by T. L. Martin
Isaac arches a brow. “A man? Mom . . .” He glances from Bridget to a silent Vincent, whose back is to me and Easton. “I came out to you years ago. How can you still act so surprised?”
“Because, Isaac. Young people don’t know what they want, so they experiment—fine. But people grow. People change.”
Finally, Vincent breaks his silent streak. His low, penetrating voice snaps all heads toward him. “That’s interesting, Bridget. I think you of all people know we don’t change.”
Her face pales.
“Perhaps a private announcement would have been the way to go for this, Isaac,” he says. “But your honesty is refreshing.”
What?
Isaac’s lips part. Then close. Then part. “It is?”
Easton’s expression is a blank slate. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. His eyes are fixed on his father as though a tether is keeping him from looking away.
Slowly, Vincent angles his head, turning his scathing focus back to his equally stunned wife. “You, on the other hand. So vapid. So selfish—”
“What? I . . .” Bridget’s eyes widen to saucers. “How could you? I’m just looking out for our son. For his future—”
“You’re looking out for the same person as always. Yourself.”
She gasps, and I shift. My hand blindly feels for the door behind me, in search of the knob. I shouldn’t be here. Listening to this. I’m not real family, not like them, and now that I know Isaac is okay, discomfort skitters under my skin with every additional word they say.
Bridget’s voice hikes to a pitch I don’t recognize, almost a shriek. “You can’t possibly still be punishing me for an old mistake, Vincent. I have done everything, everything, in my power to make up for it.”
“Nothing worth redemption.”
“You can’t be serious. For crying out loud, I took in a damaged, dirty child just to try and get you to come back to me! To us. You wanted a girl once. Wasn’t that enough? Why didn’t that fix it like when we adopted Isaac? Don’t you remember? You forgave me then. For a long while, we were a real family again.”
Blood rushes to my ears, and my hand slips from the knob, falling loosely to my side.
Damaged.
Dirty.
Child.
I always wondered why she took me in. I guess now, I have my answer.
Easton’s gaze touches my cheek, but I can’t bring myself to look at him. I can’t bring myself to budge.
“Darling . . .” Bridget’s quiet plea pierces my ears like claws. “It was one time.”
“And still, you lie!” Vincent booms. His anger shakes the room. “I know, Bridget. I know Easton isn’t mine!”
The air stills.
My lungs compress as I finally bring myself to look at Easton.
Every inch of him is solid. A statue carved out of rough stone and serrated edges.
Silence has never been so suffocating.
“I’ve known for years, dammit!”
For a long time, Bridget just gapes at Vincent. “I . . . okay . . . but—but that ended a long time ago. You have to believe me.” Her lips quiver, matching the unsteadiness of her voice. “Besides, Isaac isn’t yours either, and you love him anyway. You love him more than any of us.”
Isaac swallows, drags a hand down his face, and looks away. “All right. Shit. I didn’t mean for any of this to—”
“Isaac was a choice, Bridget. I chose him to be my son. Do you know, I can’t even fucking look at Easton without seeing you and another man fucking? You were my mistake, and now I’m stuck with both of you.”
Someone knocks on the door behind me, and Bridget jumps. That’s when she spots us. A faint sound of surprise leaves her lips. “Easton.”
Vincent’s spine stiffens before he looks over his shoulder. Remorse, a look I’ve never seen on him before, softens his hard features. “Jesus.” He lets out a sigh. “I’m . . . That wasn’t meant for you to hear.”
Easton’s gaze meets his father’s, and that’s all it takes for his stone walls to slip, slip, then crumble. Whiskey eyes glint beneath slanted brows. Betrayal stretches like thick, black tar to every corner of the room, curling around my heart.
“Why not, Dad?” It’s a quiet, simmering rumble. “Because honesty is so fucking refreshing?”
“Easton!” Bridget’s palm clasps her open mouth.
He shoots a deadly look at his mother. My chest aches from just looking at him. “I forgot, Rutherfords don’t say what we’re actually thinking. Oh, wait.” He cocks a brow, turning toward the door to leave. “Guess I’m not a Rutherford, so the rules don’t apply to me.”
He catches my gaze as he heads straight for the door I’m blocking, and my throat tightens.
He stops right in front of me. “Open the door, Eva,” he instructs softly.
I know I should move, let him go, but something holds me back. The raw betrayal in his eyes takes my breath away. But this is his family, whether he likes it or not. In the end, being alone hurts more than the temporary sting of betrayal. I should know.
Bridget’s voice drifts to us, weak and uncertain. “Easton, wait. Let’s talk. We can smooth this over.”
“We can’t all be experts at brushing things under the rug,” Vincent spits.
I don’t hear her defense, but Isaac’s quick to jump in and try to cool the flames.
Their voices fade when Easton steps close. His white button-down shirt grazes the front of my dress, and his body heat radiates through the material like a furnace, swallowing me whole. Eyes darkening, he reaches an arm around me for the door handle.
My ribs constrict, and a small, shallow breath escapes.
“Maybe she’s right,” I breathe. “Maybe you should stay.”
His eyes dip to my mouth, words bleak. “Or maybe I can’t take any more bullshit.”
He pulls the door open behind me, and I stumble forward a step. Before my body can meet his, he steadies me by a hand on my waist and moves around me.
A wide-eyed Whitney waits on the other side of the door.
Having no reason to stay, I follow him out. He brushes Whitney’s touch off his arm, but she continues to follow after him.
“Was all that because of Isaac and Thomas?”
“Party’s over, Whit,” he grumbles. “Go home.”
Whitney watches Easton disappear up the stairs before she turns to me.
Her eyes narrow. “I find it interesting you’re always present when things go wrong.”
I stare at her. “I find it interesting you’re still here when you’re clearly not welcome.”
Still shaken, I barely register her inhaled breath of outrage as I walk past her and slowly make my way up the staircase. My feet are numb, each click, click, click of my heels sounding faraway.
Damaged.
Dirty.
Child.
To hear those words aloud was painful, but it doesn’t hold a candle to the look on Easton’s face. The broken expression won’t leave my head, and the ache in his eyes settles heavily on my heart.
As a child, I wished my father would tell me I wasn’t his. That my real father was out there somewhere, looking for me, and it was only a matter of time before he took me away. But at least I was granted transparency. I knew my father didn’t love me, and I knew my mother loved me so much she held me while black and blue.
My steps slow as I approach his bedroom door, which lays open a crack. Carefully, I push it open. He sits on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his thighs and head hanging low. Where my room is white, his is chestnut, both staged by the professional his mother hired. The grand, pompous decor defies everything he is. Like me, Easton is a stranger in his own room.
And he looks so alone.
So lost.
Lost.
Lost.
Lost.
A reflection of myself.
With a swallow, I rest my head on the doorframe and shut my eyes.
“Why can’t I come, Mommy? I want to come.” I
don’t want to whine, but sometimes I can’t help it.
“I know you do, sweetie. But where I’m going isn’t safe for a child.”
My eyes wander to the door. The door Daddy will be walking through any minute. My heart thumps. My throat starts to sting the way it does when I’m really thirsty. Daddy doesn’t hurt me the same way he does Mommy. But it’s hard pretending I’m not here, so I don’t bother him. “But . . . but you can take care of me.”
Kneeling beside her suitcase, Mommy doesn’t answer right away. Her hands shake as she throws another shirt inside. She won’t look at me. Why won’t she look at me?
“No. Here, you have a roof over your head. Food in your stomach. A blanket to keep you warm. I can’t—I can’t—” A sob chokes her, and at the sound, a lump grows in my throat. “I can’t promise you those things where I’m going.”
I move to her side, and she flinches as I wrap my arms around her neck. “What about you? What if you’re hungry?”
A loud noise leaves her mouth, and it sounds painful. Her whole body is shaking now. “I’ll be okay, sweetie. I’ll be okay. Just promise me, as soon as you’re old enough, you will leave this place.”
Finally, she looks at me. I usually love when she looks at me, but not this time. This time, her eyes are so red and blurry they look different. Her fingers tighten around my arm, and she squeezes so hard it hurts.
“Promise me, Evangeline. When you are old enough, you will leave this place, and you will not come back for me or your dad. Do you understand? There is so much out there waiting for you. So much good, so much love. As long as you keep your feet moving, you will find it. You will find so much more than this.”
I open my eyes and blink hard, trying to push the memory away.
More than this.
I never knew what she meant by those words. But sometimes, when I look at Easton, I wonder. And I wish he could hear her.
There is so much out there waiting for you.
Easton’s guitar lies facedown beside his feet, like he can’t stand to look at it. The thought makes my heart burn. He has no idea what his music has done for me. I want to move closer. I want to hold him, to soothe him, to let him forget his pain while in my arms. Yet, as I toe the edge of the threshold, my muscles tense with indecision. I’m the queen of superficial words, but now . . . when he’s crumbling and hurting and needs so much more than I can offer him, I’m nothing but a coward.
Stupid, weak little girl.
What were you thinking?
I step back, but my fingernails slip against the doorknob. Easton’s head snaps up. Our eyes lock. I freeze. Whiskey melts into dark chocolate, growing darker and darker. The gaze is dry and caustic and slightly superior, telling me I’ve been caught somewhere I’m not supposed to be. Nerves jitter in my throat, and I don’t think I’m breathing.
For a good boy, he sure knows how to look dangerous. The deep hum of his undivided attention ripples through my body like thick, warm syrup. It’s heavy enough to drown in.
Finally, I find my voice, but it escapes as a scratchy whisper. “Want to know a secret?”
His gaze drops to my lips.
“I sit by my open window every Sunday night, just to hear you play.”
Brows slant, and his eyes meet mine.
“Your music has helped me in ways you’ll never know. So, for what it’s worth,” I say quietly, ungluing my feet from the carpet, “not all of it is bullshit. Not to me.”
A vein in his neck ticks. His nostrils flare.
A visible shiver runs over me before I turn around and head to my room. But the grip he has on me never loosens, and five, six, seven steps down the hall, I hear his bed shift. The floor creaks.
When I enter my bedroom a moment later, I know I’m not alone.
Eva
My heart thump, thump, thumps as I stroll across the room and stop in front of the vanity mirror. Slowly, I unclasp my jacket, letting it fall to the floor. My eyes pull away from my reflection to settle on Easton’s tall form in the doorway.
The top few buttons of his shirt are undone. Hair a mess, eyes slightly crazed. Watching me, he shuts my door. The click of the lock is the most thrilling and terrifying sound I’ve ever heard.
I have no idea what his next move will be, but I’ve fantasized about him for so long I’m nervous I’m going to ruin it. That I’ll get stuck in my head and mess it up like I always do. Except this time, the only person I’ve ever wanted will be the one I disappoint.
His gaze runs down my body, bringing a warm shiver with it. My hand shakes as I reach for the dress clasp at the top of my spine. I want it to appear like sophisticated seduction, but my fingers are so clammy they slip on the zipper.
Easton’s gaze connects with mine in the mirror. Sweltering, but patient. My breath catches in my throat. He’s not going anywhere, but he’s also letting me determine the next move. Finally, I get a good hold on the zipper and pull it down.
“How do you do it?” His low voice hums in the lowest pit of my stomach.
The zipper stops, and the dress falls to my heels. “What do you mean?”
“When you think about me.” Quiet but rough. Strained calm. “How do you make yourself come?”
An exhale escapes me. I don’t know how I’m supposed to answer that. Of course, I know exactly how I make myself come, but standing in front of Easton’s reflection, the brave faҫade I’ve maintained crumbles, leaving something shy in its place.
“Show me.”
Those two words vibrate between my thighs, and my eyes close. No one has ever wanted to just watch me before. Not without demanding something for themselves in return.
I open my eyes. “Just . . . show you?”
The air shifts as he walks to the chair against the wall beside my bed. Raking a hand through his hair, he sits and rests his elbows on his knees. Then his gaze locks on mine in the mirror.
I’m in nothing but a black bra, matching lace panties, and high heels. Yet he’s looking at me. Nerves prickle beneath my skin, and the heat of his stare only intensifies the sensation.
“I saw you, touching yourself.”
My breath catches, and I grip the edge of the vanity.
“It was an accident, but, fuck, Eva . . . I can’t get the sight out of my head. This time, I want you to show me because you want me to see.” His eyes soften, flicking between my own, and a spark of vulnerability filters through whiskey irises. “If you’ll let me.”
My pulse slips into my throat, and my voice is scratchy and quiet. “I thought we weren’t supposed to do this.”
“We aren’t.”
The words fall to the floor, and the heavy beat of my heart fills the silence.
Slowly, I turn around and step out of my dress. I swallow at the heavy-lidded look he’s giving me. I take a small step toward him, slip one bra strap off my shoulder. “What about Whitney?”
“What about her?”
Another step, another strap. “You haven’t slept together.”
He gives a slow shake of his head.
I’m in too deep to turn back now. At this moment, I don’t think I could survive watching the only boy I’ve ever ached for walk away from me. “Why not?”
His jaw ticks, and he glances away. When his eyes swing back to mine, they’re stripped raw. The roughness seeps into his voice like a match and gunpowder. “It’s not her I want, Eva. It’s not her I watch when I know I shouldn’t, or who I check on every night to make sure she’s safe. It’s not her I obsess over to the point my fucking head spins. I’m here because when everything seems like it’s falling apart, you, Eva, you’re real. So goddamn real I could almost . . .” He lets his eyes drift to roam down my body, and his words are pained when he finishes with, “Almost touch you.”
My heart melts into a warm liquid, leaving me helpless, breathless, throbbing.
I reach for the clasp on my bra. Easton’s eyes blacken as they follow the movement, and tension tightens the line of his shoulders.
> With a quick flick of my fingers, my bra unhooks. The heated look in his expression intensifies tenfold as the material slips past my arms and drops to the floor.
His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. His gaze explores every inch of me in a long, deliberate caress. I’ve never been looked at like this, with such transparent reverence. Despite the feral hunger etched on his face, he doesn’t move to touch me. He doesn’t move at all. He’s so still, it’s like he thinks he has no right to come any closer.
Butterflies scatter through me, making me quiver.
“What now?” I whisper.
“Show me what you do next,” he says huskily.
I grow drunk on the intoxicating weight of his attention as I walk toward my bed, crawl onto the mattress, and roll to my back.
“First . . .” I trail the tips of my fingers across my stomach, losing myself in the primitive look on his face. “I picture that look you get.” His gaze slides up to meet mine, and my chest rises and falls in an uneven rhythm. “Yeah. That one. Sometimes . . .” I swallow, and my fingers crawl higher, higher, until I’m teasing my breasts. “I imagine it’s for me, that I’m yours for a night.” The rough sound that climbs up his throat pulses between my thighs. “That my door is locked.” I run a thumb across my nipple. “Your parents are distracted. And you can do anything you want to me.”
His eyelids lower, the look heady and dirty and filled with restraint.
“As long as we’re quiet,” I whisper, letting my hand wander lower, and lower, “no one ever has to know the things you do to me.”
As I reach the wetness between my thighs, his low voice thrums across my skin. “And what are you doing?”
My focus drifts, a hazy blanket of confusion setting in. “W-what?”
“In this fantasy, I can do whatever I want to you.” His eyes flare. “Believe me, if you want it, I’ll do it. But I’m not the only one here, Eva. You can do anything you want. If you’re mine for the night”—his gaze rakes sinfully down my body, lighting me aflame—“that means I’m yours too.”
The air is sucked from my lungs.
Mine?
I’ve been with a lot of guys, and since living here, I’ve even started telling them what to do to me. But I only say what’s expected. I make them do to me what they have me do to them. I don’t know what I want, and none of them have ever asked me before.