by T. L. Martin
“So, you and Carter again, huh?” Zach says, stopping me just as I’m about to pass them.
He looks past me, to where I assume Carter lingers with his loser friends, then runs a hand through his brown curls. Zach’s blue eyes aren’t like Carter’s. They’re light and boyish, friendly.
“What’s a guy like me gotta do to get you to go out with me?”
I arch a brow, flicking my gaze to Easton, but he doesn’t look back at me. He’s too busy focusing on my wrists. His jaw works back and forth, a muscle in his throat twitching. I follow his stare to the red fingerprints on my skin. They’re more obvious than I realized. Shit.
Clearing my throat, I adjust the strap of my backpack. “Is that a serious question?”
A small smile toys with Zach’s lips. “Why not? I’ll take you on proper dates and everything.”
I laugh. “I don’t date Easton’s friends.”
“Ah, come on. It’s not my fault my best friend’s your brother . . . -ish. I’m a lot better than that asshole Carter, right?”
Easton’s gaze slides up my arm, my neck, landing on my eyes. Examining, scrutinizing. Flooding me with warmth like a heater in my core.
Staring right back, I calmly challenge, “Who says I don’t like assholes?” I trace the red marks around my wrist sensually, my fingernails caressing them. “Maybe I get off on dirty words and rough hands.” I grab Zach’s hand, trailing a finger down his arm, then his palm. “Being manhandled.”
I don’t see his reaction.
Because he’s not the one I’m paying attention to.
A shiver runs over my body when Easton’s eyes darken to depths deep enough to consume me. He tears his gaze away, but I don’t miss the subtle flare of his nostrils.
A bell rings.
None of us move.
“Do you know how to take control, Zach?” I ask, peering at him beneath lowered lashes.
He lets out a breath, his flustered gaze uncertain as it slides from me to Easton.
“Do you really think you could be man enough to satisfy me?”
“Is that all it takes?” Easton’s words are low, almost too low to hear above the sudden pounding in my ears. Now, when I flick my focus back to him, he doesn’t take his penetrating eyes off mine. “Treat you like shit? Is that what makes you come?”
My breathing turns shallow.
Easton doesn’t talk to me. And brothers aren’t supposed to ask what makes their sisters come.
I remember the first night he laid eyes on me. When I was filthy, shaking, damaged. Today, I might have a fancy roof over my head and soap to wash away the dirt, but I’m still the same girl beneath. It’s important neither of us forget it.
With my gaze locked on Easton’s, I drop Zach’s hand. Then I lean close to Easton and whisper into his ear, “I don’t know. Do you want to find out?”
We stare at each other so intently I’m tempted to look away. I tease him often, taunt him shamelessly, but I’ve never come right out and said anything so bold. Tension stretches between us, curling around my ribs and squeezing. Still, he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t react at all. Meanwhile, chills break out across my neck.
“Okay . . .” Zach takes a large step back and rubs the mop of curls on his head. Discomfort distorts his expression as he looks between me and Easton. “I don’t think I wanna get in the middle of, uh . . . whatever this is.”
My throat’s too dry to speak.
Finally, Easton pushes off the locker. He doesn’t spare me another glance before leaving me in the corridor, and Zach follows closely behind.
As I stand alone, a weird, heavy feeling settles on my chest.
I did it. I got him to break his rules. To finally say what he was thinking. Even if it was short-lived. Even if it was the last words I expected to hear from him. It should feel good. Triumphant. But as I finally get my feet to move and lead me to bio, I can’t shake the bad taste in my mouth.
Once dirty, always dirty.
The following morning, I zip my black jacket halfway up and peer out my window, scanning the yard. I don’t know why I always check it when no one is ever watching. Force of habit, I guess. It doesn’t help my paranoia that the trellis scales this side of the house; I know from experience how easy it is to climb. I triple-check the window lock, run my thumb over the dull edges of the opal shard in my jeans, and exit my bedroom. Like usual, Easton’s room sits quiet when I pass it. Even on a Saturday, he’s up early.
Treat you like shit? Is that what makes you come?
I swallow and make my way down the spiral staircase. I haven’t seen him since he spoke to me yesterday; since his words have been on repeat in my head.
Right on cue, his voice travels to my ears before I enter the kitchen, and my pulse beats in anticipation. I see his T-shirt-clad back first, his broad shoulders blocking my path to the coffee pot as he pours a cup.
“Zach can take you,” he drawls into the cell phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear. “Because I’m not going.” He starts to pour a second cup. “It’s not my scene. I’ve got practice this afternoon anyway, so I’ll be beat by the time—”
I hop onto the counter, right beside the coffee pot he’s hogging, and smile. I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s talking to Whitney, and my presence is guaranteed to get him to hang up on her. I’ll never know why—maybe he doesn’t want me to taint her pureness—but it’s deeply satisfying nonetheless.
He lets out a low breath, something between irritation and dark amusement flicking through his expression.
“I gotta go.” There’s a short pause. Then he hangs up, slips his phone into his back pocket, and grabs his cup before turning and walking toward the island.
My eyes narrow on the pot, then they slide to the full mug beside it as steam clouds the rim. I know by now it’s not for me. I also don’t need to look up to know Easton’s sitting at the island sipping his own cup of coffee. Watching me glare at the empty pot.
He’s aware I always make mine around the same time as him. He’s also aware his mom follows behind me like clockwork every morning, expecting her own cup to be ready. Yet it’s the same story every day: he only makes enough for two cups—one for himself, the other for his dad. I get why he won’t make any for his mom; she likes her morning joe spiked with enough liquor to make a grown man wheeze. As for me, I guess he has his reasons.
My lips thin as I prepare my coffee, following it up with Bridget’s, and I try to ignore the bitterness creeping up my throat.
“Darling, no. Don’t be absurd.”
I glance at Bridget when she sashays into the kitchen, phone at her ear, her white designer heels click click clicking.
“Of course, I knew from the start it was just a rumor. You would never do such a thing.” She rolls her eyes and opens the top cabinet, rifling through her treasure of pill bottles.
It’s the perfect moment to add her favorite liquor to the coffee I’ve prepared for her. She’s paying just enough attention to confirm I’m slipping it into her drink, but not enough to notice how little I’m actually pouring.
“For heaven’s sake, Ruby, just fire him already. No one’s going to miss the gardener.”
She pops a Xanax, click-clacks toward me, and jerks her drink from my grip. I smile, like always, trying to catch her gaze, but the bitterness in my throat turns sour when she spins on her heel and exits the kitchen without so much as breathing in my space.
I don’t know why I do it. I wouldn’t force a stupid smile for anyone else the way I do for Bridget. We both know she will never be my mother. My real mother’s warmth could thaw the chill from her eyes within half a second. But if it weren’t for Bridget, I’d still be circling corners to pay for my next meal, and sometimes I worry she will adopt me out of her family as easily as she adopted me into it.
Scowling into my black coffee, I take a long sip.
When I whirl around and lean against the countertop, Easton’s gaze stops my breath. Fiery whiskey eats up the room like a
flame chasing an explosive. He doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t have to. He saw my silent plea for his mother’s approval, and I hate myself for it.
I arch an eyebrow. “Cat got your tongue?”
His eyelids lower, that squared jaw clenching.
“And here I thought my big brother and I were finally bonding yesterday.”
He pushes back his stool and stands, his gaze moving over me in a long, slow sweep. It lands just above my jacket zipper, where my breasts threaten to spill over the red top underneath.
His movements are languid, relaxed, when he grabs his backpack off the stool beside him, and my heart patters as he closes the gap between us. Stopping at my right, he reaches for the untouched coffee he made for his father, and his bicep brushes my shoulder.
Neither of us looks at each other, but his low voice sends ripples across my skin. “Unless you want more assholes following you into bathrooms, you should zip up your fucking jacket.”
My pulse thrums, buzzing in my ears.
His breath strokes my cheek. “And we both know I’m not your damn brother, Eva.”
I swallow. Breathless.
Just when I turn my head to look at him, he disappears in his mother’s trail, and I’m left staring after their faded shadows.
Easton
I chug the ice-cold water until I get a brain freeze. Then I chug some more.
Sweat drips down my neck, my back. The sun’s relentless, beating down on me and the few remaining guys on the team trying to catch their breath. I’m worn out, but I sure as hell needed the extra hour today.
From across the football field, Zach jogs toward me, his curly hair damp with sweat. Zach’s the one who convinced me to join the football team with him last year. I caved for the distraction, a shinier college application, and a way to burn off energy.
Breathing hard like the rest of us, Zach pats my back when he reaches me at the bench. “So, you coming tonight or what?”
Wiping my forehead and neck with a cool cloth, I shoot him a sideways look. “What? To the party?”
“Yeah.”
“Since when do I do parties?”
“You used to all the time, man.” He frowns, squinting beneath the sun’s rays. “Isn’t that how you and Whitney first hooked up? At her party?”
“I’ve got other shit to focus on this year.” I shrug and look away at the lie. “I told Whitney you’d take her since I figured you’d be going. You know how she gets when she drinks. I’d feel better about it if you could keep an eye on her anyway.”
“All right. Your loss. I’ll probably just get an Uber for us though.” He smirks. “Carter might be an asshole, but he knows how to fucking party.”
My brows crash together. “Carter’s going?”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?” He grabs a water bottle from the cooler before we start heading to the lockers. “It’s at Elijah’s place.”
My jaw ticks. My gaze is fixed straight ahead while we enter the locker room, but all I see is that asshole’s smug expression when he followed Eva out of the bathroom. Her face and neck flushed. Wrists raw and red.
I open my locker and pull a fresh shirt over my head.
It’s not the first time he’s followed her around, but she usually shakes him off pretty quickly. Yesterday, though, he got way too fucking close, and that was on school grounds. He fucking marked her. At Elijah’s, there will be nothing holding him back. No rules. No limits.
“Maybe I’ll stop by for a minute. Check things out.” I almost take the words back once they’re out, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
Zach pauses halfway through pulling his own shirt on. “You serious?” His eyes narrow. “Hold up, don’t tease me. That’s not cool.”
My lips quirk, but the tension coiling in my shoulders spreads down my back. I could never admit aloud the real reason I stopped going to parties: if there’s a party, Eva’s guaranteed to be there. Drinking, dancing, following guys behind closed doors. I grit my teeth, pushing the unwanted visual away. But the last thing Eva needs is to be messing around with a piece of shit like Carter, especially after yesterday. Just the thought of them together makes my fucking hands shake.
“Nah, I’m serious. I’ll go.”
“Fuck. Yes.” He slaps my shoulder, his grin about to split his face open. “My boy is back!”
I shake my head and grab my gym bag. “One night. That’s it. And no drinking.”
“The hell’s the point then?”
“Simple, man,” I mutter, heading toward the exit. I’m already wishing the party was over. “Get in, keep an eye on her until she’s ready to leave, and get the hell out.”
“Yo, wait.” He grabs his bag, then jogs to catch up to me. “Look at you, all protective and shit. Whitney’s a damn queen.”
“What?” I glance at him and yank the door open. The sun blinds me as we step outside. “Yeah, I guess.”
I run my fingers through my damp hair.
Whitney.
Of course, that’s who I meant.
“Just one more?” Whitney pouts, her crimson lips a shade darker than the hair hanging down her back. “Pleeease?” She leans in, trying to kiss me, but trips over herself and crashes against my chest instead.
Planting a hand around each of her arms, I steady her.
She curls into my T-shirt and sighs.
“Think you’re good on alcohol for tonight, Whit.”
“Mmm. You smell so nice,” she slurs. “So manly and charming and yummier than ice cream.”
“Jesus.” I rub the back of my neck, pushing out a breath. I’m already sick of the throbbing techno music and heavy scent of beer wafting through the house. “Come on. Let’s grab you some water and sit down.”
I get a water bottle from the fridge, then steer her through the crowd until we reach the living room. There are three huge couches, each one of them covered in tangles of arms, legs, and wandering hands.
“Matt,” I call to one of my buddies taking up half the couch. He’s my team’s quarterback, and one of the cheerleaders happens to be straddling him right now. How fucking cliché. “Scoot over, yeah?”
He doesn’t bother to unlock his mouth from the blonde’s, but he slides over so I can set Whitney down and slip into the spot beside her. As she slumps against me, I lean back, stretching my legs. Zach was right: Carter’s here, and if the keg stand I saw him doing with Elijah in the back yard is anything to go by, he’s not leaving anytime soon. But I haven’t seen Eva since she walked in ten minutes ago and headed to one of the bathrooms. Craning my neck, I don’t see Carter through the open back doors anymore either. I run a hand over my jaw, scanning the room again, but the longer I look, the more frustration builds in my lungs like poison.
Where the hell is she?
I’m seconds away from checking the bathrooms when a loud whistle snaps my gaze to the opposite end of the room. Eva’s form flickers in and out of sight behind a horde of drunken bodies. She winks at Marco, the dick I presume whistled, and takes a sip from the red Solo cup in her hand. My fist clenches at my side, but I slowly release it as my eyes slide down her body like she’s sugar and I’m on a fucking low-carb diet.
Black jeans ripped at the thighs, stretched tight around the kind of curves that bring grown-ass men to their knees. Her shirt’s a scrap of material, painted on her full breasts and ending just below her rib cage. My jaw ticks at the sight of her in such revealing clothing, but I push my irrational feelings away and drag my gaze back to her face.
Truthfully, she’s more covered than most of the girls here, including Whitney. But you’d never know it by the way Marco’s slipping behind her, whispering who-the-hell-knows-what into her ear.
My muscles tense. I can take a few guesses at what he’s saying.
He shouldn’t be whispering anything to her. He shouldn’t be talking to her at all. He doesn’t know her like I do. He hasn’t seen her like I have. He doesn’t watch her like I do.
Shit.
; I rake both hands through my hair and let my head fall back against the cushion, forcing myself to look up at the ceiling. I know it’s sick, this fixation I have on her. It’s fucking exhausting too. There’s a reason I never allow myself to do more than look, but lately, even that’s pushing me over the edge. Usually, I don’t realize how bad it’s gotten until I hear my own fucking thoughts.
Whitney moans, shifting against my side where I thought she’d fallen asleep. I look down at her, and her eyelashes flutter before she finds my gaze, trying to focus.
“I don’t feel so good, Easton.”
My brows furrow as I scan her pale face. “You only had those two cups, right?”
“Um . . .” She looks away. Chews her lower lip. “Well,” she groans, pausing to wrap an arm around her stomach, “Elijah might have given me another cup or two while you were distracted.”
My eyes fall shut, and I swipe my palm down my face.
Goddamn Elijah.
Whitney’s softer than she lets on. She’s a perfectionist. She works herself to the bone in school and every other area of her life, but the stress of it didn’t fully catch up to her until senior year. A couple months ago, she decided to let loose with alcohol—a decision I warned her against, repeatedly, thanks to my mom’s shining example—and she doesn’t know her limits yet.
“Easton?”
I cock an eyebrow.
“I think . . . I think I had too much. I don’t like the way it feels.” Her brows knit, lips curling like she might be sick. “The room is spinning.”
When she whimpers again, I pull her limp body into my arms and stand. Her head rolls to the side, and she stares up at me like I’m some kind of hero. Guilt stabs my gut. Whitney and I aren’t a normal couple. We’re both using each other in our own ways, but she’s innocent—more innocent than she’d ever let others glimpse—and seeing her like this isn’t right.