"You take the blame!” she accuses, her eyes flashing, her head shaking back and forth. “'House of the Rising Sun' is Remington's ringtone. You know you have to leave when you hear it because you have to get your brother out of trouble."
She unfolds her legs and paces the room. I watch her walk back and forth, back and forth on those amazing legs, those legs that I wish were wrapped around me right now.
She turns to me and asks, "Is this just a recent thing? Just since he broke up with his girlfriend?"
I give serious consideration to a couple handfuls of lies before I settle on a soft variation of the truth.
"It's gotten more extreme in the last few months."
She turns on her heel and stomps back toward me. If she wasn't so damn beautiful, I'd say she looked like a bull I just waved a bigass red cape at. She catches my wrist and twists my arm around so my tattoo is level with my eye.
"You marked your body. Permanently," she accuses, her voice ice cold. "You have a criminal record. Permanently."
Her manicured fingers pack a bite I'm not expecting.
"You're being melodramatic, Evan. His blood runs through me. What's a little ink? And I had a record before."
"You had a record for your crimes? Or you carried your brother's record?" Her chest rises and falls like a bellows with the maniac pace of this intense, mounting fury.
"He's my family. You don't understand. His crimes are my crimes. His record is mine. The Youngblood name isn't a one member thing. It's all of us, together, against everyone else."
I lose my trademark calm and my voice picks up.
"Against everyone else?" The question punctures the quiet left by my declaration of loyalty. "Or against each other? Because what he's doing seems to be hurting you pretty exclusively unless I'm missing something serious."
Her blue eyes hold wide and fierce, like some kind of battle leader.
It's obvious.
What she's saying, it's not like I haven't been thinking this for years.
I've been thinking the same exact thing since the first whipping I took for Remy, and then after every detention and suspension, four stints in juvy, six in community service, and three years on probation. My luck has held all these years, but the rope is getting shorter and my time is running out fast.
Soon people like Judge Schwenzer will work their asses off to rip this whole thing open, and I might go to jail, to prison, or get shipped to the family compound in no-name backwoods Hungary. That's the inevitable end to this road unless Remy makes some huge changes soon.
And I'm not enough of an idiot to hold my breath waiting for my dipshit brother to change his stripes.
But there's something about hearing someone gorgeous and funny and brilliant saying this truth to me, versus my own stupid brain coming up with it.
There's also the fact that, as obvious and partially true as this might be, it's also way more complicated and still only, at best, no more than partially true.
I can't tell her that, though. Mainly because I'd be using one of her least favorite words: complicated. There's a sick, sinking feeling right in the center of my gut, because this isn't jail or probation, but it's the beginning of the end of the first thing I've really wanted in longer than I can remember.
"I hear you. Really I do." I stand up and check my pocket for my keys.
They're lost in the bright mass of blankets and sheets on her bed, and I pick through all the bedding I was just rolling around with her in to grab them. She's looking right at the floor. "And I know, it's fucked up, especially if you're outside looking in. But it's the way we do things, all of us, every lowdown stupid Youngblood. It's my way. And not everyone is okay with it. I can’t blame you for not being able to accept that."
I'm so close I can smell the wildflower/burnt sugar mix coming off her skin, and I want to bury my damn face in it and breathe it all night. But she's just one more thing on an increasingly long list of amazing things that aren't meant to be part of my life.
"Evan? I'm gonna get lost, alright?"
I run my finger along the smooth curve of her shoulder one last time, for luck.
"You're leaving?" Her blue eyes are perfectly still and focused on mine. Fury makes them look hot and clear. "I get that you might not like hearing the truth, but that's it? That's all you can take?"
"Wait. I thought...you said...the whole thing with Remy? The tattoo? Wasn't that, like, an invitation for me to fuck off?"
A dangerous edge of hope juts against my brain. One word pulses through my mind: maybe.
"I said your stupid brother seemed to be messing things up for you. If I wanted you to fuck off, I would have said, 'Fuck off, Winch.'"
Her smile is probably a little forced, but mine sure as hell isn't. Here's the chance I was praying for. I held my breath and rolled the dice, and my luck stayed; I came up with an eleven first go.
"What are you smiling about?" she asks.
I tuck her into my arms and rub my face in the soft mass of her hair. "You. Me. That big old bed and your grandparents all the way in South Carolina."
She sits back on the mattress, and I sit with her. She leans back and I follow. Now that we've said enough sour truths for one day, we give ourselves a break and put our mouths to much better use. Her lips are quick and eager, and I'm so tempted a dozen different times to follow her lead like some poor sailor chasing a siren's call right into the jagged ocean rocks.
But I can't.
This deserves taking our time, so, tonight, it's all about her.
She's attempting to wiggle out of her clothes for the third time when my phone rings. I crush my teeth together so tight my jaw aches.
She catches her sigh and staples it back.
"Go ahead. It's been the ruin of many a fantastic makeout session," she mutters, thumping a pillow over her face so she can muffle the line of obscenities I can still hear.
I zip my pants back up and walk to the balcony, figuring I can go back in for my shirt and shoes if I need to leave. I really hope to hell I don't need to leave.
"This is Winchester."
The bugs make a wild buzz in the dark garden below and the moon is low and more than half full with a yellow tinge. I want to go back in, switch off Evan's light, and not face whatever it is that needs my attention on the other end of the line.
"Win'hester," Remy slurs.
"Where are you?"
I should be putting my shirt back on. I should have my feet in my shoes and be jumping down the balcony to find him, now, before he breaks more unfixable shit.
A low, keening whine breaks over the phone line, leaving me half deaf.
"Phine!" he screams. "Phine, I know you're there!"
I hear what sounds like my idiot fucking brother stumbling over garbage cans, doors opening and slamming shut, and yelling.
I click the phone off and grab my shirt and shoes. Evan is shaking her head. I have no time, but I stop anyway.
"I'm so sorry. You have no idea how sorry I am. He's at his ex's house right now. I don't want her and my niece to get caught in this." I take her hands and she nods at me.
"Can I come?"
I shake my head. "You don't need to see this. It's gonna get ugly."
"Sometime can I come with you when the phone rings?" She chews on her bottom lip. "Or is the phone like your personal Bat Signal? Do you fight this fight alone?" She pulls her voice low and throaty.
It's not a time for jokes, but that doesn't stop me from laughing.
"Your Dark Knight impression is damn sexy." I kiss her, and the minute our lips brush, I want more. "Wow. Yeah. This fucking blows. Can I make it up to you?"
"Breakfast tomorrow?" She raises her eyebrows eagerly.
Shit. "Can't." I finish tying my shoes and kiss her again. She's intoxicating. "I have mass."
"I'll come," she offers, and I immediately imagine her in the old church where my entire family and Lala's goes for hours every Sunday, and I panic.
"No! I mean, it's so boring
. And the service is in Hungarian. I do it for my mom, you know?" I can see she's trying to hide how my string of stupid rejections is crushing her by playing it tough. "Can I get you for a late breakfast? Just you and me."
"And the phone?" She crosses her arms.
I hesitate. "I can't really turn it off, but--"
"Promise you'll take me if it rings," she cuts in.
Her blue eyes narrow when I open my mouth to turn her down one more time.
I can't.
I'm swimming with a laceration in shark-infested waters.
No reason to panic. I can manage this. I've managed way bigger shit than this. I'll just have to make sure my goddamn phone doesn't ring.
"Okay. It's a deal."
I lean in and kiss her one more time, trying to trap the sweet, hot smell and feel of her that's already getting addictive, and I have to go. I rip myself away, run to the balcony, and jump down the way I came, landing hard on my feet. I scale the wall fast, and take one second to glance back in the yellow-mooned night.
She's standing on the balcony, leaning on her elbows, long, dark hair falling over her shoulders, her skin bright in the moonlight, and the pang of my regret is knee-weakening.
Maybe I really won't have to worry about my fucking phone tomorrow. Because there's a damn good chance I'll wind up beating Remy to a bloody, unconscious pulp tonight.
Evan 8
"And then?" Brenna's like a little kid drooling over her favorite candy in the bright store window.
I'm like the dentist randomly showing up with a drill to remind her she has a mouthful of cavities.
"And then his phone rang."
"No!" And just like a sugar-deprived kiddo, I wonder if she's going to tantrum over this devastating development. "Was it 'House of the Rising Sun'? Did he leave? Are you seeing him again?"
Her questions pummel my tired brain.
"Yes," I sigh. "And yes. And yes."
I try to make the last one sound as reluctant as the first two, but there's no sneaking anything past my best friend when it comes to feelings and romance. She's the Sherlock Holmes and Watson of love.
"What are the rules? You can't just let him show up after he leaves and waltz right back out with him." She gives me time to answer.
"I...I just want to be with him, Bren."
"Evan!" she wails, only she takes the two syllables of my name and pulls them into twenty-two. "You can't do this to yourself again. You got so wrapped around Rabin and his games, and look where that wound up, sweetie."
I prop the phone on my vanity and plop down, beginning my long, involved makeup routine.
"Winch is nothing like Rabin. Nothing. Seriously, there are no games. It's just who he is, what he has to do. And I have to compromise a little because of that. But he's definitely not another Rabin."
I want to list all the differences between the two of them, but that smacks of desperation. Instead I focus on blending my foundation.
I can hear Brenna deep-breathing to de-stress before she pours her warning out.
"Listen to me, because I'm going to tell you what you need to hear, alright? Here we go. Rabin and Winch. Similarities? Both rich. Both in trouble with the law. Both have a shady past with girls. Both come in and out of your life without explaining why they keep disappearing. Both have you sad, waiting in your room for them to show up. Both lack commitment, work ethic--"
"He's nothing like that," I interrupt in a blaze of fury that shocks me into gulped silence.
This is Brenna, my best friend, the person who I trust to be purely honest with me. If she won't tell me the bald truth, who will? So why am I on the defensive? I wait a few beats, but the line is so quiet, I'm nervous she hung up on my stupid ass.
"Bren?"
"I'm here." Her words are clipped and strained with hurt.
"Didn't mean to snap." I keep my voice tiny in an attempt to control the emotion welling up in the back of my throat.
I can practically feel her sigh move my curtains through the phone.
"I love you. So much. And I want you to be careful with yourself because, sweetie, can we face it? You're not. You're so not! You let guys in before you should. And I don't know anything about this guy, but what I do know, I really don't like. I could be wrong."
Her last four words come out with so little conviction, I know she's not even trying to trick me into believing she means them.
"I know." I pick up my mascara wand and begin my neat, precise eighteen-coat application for luck. "I know you love me, and I love you right back. But loosen the strings, mama. I promise, this guy is different. I know what he seems like, but it's just that he's--"
I bite the word back.
"Evan? I think the connection dropped." Brenna's voice trembles over the phone line with anxious worry.
"No, I'm here. I was just saying that Winch is a little...complicated. But I promise you, I'll keep my eyes open this time."
I suck my cheeks in and sweep blush over my apples and tell myself to keep calm.
Keep calm.
Brenna's little snort is fueled by the sting of my earlier jab, and I see my cheeks go pink under my blush in the mirror.
"There's nothing like thinking you're in love to glue your eyes shut." She clears her throat. "Well, have fun, but be careful." Her strict mom-voice wavers. "Seriously, take care of yourself. I...it was super hard to watch you go through all that pain with Rabin. You're doing so much better. Just look out for yourself, okay?"
It's like the lump in her throat has a direct switch to the lump in mine.
"Okay," I croak, batting back tears. "Love you!"
"Love you more," she warbles before she clicks off.
I know Bren loves me. I know she said what she did because it matters to her if I'm happy, safe, and sane. And no guy has ever made me snap at her before. But there's something about Winch. Something that makes me feel specifically protective. And protected. And open. And ready. And sure.
So I keep her warning in my head, but I decide to dress like I don't have a doubt in the world when it comes to love and Winch.
I pull out a gorgeous white poplin strapless sundress and gold sandals that lace up my calves. The outfit makes me feel very Greek goddess, and when I hear Winch's car pull up, I have to force my knees to lock under me and wait. It feels like hours before the doorbell chimes.
I put both feet on each stair as I descend, convince myself to check my reflection in the hallway mirror, and leave my hand on the cool glass doorknob for a few extra beats, but it's all just stupid games. My heart is driving me to whip the door open quickly so I can see him again.
It's exactly like the feeling I get every single time I see the ocean; no matter how many times I take that sprint over the dunes, the first sight of the crashing waves always knocks my heart back in my chest. No one ever made me feel that way before I met Winch.
He's holding an armful of pink tulips and wearing a hungry, focused expression. His blue eyes travel up and down over my body, and I feel almost shy under his gaze.
"You're a goddess."
He says it like a normal person would say, "Your dress is white."
A lazy-afternoon-sunshine glow unfurls low down between my hips and blooms up my spine, climbing fast and high as a magic beanstalk to my heart.
"That's exactly what I was thinking," I toss out so he won't sense how pathetically giggly I am, and I reach for the flowers, leaving his arms tulip-empty, pressing my face to the petals possessively. "For me?"
"Of course." His smile is sweet, but tired.
He stays outside the door while I find a vase in the hall cabinet and fill it with water from the powder room. "You can come in if you want," I tell him, but he just leans one shoulder on the doorframe and watches me set the pink blossoms out. "How was last night?"
"Long and aggravating."
He must have just shaved this morning, and I catch sight of a tiny nick on his jaw from the razor. His white button down is pressed and cuffed to the elbows, all
owing the tattoo he shares with Remington to peek out. His grey pants are also pressed and neat.
"You look dapper today." I plump the tulips up one last time and make my way to him. The clover-clean, sharp smell of his skin makes my senses reel.
I want to touch him, to reconnect, but it's like what we had last night is a powerline that's been severed. All the electricity is still spitting and crackling, but I don't dare attempt to touch that kind of raw power.
He holds his hands out at his sides.
"Church duds. I ditched the tie and jacket, but I was in full dapper-mode this morning. My grandmother would pass out if we didn't wear suits every Sunday, heat be damned. And that old ass chapel has a busted air conditioner. I was sweating my ass off."
I'm about to say something about church or grandmothers or the lack of AC when he crosses right over the threshold and grabs me around the waist. One hand takes the small pair of pruning shears I'm still holding lightly in my fingers and sets them on the table, then his lips seal over mine, hot, fast, and famished.
The first moan rips out from low in his throat, and a hand curls behind the back of my head and presses my lips closer, giving his mouth the leverage to edge mine open and allowing the sweet heat of his tongue to swirl against mine. I knock into the small table the tulips sit on, splashing water everywhere.
Winch's kisses are sweet and quick with a desperate edge that makes me forget every detail of where we are and who might catch us because all I can think is more, him, need, yes.
As if he can read my mind, he has his arm wrapped around my waist and hoists me onto the table with no effort at all. I lean back, and he follows me forward, never breaking the contact of our mouths.
His hands fall flat to my knees and rest for one second, palms down, before they begin a slow and steady incline up along my thighs, up until his fingertips brush my hips and his thumbs rub over the tiny piece of silky fabric that makes up my sexy date underwear. His thumbs stroke once, three times, six or seven times before I'm squared in heaven and ready to let him do whatever he might possibly want to right in my grandparents' fancy foyer.
Maybe he really can read my mind, because the instant 'grandparents' foyer' jolts through my brain, his hands withdraw back to my knees, and his lips brush over mine in softer and softer sweeps until he's one inch too many away from me.
Fall Guy (A Youngblood Book) Page 13