by T. L. Martin
Get it together, Evangeline.
Stop being such a freak!
That’s when I see him. Easton Rutherford. He’s sitting on the couch, leaning back, legs spread comfortably. A group of guys surround him, a few of them talking over each other animatedly. A small glow ignites in my chest, and I can’t look away.
It’s been two months since his parents were granted permission to foster me. I’ve noticed him watching me, but like that boy who spilled his drink on my shirt, I always choke up and get weird when he comes close.
I hate it.
But this is my first party, a fresh start. I’ve thought a lot about how I’m going to talk to him tonight. I even practiced at home in front of the mirror. I can be normal. I know I can. I hope so anyway.
Inhaling a deep breath, I pull my shoulders back. It’s now or never.
Just as I take a step in his direction, a girl I’ve seen at school, Whitney, cuts in front of me and walks up to the group of guys. I don’t know what she says, but it makes them laugh. I’ve done a lot of things with guys . . . but I’ve never made them laugh. I take a small step back.
Carter catches my gaze again. On his way to the kitchen, he tips his red Solo cup toward me. I force a smile. He winks before disappearing behind the kitchen wall, and I remind myself that I can do this. It helps. At least until a second later, when a guy I don’t recognize suddenly blocks my path.
“Hey, cutie.” He’s older, maybe sixteen or seventeen. “You look a little tense. Want a drink?”
I shake my head. Rub my arm. “I’m okay.”
He slides his tongue across his teeth, looking me up and down, and I know that look. I know it well.
“You sure?”
“Yup.” I start to walk away, but he matches my pace beside me.
“You look like a girl who could really loosen up.”
I shoot him a glare, and he laughs.
“Hey, no, not like that. I just meant a dance. You look like you can dance. I bet a little alcohol would help calm your nerves.”
I turn a corner, wandering into a hallway that’s packed with couples making out against the walls. Bursts of coldness wash over me as I try to avoid touching any of them.
“I don’t drink.”
“So, you’re a bitch and a virgin. I get it.”
My breathing intensifies, pace quickening. “Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Following me.”
He laughs. “But you’re so easy to follow.”
Sweet.
Dainty.
Docile.
“Don’t you know guys like the chase? It’s half the fun, especially with a girl like you.”
Such a good, sweet girl.
My voice hardens. “I said, get away from me.”
“I don’t think you mean it though. I think you want someone to show you a good time. How to loosen up.” His hand runs across my lower back, and I squirm inside my own skin. “Every good girl has a dirty side.”
He knows.
They know.
A bathroom. The bathroom. My hands find the knob, and I yank the door open before stumbling over my own feet to get inside. I lock the door and hear laughter on the other side of it.
“All right, Virgin Mary,” he shouts. “Catch you later.”
Silence. Nothing but my thoughts and the pounding beat of music.
Leaning back against the door, I hang my head and squeeze my eyes shut. Why is it so hard? Stupid, stupid tears. Why do I still let him control me after all this time?
I just want him out of me. My pores, my body, my head. I tear my nails down my arms, pull at the skin, as if I could dig him and everyone else out.
I jump at a knock on the door.
“Hello? I have to pee!”
Stop it, stop it, stop it.
I wipe my eyes, splash water on my face, and turn the knob.
“Thank God,” the girl says as she drunkenly brushes past me.
When I find Easton again, still on the couch, my entire body loosens. I’m okay. I’m safe.
I’m Eva.
I look down at the new shoes Maria set in front of my door this morning and back at Easton. I didn’t come here for nothing. I’m going to do it. Talk to him. Finally, I lift my chin and walk toward him.
He looks up, and our gazes connect. The room grows quiet, or maybe that’s just in my head. Easton holds my stare as I move closer, and closer. His confidence is so effortless it’s contagious, rubbing onto me with every step I take. And then, I’m standing in front of him.
Here goes nothing.
“Hi—”
Red hair swings into my line of sight, and Whitney’s leaning over him. Her arms wind around his neck, crimson lips whispering something into his ear. I can’t see his face, but his fingers come to rest on her waist. He stands, his hand covering hers.
Just like that, he’s forgotten me.
He leads her across the living room, hand in hand while they whisper who-knows-what and look intently into each other’s eyes. His thumb brushes her cheek before they walk out the door. They’re leaving the party. Together.
My heart plummets to the bottom of my stomach.
I stand in a stranger’s house surrounded by annoying music, groping hands, and desperation, and my eyes well up like the stupid, stupid girl I told myself I’d never be again.
I will not let my tears fall.
Not this time.
Not ever again.
“There you are, Virgin Mary.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands up. His slimy hand grips my waist.
Stop touching me.
The invasive contact infects me like a virus. I can’t stand it—the fear, discomfort, resentment, everything inside of me . . .
Get out.
Get out of me.
“Ready to show me how dirty you really are?”
I’ve been with a lot of guys since that night almost two years ago, but I’ve only had sex with one. The one who stole it from me. The one who broke me. The one who told me what I was and what I was going to be. He took everything that night. And he’s owned me ever since.
Fuck him.
Fuck them all.
“Jimmy, back the hell off.” The jerk puts his hands up in surrender and steps back. A familiar blue pair of eyes latch onto mine. Carter. “Hey, you okay?”
I stare at him.
He swipes his blond hair from his face and glances over his shoulder. “Don’t mind Jimmy. He’s all bark, no bite.”
I follow where he looked and find Jimmy already lost in conversation with another girl, but the sight doesn’t shake the grime he left on me. It sinks deeper, and deeper, and deeper.
Get out, get out.
Of my skin.
My bones.
My chest.
“He won’t come back. I promise.” Carter’s lips curve, and my eyes drop to examine his smile. The way he’s looking at me, it’s like I’m just another girl at the party. Like I’m normal. He hasn’t tried to touch me, which makes him tolerable. I can tell he’s experienced, that he’d know what to do. He’d know how to make it go away. I think I need him to make it go away.
My breaths come out faster.
One.
Two.
Three.
Counting doesn’t wash away the nerves, but still, I hold Carter’s gaze like a laser on a target.
Tonight, I’m reclaiming my virginity and giving it away on my terms. Tonight, the past no longer owns me.
I’m Eva now. And I call the shots.
Finally, my lips curve back.
Eva
(Present Day)
Fists are swinging as I approach Marco’s house. I sidestep to avoid the two guys that flip off his front porch and tumble onto the lawn.
I roll my eyes. Idiots.
Walking up the steps, I push through the crowd to reach the door. As much as the sweaty bodies and loud noises grate, I can’t stop the fluttering in my stomach. Is this what having actual but
terflies feels like?
Easton made a point to tell me he would be here tonight. After we talked, joked, flirted. I don’t know what’s supposed to come next, but at least a party is busy enough to get lost in a crowd, loud enough to be discreet. Not that we have anything to be discreet about . . . do we?
I slip out of my jacket, tie it around my waist, and flit my gaze across the packed living room. Seconds. It takes seconds to spot him.
Easton’s leaning against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, hand in his pocket. Whitney stands beside him, laughing at something Zach said. She looks over her shoulder to scan the room, and that’s when she sees me.
Her eyebrow arches, a challenge dancing behind her eyes.
I stare back.
I’m not here to start shit. I came because it’s a party. And maybe because Easton said he’d be here. Although, now I don’t know what the hell I expect. That we’ll flirt again? That he’ll forget he’s my brother, that he has a girlfriend? Forget who I am? Forget all the nights the dirty, damaged little girl snuck behind his house? What the fuck is wrong with me?
As if Whitney reads my mind, she smiles, turns to Easton, and slides a hand up his chest.
He lets her.
Whirling around, I curl my fingers into my palms.
Maybe our conversation yesterday meant shit. Yesterday, when I laughed, when I freaking blushed. Maybe it all means shit. Embarrassment floods me, and my dinner threatens to climb up my throat. It’s my first party all over again.
Swallowing the bitter sting of rejection, I lazily make my way to the kitchen.
“Hola, guapa,” Marco says from behind the island. “I know exactly what you need.” He mixes a vodka soda for me and slides the red Solo cup across the marble countertop.
“Thanks.” I grab it, bring the cup to my lips, and pretend to take a sip. He smirks and looks behind me to ask for another girl’s order. I wait until I’m in the bathroom to toss the vodka down the drain and replace it with water from the tap. It’s an art form, making it look as if I’m actually drinking.
Slipping out of the restroom, I find Whitney in conversation with Easton. The words are hushed, but something seems . . . unstable. Lovers’ spat, maybe? Whitney’s eyes flick to me, pause, then narrow. By her expression, a snarky remark begs to leave her lips, but apparently, nature’s call is stronger. Saying nothing, she walks past me and locks the bathroom door behind her.
Then, I’m face to face with Easton. His gaze drops to the Solo cup in my hand, then slides back to my face. I blink slowly and take a refreshing sip.
After a long, suffocating moment of silence, he nods toward the living room, where another fight has broken out. “You should go,” he says loud enough to be heard over the music. “Only a matter of time before the cops show up.”
“I’m curious, do you have fliers for your babysitting service, or is marketing still in the works?”
He doesn’t appear amused. In fact, a little muscle in his jaw twitches.
“Still in the works then? Okay.” With a roll of my eyes, I push past him, and my shoulder brushes his arm. Electricity sparks and spreads from the contact.
“Eva.” His voice touches my ear, neck, soul. “I’m serious.”
Suppressing a warm shiver, I continue down the hall.
“I’ll call you an Uber, whatever. Just go home. You’re drinking. Do you want to be arrested if the cops show up? It’s not worth it.”
“Worth is in the eye of the beholder,” I call out, my gaze fixed ahead.
Yelling breaks out. Glass hits the wall and shatters, followed by a film-worthy scream. God, it sounds like Fight Club has invaded the party.
My thoughts are cut off when a hand curls around my waist and forces me to stop. A shallow breath escapes me. His touch doesn’t spread revulsion like everyone else’s. It burns, scalds, scorches through my T-shirt. His chest is to my back, hot breath on my cheek. “Go home, Eva.”
I steady my voice. “Right, so you and your precious girlfriend can stay, but poor little Eva has to go?”
“Have you ever heard me call you poor or little?”
I swallow. Inhale. “No.”
“So, why can’t you just fucking listen to me when I’m trying to keep you safe?”
His grip loosens, slipping an inch down my waist. Everything inside me tenses. I don’t want him to let go. An unsettling part of me wants him to touch me forever. I sway backward until I’m leaning against him. His body stiffens, but he doesn’t pull away.
He doesn’t pull away.
“That’s the problem,” I say, staring sightlessly down the hall. “I don’t need you to keep me safe. I’m—”
“Fine.” It’s a low caress. Almost affectionate. “I know.”
“There you are.”
His warmth disappears so quickly, I almost stumble back a step.
“I’ve been looking for you forever. Where have you—” Whitney pauses, finally spotting me. Her lips part, and she glances between the two of us.
Easton sighs, running a hand through his messy strands. “Not now, Whit.”
“Don’t not now, Whit me.” She gapes at him. “Easton . . . you can’t be serious.”
Aaand, I’m out. Quietly slipping away, I toss back my water, and for once, I wish it was something stronger that would burn my throat. Must be nice to really slip away every now and again.
“Shots, shots, shots!” erupts from the kitchen.
Fight Club has apparently fled the building.
I enter the kitchen to find Marco licking a shot off a girl on the counter, her shirt pulled up to reveal a lacy red bra.
Marco looks up and meets my gaze. “Guapa!” He wipes his mouth and pats the island. “Get up here!”
I laugh dryly. “Yeah, no.”
Zach wraps an arm around Marco’s neck, a sloshing cup in his hand. He grins at me. “’Sup, Eva? Fancy seeing you here.”
I roll my eyes, genuinely smiling this time. “Nothing fancier than red Solo cups and body shots.”
“You gonna get in on the action?”
“Not really my thing.”
“Can’t hate a guy for trying.” Drunkenly, he smirks, and half his cup spills down Marco’s shirt.
“What the fuck, man!” Marco pushes him away. “This is Armani.”
I shake my head and peer through the drunken bodies, into the next room. I spot Easton and Whitney still arguing. Something inside me rebels against seeing them together. He’s not hers. To speak to, to touch, to fight with. The feeling coils and inflates, and before I know what I’m saying, the words are already past my lips.
“I’m in.”
The bitching about Marco’s T-shirt halts, and both he and Zach stare at me.
“Don’t play with me. My heart can’t take it,” Zach says, putting a hand on his chest.
“I’m serious, but if you have other things to do . . .” I take a step to leave.
“Nope,” Marco blurts. “Move over, Sabrina.” He practically shoves the girl who’s sitting cross-legged on the counter to the floor.
“Shut up, Marco. I’m already moving.” Sabrina hops off the island and shoots me a smile. “Have fun,” she says before she grabs her friend’s hand and walks away.
Fun. Right.
My eyes slide to the counter, then back to Easton, who doesn’t notice me at all.
Not yet anyway.
Gripping the hem of my shirt, I pull the material up over my head and drop it on a barstool. Whistles erupt. Stares touch my skin. But I don’t move until I feel the only one I want.
There you are.
I hop on the counter and slowly lower onto my back. A shiver coasts through me at the feel of the cold marble, and Easton’s attention spreads the chills to my toes. Zach’s face appears above me, and I can’t ignore the relief I feel at seeing him instead of Marco.
Zach winks, noticing my muscles loosen slightly, and says, “Easton’s gonna kill me.”
Cold liquor trails down my stomach, pool
ing in my belly button. I pretend to relax. Try to sound calm. “Tell him I made you do it.”
“And that’ll save me, how? I swear, the things I do to be a gentleman . . .”
I almost smile.
“I’m going in. Pray for me.”
He lowers his head. I release a shaky breath. It’s just Zach. I can do this. He’s an inch away from my stomach when he’s knocked aside, and a different face appears.
Carter.
I grab the edge of the counter to pull myself up, but rough hands find my hips and push me back to the marble. Fighting is pointless; I’m already frozen, my body solidifying into a block of ice. Carter’s tongue touches my stomach. His eyes lift to meet mine, flaring with triumph and sick satisfaction, as he licks and sucks the liquor from my skin.
In a shameful way, Carter knows me better than anyone. The night I followed him, he saw exactly what I am. He listened to me beg him to go harder and harder. Worthless, hopeless, legs spread, I silently screamed for him to erase him, to erase them, to erase everything. He saw my tears when I realized he couldn’t take the pain away.
No one could take it away.
My pulse ticks. My palms sweat.
A scuffle whips my eyes across the room to where Whitney’s hand is curled around Easton’s bicep, red nails digging into his white T-shirt while she holds him back.
Call me an attention whore, but his burning eyes on mine is what I wanted. Shoulders tight with tension, expression made to kill. All for me. I live to be noticed by him, to feel the heat of his gaze. But right now, I don’t feel pleasure. I feel like shit.
Whitney whispers in Easton’s ear, and he snaps something back, shrugs her hand off his arm.
Finally, Carter’s slimy tongue disappears.
It’s done. It’s over. I’m fine.
Cheers sound throughout the room, and Carter steps back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his dark gaze on mine. My stomach churns. I slide off the counter, snatch up my shirt, and make a beeline for the bathroom.
Trembling, I splash cold water on my face. I can’t stop shaking even while I tell myself I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.
The door swings open, and I jolt.
Easton steps inside. I stumble back from nothing but the enraged fire in his eyes. He locks the door behind him, and I can’t move as he steps toward me, closer and closer. Fury, regret, and the drip, drip, drip of a leaky faucet fill the bathroom. My breath shakes when he fists a hand in my hair and forces me to my knees.