by T. L. Martin
“Yeah, well. They’re only going to get worse. Miranda and Julie already asked why I skipped the last party.”
“Did you tell them you were with me?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you’re fine. If they ask about it, I’ll tell them the same thing.”
She nods, slides her gaze to meet mine. After a beat, she says, “Eva kind of defended me.”
I cock an eyebrow, more than a little curious.
“When Carter was being a jerk, saying gross things. Eva called him out for it right on the spot. He ended up following her instead and forgetting all about me.”
I swipe my palm across the side of my jaw, my knee starting to bounce.
“Weird, right?”
“Not really.”
Whitney sits up and shifts to face me. “You don’t think it’s weird she defended me? After everything we’ve said and done to each other?”
“No. I don’t.” I slide my lower lip between my teeth, glancing out the window again. Hoping she’s home. Alone. “Eva isn’t petty like that.”
“Now, who’s defending who?” Whitney chides. “I still don’t like her.”
My lips twitch. “And I’m sure she still doesn’t care.”
She punches my shoulder, and I feign a wince. “You could give Maria a run for her money.”
She laughs. “Your housekeeper? Isn’t she like, eighty?”
“Sixty-seven, and don’t underestimate her. That woman is tough as nails. She could whoop my ass on a day her arthritis is flaring.”
Snickering again, she shakes her head and wipes the remaining wetness from her cheeks. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Taking my mind off . . . everything. You’re good at that.” She pulls her ponytail over her shoulder. “You’re taking me to the party this Friday, right?”
“No.”
“What? Why not? You took me last time.”
“That was a one-time deal, Whit,” I mutter, checking my watch. “You know that.”
“It’s going to be at Marco’s place.”
My eyes snap over to see a knowing gleam sparking behind hers.
“Now, do you want to go?” She looks away before quietly adding, “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to leave poor, helpless Eva all on her lonesome at Marco’s.”
My expression hardens, and she shifts in her seat. There are many words I’d associate with Eva, but poor or helpless aren’t included.
“What are you doing, Whitney?”
“What do you mean?” She smiles sweetly. “I’m not doing anything.”
“You know what we are. What this is.”
She shrugs. “Yeah. Whatever. Just because this isn’t real doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.” Rubbing her arm, she mutters, “All I’m saying is, relationships have boundaries, and Eva is your little sister, Easton. It’s inappropriate.”
A soft growl rumbles up my throat as I stare her down. “She isn’t my damn sister, Whitney. Don’t act like you don’t know that. And what you’re insinuating is beside the point, because there isn’t anything going on between us.” I grit my jaw and slide my gaze to the clock on the dashboard. “I wouldn’t fuck with her like that.”
She watches me for a long second. “If you say so. Just be careful. I’ve seen what girls like her can do to guys. Even a player like Carter is all messed up after her.”
My jaw ticks. What about Eva? Why the hell doesn’t anyone care about what happens to her?
Forcing my voice to remain calm, I nod toward the car door. “Good night, Whitney.”
She arches an eyebrow. Presses her lips together. “Fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” After grabbing her purse, she gets out of the car and slams the door, still watching me.
I start the engine and roll down the window. “Pick you up on Friday at nine. No drinking this time.”
Her jaw drops, but I don’t wait around for a response. I peel away from the curb.
I knew it was a mistake, allowing myself to talk to Eva. Getting involved the last time I followed her into The Pitts. At least when I kept my distance, no one had to know how closely I really watch her. She never had to know. The thing about mistakes is they’re hard to recognize in the moment. The worst ones are like a drug—once you feel what it’s like to go with your gut, you don’t know how to stop. No matter the consequences.
It can’t all be a mistake though. Not when it means Mr. Doau won’t ever touch her again. Not when it kept that asshole in The Pitts from hurting her. Not when I get to make sure she comes home safe each night.
Pulling into my driveway, I shut off the car and push out a breath. Exhaustion weighs on my shoulders as I unlock the front door and quietly pace up the dark stairway. Once I reach the top, I notice Eva’s door is open a crack. I pause, grip the handrail, and glance from her door to mine, then back again.
Her door was shut when she left for school this morning, so she has to be home. There’s no need to go any closer. I release the handrail and head to my own room.
I start to open my door but freeze when a soft sound slips through the opening to her room. A moan. And then another one.
Releasing the knob, I swing my gaze down the hall. There’s no way that’s what I think it is. If she has a guy in her room with her, in our house, I fucking swear . . .
I pace down the hall, not caring this is a massive invasion of privacy. I have to know. Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m standing in front of her cracked door.
The first thing I see is her blanket tangled at the foot of the bed. Smooth, bare legs spread wide open. She’s wearing nothing but a loose crop top and a thong. My throat goes dry, and I work down a swallow as my gaze follows her arm to the hand beneath her underwear. She lets out a thick, breathy moan, and her hips rise to grind against her hand.
My pulse beats in my ears and dick. Heat coils around me, sinking into every cell in my body.
Holy fuck . . .
I’m going to Hell for watching this, but my blood is pounding, my vision is dimming, and my feet refuse to move.
Look away. Look away.
I force my gaze down, but when another soft noise hits my ears, I can’t stop from looking back up. Her other hand slides beneath her shirt to pinch her nipple, and a tight tug pulls at my groin.
I’m fucking sweating.
Look the fuck away.
My hands ball into fists—curl and release, curl and release—until my knuckles feel raw. Her breathing grows quick, like she’s close to coming, and the sounds plunge straight through me, making my cock strain painfully against my jeans. Finally, I tear my eyes away. Turning around, I rest my back against the wall for support and tilt my head toward the ceiling.
My chest thunders against my rib cage. Those noises . . . her writhing hips . . . naked skin . . .
I shut my eyes and run a hand across the back of my neck, squeezing tight.
She’s definitely alone.
And I’m completely fucked.
Eva
I’m one block from school when I feel it.
Tiny needles prick the back of my neck, and my breath goes cold.
I scan the street like I do every morning. A few paid hires are out mowing lawns. Sparkling BMWs, Teslas, and Audis zip past me and the other students walking on the sidewalk. The sky is cartoon blue. Everything is perfect here in Perfectville. But the view doesn’t quell the paranoia on my back.
Trying to shrug the feeling off, I shift my gaze to the nearing campus. But something catches my eye. A Mercedes lacking its sparkle. Muted beige, a few dings and scratches and tinted windows. It’s nearly nondescript, but something about the sight of it crawling by the school raises the hair on my arms.
Most of the drivers dropping students off at Caspian Prep are paid and can’t get the kids out of the car quick enough. The rest are parents who are either too overworked or superficial to do anything but give a half-hearted wave and speed off.
They never crawl.
Reach
ing behind me, I yank on the tie keeping my curls contained and let the strands spill around my face and down my arms. I squeeze my way between a couple, break their hands apart with my body, and keep myself hidden by the girl’s oversized boyfriend.
The girl starts. “What the—”
“Oh. My. God.” I place a hand on my chest, suddenly thankful I’ve overheard so many of her conversations in bio. “Your Jimmy Choo’s are so cute. Are those the latest season?”
“Oh, these?” She brightens as she looks down at her high-heeled sandals, and we veer toward the school’s entrance. “No, girl. These are next season. My sister knows someone who knows someone, so she pulled some strings for me.”
“She goes to Polimida, doesn’t she?”
Surprise flashes in the girl’s eyes. “Yeah.”
It’s alarming how much you can learn about those around you when you keep your mouth shut and your head down. “Ah-mazing.”
“Right?” She grins.
I slow down just enough to let her and her boyfriend pass me as they continue toward their lockers. I catch her showing him her shoes before I glance over my shoulder, peer through the open entrance doors, and scan the street.
The Mercedes is gone. My paranoia isn’t.
Ice creeps through my chest and spreads like a web, and for a second, I’m back in time. In a five-star hotel with hairy hands bruising my neck. Pain ripping me in half. His voice in my ear. Shattering glass. Warm blood on my fingers.
I stare down the hall. The students, the lockers, and laughter.
He’s not here.
But fear isn’t logical. I spend the next few periods jumping at the littlest noises, looking over my shoulder, and telling myself I’m safe, I’m safe, I’m safe.
But all I really hear is liar, liar, liar.
When the bell rings, I spring from my seat before Mr. Doau can finish rattling off today’s homework. It’s mechanical, the rushed way I collect my stuff and bolt for the door. Programmed into my DNA from years of repetition.
I tense when I reach the door, expecting that grating, “Detention, Miss Rutherford.”
But nobody calls my name.
Nobody tells me to stop.
For once, nobody wants anything from me.
The moment catches me so off-guard, I freeze anyway.
“What the hell,” a girl mutters and pushes past.
More of the crowd filters around me, but I ignore them as I turn to face Mr. Doau.
He’s rifling through paperwork, almost like a normal teacher would. Except his hands are unsteady, his face a little too pale. I know he feels me watching him. He has to. I’ve been standing here for so long I’m now the last student left. But it’s as if . . . he doesn’t dare to look up.
And I realize, I’m finally free of him.
The crippling weight on my shoulders fades, and the feeling taking its place is overwhelming. Relief pours into me in warm, fluid waves. The steel chain that tied me to Mr. Doau for so long has been sawed in half.
I’m free of him.
I can’t believe it.
My throat closes up. I swing around and drift through the bustling hall, only partially present.
Easton did this. He did it for me. Maybe it was because he felt sorry for me. Maybe he was disgusted. Either way, I’m finally fucking free. Of one thing at least. And I’ve never felt so grateful.
For the first time, I seek Easton out. I find him at his locker with Zach.
“What’s up, Eva?” Zach yanks my focus toward him as he grabs his backpack off the floor and slips it over his shoulder.
“Hey.”
He tilts his head back and says, “Someone’s in a good mood today.”
I blink. “This is my good mood?”
“Isn’t it?” He chuckles and pats my back. “See you later, alligator. That’s right, I just said that.”
Then, it’s just me and Easton.
He leans against his locker and stares down at me. A brow lifts. I’m not sure what to say, so I don’t say anything. We hold each other’s gazes, and I suddenly can’t find enough air. A second ticks by, and then another. With each tick, his eyes darken, darken, and darken, until they’re no longer the color of whiskey but of carnal secrets. Warmth spreads over me as I recall what I did last night while thinking about him.
“Whatever you said,” I finally manage, “it worked.”
He squints like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, but then his gaze lands on Mr. Doau’s classroom door down the hall and narrows. He tips his chin in understanding without looking back at me. “You’re welcome.”
I shift again and glance at my shoes as if they’ve become very interesting. “I never said thank you.”
“But you were thinking it.”
My lips start to curve, but I manage to catch myself before an actual smile slips. Say it. Say thank you. But when I bring my eyes back to his and my mouth opens, what comes out is, “I never asked for your help, you know. I would have been fine.”
“So you like to remind me.” Humor dances in his gaze, and my stomach does a somersault. “You’re trying something new today.”
I wrinkle my nose. “What?”
“Your hair.” His gaze settles on the loose curls spilling down my shoulders, then it slides further down my body. So slow and meticulous, as if he’s seen all of it before. I break out in a shiver, and goose bumps run down my arms. Clearing his throat, he glances away before finding my eyes again. “It’s down. I like it.”
Warmth builds in my chest, my throat, and—oh my god. Am I blushing?
Suddenly painfully uncomfortable, I roll my eyes. “It’s just hair, Easton. Don’t be weird.”
He laughs. Actually laughs. Because of something I said. It’s a low rumble, and . . . what the fuck is happening to me? This feeling is hot and awkward, but the thought is morphed by the rough sound of his laugh sliding between my legs and sparking a flame.
“It’s a compliment. It doesn’t have to be weird.”
“Well, it is.” I rub my lips together and look away. “Anyway, I just wanted to find you to . . . to . . .”
“Not thank me?”
“Exactly.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “Because you’re fine.”
“Right.”
“Glad we’ve cleared that up.”
“Yup.” Feeling strange, I spin on my heel and start to leave, but his voice wraps around my body and stops me.
“I’ll see you at the party.”
I turn around. “Tomorrow night? You’re going?”
“Of course.”
“You hate parties.”
“So do you.”
My lips part in shock. There’s no way he could know that. No way he could see through me so easily. “Everyone likes parties. Well, everyone but you.”
“Not you. Not me.” He takes a step closer until we’re inches apart, and I try not to sway toward him. “I know you better than you think.” His voice lowers. “I know what you like.”
Tingles spread through my body as I once again recall my favorite fantasy late at night, of his hands on my skin. “And what do I like, Easton?”
He leans a little closer—so close his body heat envelops me. Runs his tongue across his bottom lip, and his breath, it tickles my ear. My heartbeat dips between my thighs, and I’m so hot I don’t know what I’d do if he actually touched me right now. Probably go up in flames.
“Orange juice.”
I’m doused with cold water, and my eyes snap to his. “Orange juice?”
He quirks an eyebrow and steps back. “Expecting something else?”
“I . . .” I start, flustered. “No. I don’t know. Who doesn’t like orange juice?”
“Right, orange juice and parties. You really know how to blend in.”
I laugh but immediately swallow it back. This is weird, and maybe the longest conversation we’ve ever had. I feel . . . nervous. Edgy. Giddy. As if tiny birds are diving in my stomach. “You’re awfull
y sure of yourself today.”
“I’m always sure of myself.” The seriousness of his voice takes me aback. He squints and reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “It’s you I’m still trying to figure out.”
I lift my chin. “I thought you knew me.”
“Better than you think. Still not enough.”
Uncertainty hums in the air. I stare at him for a moment, and he stares back. His hair is getting long, brushing the tips of his ears. I want to run my fingers through it. I want to pretend I can. We’re siblings—blood or not. Easton’s pure, and I’m a girl paranoid of a scratched-up Mercedes.
But for a moment, I let myself pretend.
I bite my lower lip like a normal teenage girl with a crush and say, “Well, I guess you’ll just have to keep trying.”
Whirling around, I walk confidently away and check that no one is looking.
Then I do it.
I smile.
Eva
(Fourteen years old)
“Oh my god. Is she crying?” Beverly laughs. “Are you crying, little girl? Do you need your mommy?”
I sniff, my cheeks flaming. “Just give it back. I earned every penny.”
“You earned every penny because of me. No one would even know about you if I didn’t let you on our street in the first place. Don’t ever forget that.”
“You don’t understand.” My voice cracks. Stupid little girl. You don’t cry anymore. “I need that money.”
She snorts, counting the cash. “You think me and my girls need it any less than you? Are we dirtier? Is that it?”
“No.” I shake my head. “That’s not what I’m saying. Just . . . at least let me keep enough for the bus. Please, Beverly.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Please?”
“I’ll do anything.”
A couple of the women lingering on the sidewalk laugh.
Leaning against the stony wall with a cigarette between her fingers, Cindy nods toward me. “Come on, just let the girl on the bus, Bev.”
A scowl darkens Beverly’s sunken eyes. “You standing in for Monica or something? You gonna leave me like she did too?”