatever. As long as he’s not touching me, I genuinely don’t give a crap.
The instant I turn right to head to bio, my gaze collides with smooth, warm whiskey. Easton’s best friend Zach talks animatedly beside him, but just like last time, he’s watching me. Resting a shoulder against his locker, one ankle loosely crossed over the other. I’d be convinced of his indifference if it weren’t for the tension locking his jaw tight and the dark edge spreading like ink from his pupils as he drags his focus from me to Carter, then back again.
My heart pulsates against my rib cage as I walk closer.
Closer.
Having Easton’s attention on me is what I imagine a long pull of nicotine feels like to someone trying to quit smoking. It’s a shaky buzz and a serene calm all at once. It’s comfort wrapping around your lungs, with just enough squeeze to threaten your air supply. It’s home and longing, because all you want is to live in it, but you know you can’t.