by Callie Rose
Savannah has continued to be over-the-top in her display of grief, using it as an excuse to do and say whatever she wants, to be an even bigger bitch to me than usual. She’s become so theatrical about it that it’s honestly gotten a little hard to tell how much of it is real and how much is fake.
Lincoln grunts again, tugging me in the opposite direction toward the other wing of the house. We find Dax and Chase surrounded by several girls—they tend to flock around the twins whether the boys encourage them or not, which they’re definitely not doing right now—and then the four of us migrate over to the corner River is lounging in.
It occurs to me that this is really all I wanted, that this is what makes me feel safe. I might’ve come to this party because Lauren and Andrea invited me, but the only people I really feel like hanging out with here are the four boys I’m with.
Wow. There’s something I never thought I’d say.
Dax and Chase settle on either side of me on a wide, plush couch. The floor plan of this house is open, so even though we’re in a completely different room, I can still see Trent and Savannah. They’ve stopped making out like sloppy drunks, but she’s still clinging to him like a leech, leaning up to whisper in his ear.
“You don’t think it was Savannah, do you?” I mutter before I can stop myself.
My voice was low, but River, who’s sitting across from me, narrows his eyes at me in surprise and leans closer. “What are you talking about?”
I sigh, glancing around. This isn’t the place to have this kind of conversation. I’m not sure there’s any good place, but this definitely isn’t it. “Nothing. It’s probably stupid. I just know they hated each other at least as much as they liked each other. And they spent weeks fighting over Trent.”
Dax shakes his head. “She’s not smart enough. And the person in that car was a guy. For sure.”
“Yeah. You’re right.” I shake my head, making the hair of my blunt black wig shimmy, and the five of us settle back into the couch cushions.
The conversation turns to other topics, but I can’t quite let go of the thought I had earlier. Dax is right that the person in the car was large and masculine. It definitely wasn’t Savannah. But what if she got someone to do it for her? Murder is awful and extreme, but I know she was jealous of Iris and that the two of them fought over cheerleading positions all the time. And there’s something about extreme wealth, about never hearing the word “no”, that seems to divorce people from reality a little bit.
Maybe in some twisted, convoluted way, she convinced herself she had to get rid of Iris to have everything she wanted.
I let it drop though, because as much as I don’t like Savannah, it’s hard to picture her as a murderer—and I don’t really have any evidence to back that up, just half-formed suspicions. So I relax and drink with the guys for the rest of the night, trying to keep my gaze from wandering over to Savannah and Trent too often.
Sunday is the first day of November, and I don’t know what the weather is normally like in Connecticut, but it seems to switch overnight from chilly to cold, as if someone finally got the memo that winter is almost here.
I spend most of the day inside, cleaning and doing homework. When I walk in on my mom and Mr. Black having a friendly chat in his study, my hackles rise immediately. I need to tell her at least a watered down version of what Lincoln told me without making it obvious I blabbed.
But I wasn’t kidding. My mom is too sweet and trusting for her own good. Not that she’s the type who’d play mistress or break up a marriage, but I worry that she could get herself in trouble just by believing the best of people when it’s always better to expect the worst.
Samuel smiles charmingly at me when he notices me in the doorway, but I see his eyelids flicker at the expression on my face, and I wonder if he knows I’m aware of his little maid fetish.
I give him a tight-lipped smile and shoot a glance at Mom.
Lincoln Black may be gaining my trust, but I still don’t trust his dad any farther than I can throw him.
20
Monday starts off boring. I drive with Lincoln to school and slog through my first several classes. Fourth period gym has become a lot quieter since Iris’s death. The locker room screaming matches between her and Savannah used to be at least a weekly occurrence, but now, it’s usually just girls gossiping and talking about what parties happened the previous weekend and what’s planned for the coming weekend.
Savannah begged out of class early today, claiming a bad headache, so she’s not even in the locker room as I change back into my street clothes in one corner of the long, narrow space. I’m slipping my foot through the pant leg of my jeans when a hushed voice reaches my ears from the bank of lockers to my right.
“Yeah. She was pregnant.”
I pause.
There’s no reason to assume I know who they’re talking about, but the speaker’s use of past tense makes my body immediately stiffen. Her voice has that harsh, shrill quality that suggests highly juicy gossip, and it makes my heart constrict in my chest.
“Holy fuck. No way. Iris Lepiane was knocked up?”
The other girl sounds both scandalized and highly entertained, and my stomach twists. That’s a real person—a real life—they’re talking about, not some character on a trashy soap. Two lives, if the first speaker is right.
“Yeah. I heard it from Celia, whose mom heard it from her mom. She was fucking pregnant.”
“No way!”
Their voices get lower as they get more excited, as if even they realize how terrible they’re being, gossiping about the dead.
I slide my foot slowly down my pant leg, keeping up the facade of getting dressed, but every molecule of my body is reaching out toward the voices on the other side of the lockers, trying to hear each word they speak.
“Yep. I just wonder who the father is.”
The second girl snickers softly. “That could be a long list.”
“Right? It’d be quicker to make a list of who she hasn’t slept with.”
“Who do you think it was?”
The first speaker sounds like she’s thrilled to have been asked, like she’s been waiting to pontificate on her theories all day. “It’s hard to say. I mean, there’s Trent Calloway, obviously. Conor. Chris. And she and Lincoln Black only dated last year, but hell, maybe he went back for seconds.”
They titter like little birds, but I lose the sound of their voices behind the rushing in my ears.
What?
Lincoln… dated Iris?
He never, ever mentioned that. Not once. And none of the others did either.
My body works on autopilot, pulling on my clothes and sweeping my hair up into a ponytail. But my mind can’t stop circling around that single fact.
Lincoln and Iris.
Iris and Lincoln.
They dated. And he didn’t think that was important to mention after we all witnessed her death? Is that why he was so adamant about not going to the cops? Because he knew he could be a suspect?
Or what if he was, as the first girl put it, going back for seconds? What if he knew she was pregnant? Could he have done this?
My brain balks at that idea, refusing to believe it. That’s not possible. I’m a better judge of people than that.
But I don’t know what to think, can’t organize my thoughts or the powerful emotions swinging like out of control pendulums inside me right now. Anger. Confusion. Worry.
Jealousy.
That’s the one that burns the most, and the one I try to squash down the hardest. It shouldn’t matter to me what Lincoln did or does with any girl, especially one who’s no longer even here.
I tug my backpack out of the locker and swing it over my shoulder, blinking hard as I feel my entire face flush hot. My next period is lunch, but I can’t stand the thought of seeing any of the guys right now, so I speed walk toward a side door on the first floor and slip out into the cold, gray day. I don’t have my coat, but I don’t care; there’s no fu
cking way I’m going back for it.
If I hide under the bleachers, the twins will find me, so instead, I hurry to the other side of the school, where a small courtyard and fountain sit. I head past them to a few tall trees in the lawn and hide behind one, leaning my backpack against it and sucking in air.
I stay there the entire period, and I don’t smoke or eat or do much of anything really. I just stare at the brown grass, the bare branches of the trees, and the gray-white clouds in the sky.
The rest of the day is a blur. I notice River cast me a questioning look as I pass him in the hall, probably wondering where the fuck I vanished to, but I ignore him. I can’t ignore my fucking ride home though, and three o’clock rolls around all too soon.
When I leave the school building and walk down the wide front steps, Lincoln is right there waiting. He has a cranky look on his face, and it makes me want to scratch his fucking eyes out. He’s mad at me?
I don’t say a word as I walk past him, heading toward his car, and I can feel his irritation ratchet up as he turns to keep pace alongside me. We both slide into the vehicle without speaking, and the entire ride home is steeped in silence.
When we’re about halfway back, my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out, still pointedly ignoring Lincoln.
MOM: Hey Low. I’m heading out to meet Celeste for coffee. We’ve been trying to make it happen forever and she’s finally got a free afternoon. Be back by dinner, so leave some chores for me and I’ll get to them tonight xoxo
ME: Okay. Have fun
I hope she does have fun, and that seeing her old college friend doesn’t make her regret the direction her life has gone. But I also wish she’d be home when I got there. I want to curl up on her couch and watch movies and forget the fucking world for a while.
The tense, almost painful silence lasts until Lincoln parks the car in one of the garages and turns off the engine. For a second, he just sits there, still holding the key in the ignition. Then he turns sharply toward me.
“What?” he demands.
He’s obviously annoyed, but for once, worry about pissing him off is the furthest thing from my mind.
I meet his leonine amber gaze, shifting in the seat to face him fully. “Iris was pregnant.”
His brows pull together, the anger on his face evaporating into confusion. “What?”
“Oh, you didn’t know? I’m surprised to hear that, considering you fucking dated her.”
His expression changes again, and I can tell this isn’t at all what he was expecting this conversation to be about. “Who told you that?”
“That’s what you’re concerned about?” I let out a harsh laugh, then turn and yank on the door handle. Fuck it. Mom isn’t home, but I can still curl up on her couch under a pile of blankets and try to forget this day ever happened.
I make a beeline for the side door of the mansion, but before I reach it, I hear Lincoln’s car door slam behind me. As I push inside the house, he’s right on my heels.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m concerned about. Because whoever’s going around saying that is spreading a load of bullshit. We hooked up twice last year. We never dated, and I stopped doing anything with her when I realized how manipulative she was.”
“That’s not the fucking point!” I whirl on him as we enter the foyer, the sound of my voice echoing in the large, empty space. No one’s around to hear us, and thank God for that, because I can’t keep my volume down. Fury is bubbling in my veins, urged on by other emotions I don’t even fully understand. “It doesn’t matter what you call it! You should’ve told me! You really didn’t think that was relevant information?”
“No.” His voice is hard, his gaze harder. “I didn’t. It wasn’t your fucking business, and it had nothing to do with what happened to her.”
“Oh really?” I hiss. “Well, maybe it had something to do with why you refused to report what we saw! Here I thought you were doing the noble thing, trying to protect your friends, and the whole time, all you were doing was covering your own damn ass!”
“You’re wrong, Harlow.” He’s breathing harder, his nostrils flaring. He looks dangerous and wild. “You don’t even know how wrong.”
“I don’t know anything!” I yell. “Because you never tell me. You act like I’m part of this, but I’m just the fucking help! Someone you can treat like shit when you feel like and be nice to whenever it serves your needs. Someone you can boss around and use and—”
I never get to finish that sentence, because in two strides, Lincoln closes the distance between us and kisses me. Hard.
This kiss isn’t the end of our fight, it’s a continuation of it, and his lips press against mine with bruising intensity, like he’s trying to shut me up and prove something to me at the same time. My body goes rigid with shock for a second, but then it responds with a fierceness that surprises even me. My hands thread through his hair, gripping the roots like I’m trying to yank the strands out, as I attack his mouth with lips, teeth, and tongue.
It’s not a sweet kiss.
It’s not even a hot kiss.
It’s more like a natural disaster, a tornado tearing through the landscape, destroying everything in its path and leaving the world as it once existed in ruins.
It’s fire.
It’s pain.
It’s need.
I’m clawing at Lincoln’s scalp, trying to climb his body, gasping and panting and making low, incoherent noises. His large hands are everywhere—sliding over my ass, my hips, my waist, the sides of my breasts—as he kisses me like a starving man.
Then suddenly, his hands are on my shoulders, pushing me away.
I almost stumble as he shoves me back, breaking my hold on him. His hair is wild from my fingers, his face flushed, and his lips swollen from the attack. He blinks at me like he can’t believe what just happened, like he’s not sure how I got here, or how he got here, or who either of us are.
He looks almost… scared.
His gaze shutters as he takes another step away from me, shaking his head. “It’s none of your business who I fucked, Pool Girl. If it was important, I would’ve told you. But you didn’t need to know.”
Then he turns and starts up the stairs, his steps fast and heavy.
Oh no, you fucking don’t.
My mind is still several seconds behind my body, but it doesn’t matter. I’m already moving, barreling up the stairs behind him. Lincoln Black has yanked my emotions around since the very first damn day I met him, and there’s no way I’m letting him have the last word on this.
“I’ll decide what I need to know, you asshole! This isn’t a fucking game! Why couldn’t you just tell me? Huh?” I catch up to him on the top landing and shove at his back. “What were you so scared of? Afraid I’d be jealous of her? Because she got to fuck one of the kings of Linwood Academy? Well, I’ve got news for you, Linc. I don’t give a shit. You can screw your way through the entire cheerleading squad one by one for all I care.”
We’re halfway down the hall to his bedroom when he whirls suddenly, grabbing my arms and slamming me into the wall so hard a painting nearby shakes on its hook. His pupils are dilated, contrasting with the bright amber of his irises, and his lips curl back from his teeth. “I told you, Pool Girl. Stop lying to me.”
I hurl my body against the pressure of his grip, trying to force us away from the wall. But he’s too strong, and he’s using all his weight to pin me. “I’m not lying, you asshole! God, I fucking hate y—”
For the second time, his lips cut off my words, and I was wrong before.
That kiss downstairs? That was fucking gentle.
This is the kind of kiss that steals souls.
His body is pressed against mine, trapping me against the wall, and his lips are a torrent of desire and fucked up cravings I’m about to drown in. He draws my tongue into his mouth, and mine clashes with his as if there’s some way for either of us to win this battle. He smells like musk and spice, and there’s just a hint of somethin
g sweet on his breath.
Now that he’s got me pinned, now that he knows I’m not going anywhere, his hands leave my shoulders, sliding down to massage and squeeze my breasts, tugging at my nipples through my bra, sending little shocks of pleasure and pain through me. I whimper into his mouth, and he draws away slightly. We’re both breathing hard, the harsh sounds filling the quiet, dim hallway.
“Tell me to stop, Harlow.” His voice is rough as sandpaper, nearly unrecognizable. It’s nothing like the smooth, confident tenor I’ve come to expect from him. “Tell me to walk away.”
The words I should say sit in my chest as we stare at each other, dazed gazes locked and hands still groping each other possessively.
They sit in my chest, and they stay there.
He waits, giving me time to push him away, time to run. But I don’t move, and as the seconds stretch on, I see the dawning realization in his face that I’m not going to.
A thrill of anticipation, fear, and lust fills me as one large hand slides up my body to grasp my jaw.
“Last chance, Low,” he murmurs.
I’ve lost track of everything. Of how I feel about him. Of how this fight even started. Of what I wanted in the first place.
There’s nothing in the world except his large body holding me against the wall and his amber eyes glowing like twin flames in the dim light.
And then his mouth descends on mine again, claiming another kiss from my already bruised lips. His hands are tearing at my clothes, and I realize with a jolt that mine are doing the same to his. I yank his shirt over his head and rake my fingernails down the warm, silken skin of his arms. He doesn’t even bother taking my shirt all the way off, just tears it down the middle, and the sharp sound of fabric ripping makes my clit throb.
I don’t know why I want this, don’t now why I’m reacting like this. I’ve never had rough sex before, but the harshness of his movements, the bites of pain mixed with pleasure, are making me so fucking wet for him.