by T. L. Martin
Shutting my bedroom door, I stand by the adjoined wall of the bathroom and continue to listen. But instead of the shower, I hear something else. A sob. Followed by another, then another. Shit.
The sound is close, like she’s leaning against the same wall. I rub the side of my jaw, sliding my bottom lip across my teeth, then press my hands against the white paint. If I know what’s good for us, for her, this is as close to touching her as I’ll ever get. She continues to cry, and my fingers dig into the wall.
Sometimes, I fantasize about it—finding whoever made her this way. She’d never admit anything happened to her, but I saw her, all those years ago. And I’m never gonna forget.
Pushing out a breath, I lean against the wall and slide to the floor. I sit beside her for as long as it takes. Listening until her sobs fade and the shower turns on.
Of all the thoughts running through my head, right now, there’s only one I wish I could tell her.
Maybe you don’t deserve it either, Eva.
Eva
“Out of my way.” Carter’s voice crawls over my skin.
Thankfully, he’s not talking to me. Although, I’d ignore the asshole even if he was.
“I said, move.”
Whitney scoffs at him. “Rude much? This is my locker, jerk. What are you even doing here?”
“You sure this one is yours? Figured they’d put you by the nurse’s office to get that daily stick outta your ass. Speaking of your ass, I swear your skirts are getting shorter and shorter. No wonder Easton keeps you locked down.”
“You’re a pig.”
From the corner of my eye, I see him prowl forward, and she stiffens.
He chuckles quietly. “Don’t worry, I’m not here for you. Prude bitches aren’t my type.”
Her jaw drops.
“Anyway, I think I figured out why you’ve been letting loose lately. Rumor has it, your daddy hasn’t been home for a while. Is that why your allowance is so inflated? He pays you to make up for ignoring you to screw everything in sight?”
Whitney’s cheeks turn scarlet. “I—I—”
“Now that I think of it, no one’s seen your mom in a while either. Maybe she’s found her inner slut too.”
“Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Things at home are fine.”
He laughs. “Sure.”
I take a sip of water from the sports bottle I keep in my locker, then finish switching out my English materials for bio and slam the door shut. “Careful, Carter,” I say nonchalantly, grabbing my backpack off the floor. “Your IQ level is showing.”
In two strides, Carter blocks my path. “What the fuck did you say to me?”
“Let me rephrase that. Your stupidity is blinding.”
Carter’s already thin lips do that disappearing act. “How the hell is that better?” he grits.
I blink slowly. “It isn’t. I just rephrased it.”
I pat his tense chest and move to step around him, meeting Whitney’s stunned eyes.
“Not so fast.” Carter’s arm bumps my shoulder as he falls into sync beside me. “It isn’t enough you started fucking my best friend, now you wanna talk shit about me too?” He nods in greeting to Marco as we pass his locker, then returns his attention to lucky old me. “Elijah told me you’re fucking him now. You know what I think? I call bullshit. You might be a slut, but you’re not stupid.”
“So we’re either prudes or sluts. Classy.”
“All that, and the only word you hear is slut?”
“You’re losing me, Carter. Little ol’ me can’t keep up with such an intellectual conversation.”
Ten steps until solid classroom walls separate me from this asshole.
“Are you fucking him or not?”
Five steps.
“I’m a slut, remember?”
Three.
“Isn’t that what we do best?”
He’s about to grab my arm when I slip into the classroom, just out of reach. I look over my shoulder and offer a sweet smile and closed wave, like I’m on a float and Carter’s disappearing lips are the audience.
His eyes narrow just as the bell rings.
“Mr. Watson, don’t you have somewhere to be?” Mr. Doau says.
Carter holds my gaze, his flickering with the promise of retaliation, before he stalks off.
I drop my backpack near my desk, slump into my chair, and open my notebook. Mr. Doau’s voice instantly stabs my eardrums. Gripping my pen, I trace the worn lines of the sketched lily. The ink bleeds through the page from being traced so many times.
I’m not an artist, but Mom’s tattoo is etched into my brain so vividly every line is a perfect replica. That wilted petal stretched over her collarbone, the stem sliding down her shoulder blade. White and green on olive skin.
“It’s a lily, see? Just like your middle name. Do you like it?”
“It’s so pretty, Mommy.”
Soft lips brush my forehead. “I got it for you. So I can keep you close no matter where I go.”
“You’re doing it for real this time? You’re really going away?”
Gentle fingers in my hair. Wet cheek against my temple. “Yes, my sweet Evangeline. I’m really going away.”
My lip trembles, but I quickly steady it between my teeth. She’s okay now, wherever she is. Safe. Maybe even happy.
I can’t blame her for leaving me, for saving herself from more bruises and tears. She was dying inside, and even as a child, I could see it. But what she didn’t know was, I was dying too.
My head snaps up at the ring of the bell. Did I miss the entire lecture? What a shame.
I stuff my things into my backpack and bolt for the door, but, of course, I’m not quick enough.
“Miss Rutherford.”
“Detention,” I respond numbly. “I know.” I continue toward the door, but his stern words stop me.
“I haven’t excused you yet.”
Frozen, I stare ahead, at the horde of people blurring into the hall. The last student trickles out, and Mr. Doau shuts the door. Then, we’re alone.
The nape of my neck crawls when he moves behind me, way too fucking close, and mutters in my ear, “Don’t you ever miss it? Us?” He even has the nerve to brush the hair off my neck, his fingers lingering. “We had a good thing going, didn’t we?”
And that is the moment Easton opens the door.
His grip stills on the knob, his gaze pinned on the teacher’s hand on my neck. The blood drains from my face. He can’t see this.
Not this.
Mr. Doau’s fingers disappear in a flash, and he clears his throat. “Mr. Rutherford. I was just informing your sister about an extra credit assignment. What can I do for you?”
Easton’s eyes flash with something hostile I’ve never seen before.
I feel sick.
Groping hands.
Dainty.
Docile.
I brush past Easton. As soon as I’m in the hall, I lean over and throw up everything in my stomach into a trash can. A girl walking by gags, and a couple of football players feign throwing up between laughs. But I don’t pay attention to them. Because Easton is face-to-face with Mr. Doau in the doorway of his room.
His mere presence shrinks the balding teacher right before my eyes. He has half a foot on Mr. Doau, but I know that’s not the reason the teacher looks ready to shit his pants. Everyone knows the Rutherfords, thanks to the high-profile cases Vincent’s firm takes on, and it doesn’t hurt they funded this school practically single-handedly.
Easton takes a small step toward Mr. Doau, who takes one back. They do it again until they disappear into the classroom.
My shaky heartbeat battles with the nausea in my stomach.
He can’t help it, can he? He just has to save everyone.
Everybody’s fucking staring at me like I carry some infectious disease.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and lift a shoulder. “What can I say? First trimester’s a bitch.”
Eyes widen, a gasp sounds, but I ignore it all and head down the hall to the water fountain. I take a long drink to rid the bad taste from my mouth. But even Caspian Prep’s fancy water can’t rinse it away, so I fetch a piece of cinnamon gum from my bag and pop it into my mouth.
I have two minutes to get to study hall, but I don’t move. I lean against the wall near the fountain and wonder what’s happening in Mr. Doau’s classroom. What they’re saying. What Easton is thinking.
Most days, I know exactly what I’m doing. I work for it—the way people see me. The way they talk. But sometimes, when I look at Easton . . . when I see the way he looks at me . . . I can’t remember why I do any of it.
The bell rings, jolting me back to reality.
The hall has cleared out, leaving me alone with a tall and angry silhouette moving past me. He’s purposefully avoiding me, but something deep and empty inside of me won’t let him walk away. I grab his arm, and he reluctantly stops. Red washes down his neck, and his whiskey eyes have darkened to Guinness. His gaze slides to my hand on his bare skin, and I let it drop.
Vulnerability expands in my stomach. I don’t like the feeling.
“What the hell were you doing?” I hiss.
“Are you kidding me? You want to know what I was doing?” he growls. He presses his lips together, releases a slow exhale, and runs his palm across his mouth. “How long has he been touching you like that?”
I lift a shoulder and look away.
“Eva.”
The way he says my name, it’s so gentle, the warm glow of a slow-burning flame. I drag my gaze back to his. There’s a tightness in my throat. It feels like shame and hope and too much else.
His jaw tightens when I still don’t respond. “How long?”
“Your cop complex is adorable,” I breathe, “but not everyone needs saving.”
“Just answer the question, Eva. Please.”
His insistence squeezes my lungs so tightly I’m claustrophobic.
“Why does it matter? Are you jealous?”
He lets out a rough breath. “Why do you do this?”
“Do what?” My voice shakes, betraying me, so I blow a bubble, then pop it.
“This.” He grabs the deflated bubble from my lips, and I watch as he tosses it into the trash can beside the water fountain. “Deflect whenever I have a real question.”
The small touch of his fingers against my lips still burns, and somehow the contact threatens to tear my faҫade to shreds.
I don’t know, I want to say.
I don’t know why I do it.
Instead, what comes out is, “If you wanted a turn with me, all you had to do was ask.”
He takes a step closer, and the toe of his shoe touches mine. My fingers spread on the cool wall behind me, grounding me in the heat of his body. Our faces are inches apart. I have nothing to hide behind. No belt buckles, rumors, or red Solo cups.
His warm breath brushes my lips. “Why do you say shit like that to me?”
My heart thrums in my ears, and I can barely hear my response. “Maybe I like the attention.”
“And Mr. Doau? Carter? Marco?” His eyes darken. “You like attention from them too?”
“They’ll give it to me whether I want it or not. At least this way, I have some control.” The honesty spills from my tongue before I can rein it in.
Easton’s brows slant together, and his eyes flick between mine. “Is that what you think? That you don’t have a choice?”
I swallow the lump in my throat. The weight in my chest grows heavier with each word from his mouth. I can’t handle any more, so I change the subject. “I want to know why you’ve spoken more to me this week than you ever have in the past three years.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
I chew my lip like I’m contemplating it. “No.”
Damn adrenaline. Damn heat. Damn Easton.
“Then tell me, how long has he been doing that?”
Sonofabitch.
“Are we playing twenty questions? Because if we are, I think you’ve reached your limit.”
“Dammit, Eva,” he mutters, gritting his jaw. “This isn’t some fucking game. The way people treat you isn’t a game.”
“But it would be so much more fun if it were, don’t you think?”
He scans my expression, reading every inch of me. I train my features to keep them blank, but the longer he studies me, the harder it gets.
I don’t want you to see.
I don’t want you to know.
“Hey! Do you two have a bathroom pass?” I can feel the hall monitor push up his glasses beside us while getting out his little notebook.
Easton and I don’t release each other’s stares, saying nothing but so much at once.
“I’ll take that as a no. You’re violating Code 2 Dash 3 of the Student Handbook,” he announces, like he’s in training to be a wannabe mall cop. “I’m going to have to write both of you up for detention.”
Easton holds eye contact with me for a moment before he steps back. His shoulders fall, and he slips his hands into his pockets. “You always have a choice, Eva. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”
The stupid stinging behind my eyes intensifies, and I don’t know how to respond.
The hall monitor furiously writes up detention slips. “No talking in the halls during class. Code 2 Dash 6 of the Student Handbook.”
I ignore him.
“What did you say to Mr. Doau?” I whisper, hating the sliver of desperation leaking through.
“Do you really want to know?”
“I just . . . I don’t want to make a scene, Easton. Please.” I know I sound weak. But I feel weak too.
The hall monitor slaps a detention slip into Easton’s hand, but when he goes to hand me mine, I don’t have the energy to take it, so Easton does.
“Code 3 Dash—”
“We got it,” I snap.
His eyes narrow, but he turns and disappears down the hall to find some other students to annoy.
Easton puts my detention slip in my hand, and for a moment, I can almost imagine we’re not brother and sister, I’m not fucked-up, and we’re two normal people, just holding hands.
When he starts to leave, my fingers wrap around his forearm, stopping him.
He stares at my grip for a long moment before his gaze trails up my arm, landing on my face again. “I only said what he needed to hear. Nothing more, nothing less. He’ll keep quiet, and he won’t be going near you again. I can promise you that.”
This time when he turns, I let my hand slide down his wrist and drop to my side.
He’s almost around the corner when he pauses, his back to me. “I might not have talked to you this much before, but I’ve always noticed you, Eva.” His voice is so soft it floats over my skin. “All I’ve done for three fucking years is notice you.”
My eyes are wide open as I roll onto my side, tangling my bed sheets in the process. Restless, I turn to the other side. And then, to my stomach. I stare at my phone beside my pillow for a long moment before I snatch it up. I ignore the ridiculous number of unread texts, desperate attempts at booty calls from guys who think they know me, and scroll through my contacts for a new face.
But there’s only one face I want.
You always have a choice.
I drop my phone and flip onto my back. Easton’s right about one thing. Right now, I do have a choice. I pull my bottom lip through my teeth and let my fingers trail past the hem of my cotton crop top. The soft touch tickles my bare midsection and lights a fire between my legs. My eyes fall shut as this afternoon replays in my head. Him, so close. His warm breath on my cheek. The heat of his body. The rasp of his voice vibrating low in my core.
I’ve always noticed you, Eva.
My hand slides lower and dips beneath my panties. The look on his face freezes in my mind, his words wrapping tightly around me.
All I’ve done for three fucking years is notice you.
Right now, I imagine h
e wears that look for me only. That he belongs to me.
And I ride away on a fantasy I know will never be mine.
Easton
Pulling up in front of the ostentatious mansion, I park the car at the curb. A sob sounds from the seat beside me, breaking the silence.
I look over at Whitney.
She’s a mess, her usually perfect ponytail tangled and uncombed. Black mascara smeared below her eyes. Her nose is pink and wet. She’s been visiting her mom a lot over these past few weeks, and each time is harder on her than the last. Each time, her dad grows closer to pulling the plug.
Her tear-filled eyes meet mine. “I hate him.”
I nod. Whitney was fourteen when she caught her dad with his pants down. Some girl her own age was leaning over his lap. After his wife’s car accident, he started disappearing more and more. Revulsion floods me at just the thought of the creep.
“Sometimes, I want to kill him.” She sniffs. “Like, literally wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze.”
“I know.”
“Think you could do it for me?” She wipes her eyes, her tone softening. “I’ll pay you extra.”
My lips quirk. “Tempting.”
She half-chuckles and leans back against the passenger seat. We sit in silence for a moment, and my thoughts drift to where they always do. To a certain reckless Colombian with the kind of doe eyes that could steal a man’s soul.
Through my window, I peer into the dark. It’s eleven on a school night, but I know Eva could be anywhere right now. With anyone. My knuckles curl, and I release them slowly. I force my thoughts to not get carried away. Not until I can check on her and see if she’s in her room, safe and untouched.
“Rumors about my parents are circulating again.” Whitney’s whisper is so quiet I barely hear it. Her head rests against the seat, heavy eyes gazing out her window. “Carter’s having a field day with them.”
I look at her, at the anxiety flaring behind her distant gaze. It’s the same look she used to get right before the peer pressure made her crack. “It’s just words, Whit,” I say gently. “Don’t let them get to you. Especially a piece of shit like Carter.”