by Jenna Scott
“Harry?” I say, fussing with his hair a little. “You know you can tell me if there’s ever anything wrong. Right?”
He nods but doesn’t meet my eyes. “I know,” he says. “I’m okay.”
I want to say more, but then the timer in the kitchen goes off.
“You wanna go see if dinner’s ready to come out of the oven?” I ask.
“Sure!”
He jumps up and bolts down the hall, leaving me to hurry after him.
I need to talk to Mrs. Beck about his arm, but it’ll have to wait until Wednesday. It could be that I’m overreacting, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. And unfortunately, I know Mr. Beck will just brush my concerns aside—the last time Harry got hurt (spraining his ankle while we were playing badminton), I’d begged Mr. Beck to take him to the doctor to get checked out, but he’d insisted that Harry was fine. He said you had to “let boys be boys” rather than coddling them every time they scraped a knee.
Actually… I can’t believe I’m even considering it, but maybe Hunter is the one to talk to. He might act like a total jackass to me, but he doesn’t screw around when it comes to his baby brother.
After I get the chicken and veggies out of the oven and leave them on the countertop to cool, I set Harrison up at the table with his math workbook from school and tell him I’m going to run upstairs to the bathroom, which I’m not entirely lying about—I am going to go—but I’ll be making a slight detour first.
I tiptoe up the stairs to go talk to Hunter, but halfway there, a faint sound slows me down, and I freeze on the steps.
A harsh breath, and then another one. A slight moan.
Is someone hurt? Is that Hunter?
Mrs. Beck is out of town, Mr. Beck is on a work call, and Harry is down in the kitchen counting out two plus two on his fingers. It has to be Hunter.
Another quiet moan, and now I’m positive he’s the culprit. I’m also positive it’s not an injury forcing those sounds out of his mouth. He sounds exactly like he did last night when he was screwing that girl in the pool. Breathless, desperate, and undeniably taking pleasure in whatever he’s doing. Or I guess I should say, whomever.
God, who’d he bring home this time? Do I even want to know? He left the door ajar too, and to get to the bathroom, I have to walk past his room and risk being seen by whomever he’s banging in there. Or worse, risk getting an eyeful of another gross display of Hunter’s exhibitionism.
But as his breathing starts to get faster, I realize there aren’t any female moans accompanying his, and if last night was anything to go by, no girl stays quiet when he’s pounding her. Which means he’s alone in there.
Which means he’s masturbating.
Suddenly, I’m too embarrassed to move, worried that the stairs will creak and he’ll stick his head out into the hall and see me standing here like some pervert.
What is his problem, anyway? Couldn’t he at least wait until tonight when everyone is in bed and I’m all the way across town? Are his hormones really raging so hard that they obliterate any sense of common decency?
Still, there’s a part of me that’s straining to listen to him make those noises. And a tightness, low in my belly, aches like a hunger pang. I hear a slight hiss and then realize it was me who made it, so I turn on my heel and run back downstairs where I belong, hoping Hunter’s too distracted to catch the sound of my retreating footsteps.
Chapter Seven
Camilla
All the way home, my thoughts are a swirl of moans and explicit images, and there’s nothing I can do to erase what I’ve seen (and heard) of Hunter Beck over the past few days.
I see him finishing inside that girl in the pool last night, hard and fast; fingering another one in the front seat of her car while they sit parked at the curb; and groping yet a different girl in the billiard room in the basement, though that one was a month ago. Each time, I’ve noticed that he seems distant, detached… Still, I figure he must know what he’s doing—the girls always sound like they’re enjoying themselves, at least.
What would happen if I let him do something like that to me?
The question is there before I can stop myself from wondering, and just like that, the ache between my legs grows stronger. I’m ashamed to admit it, but facts are facts: I’m horny, and Hunter Beck is responsible. That’s what I truly hate about all of this. Because he’s not a good person. I don’t even like him. It’s just pure animal lust.
God, he’s irritating. At least he can’t read my thoughts.
With a squeal, the bus stops a few blocks from our apartment, and I let the cool ocean breeze snap me out of my helpless state of arousal. I still have forty dollars left in my wallet, so I stop at the little grocery store on the way home and grab a few essentials: milk, eggs, bread, cheese, some fresh produce, and a few frozens. It’ll tide us over until Mom gets paid on Friday, and I can whip up some pasta and tomato sauce for dinner tonight.
When I get home, I see a few bright yellow envelopes on the floor that must have been pushed under the door earlier. I drop my keys in the bowl and set my bags down before gathering the envelopes up, eyeing the property manager’s return address stamp in the corner. I’m guessing by the alarming color of the envelopes that this can’t be good news. They’re all unopened, though, and I can’t read any of these letters until my mom does. Which probably won’t be tonight, judging by the sound of her faint snores echoing off the walls of the living room.
Dread cuts into my gut as I tiptoe to the kitchen to put away the groceries. I can see the empty bottle of Jim Beam she left on the counter, which means she’s out and will be in an extra bad mood if I wake her up.
I should rip into those envelopes right now, find out if we’re being evicted rather than waiting for her to dump the bad news on me on a random day. But the memory of her hand hitting my cheek, leaving it hot and throbbing afterward, holds me back.
Slowly, I pad to her side and unfold the blanket draped over the couch to cover her with. She stirs but doesn’t wake. I grab her empty glass and take it back to the kitchen, where I wash it and then put the liquor bottle in the recycle container. Then I make a quick dinner of spaghetti and frozen peas and pop the leftovers in the fridge.
My shoulder radiates relief when I drop my book bag on my bedroom floor. It’s after nine now, and I wish I could just turn in early, but I have homework to do first. Unfortunately, the Wi-Fi, unknowingly provided gratis by our neighbors (whose password is password), is acting spotty. Yep. It’s definitely not my day. Still, it was a smart move to spend my lunch period doing homework. Maybe I’ll be able to finish up before midnight.
I change into pajamas and then sprawl out on my bed, flipping open my notebook to look over my list of assignments. AP Calc is going to take the longest, so I tackle that first.
My schedule is brutal sometimes, but school is all I have going for me to see myself out of this shitty life. Getting into a college like Stanford or one of the UC schools—or even one of the Cal State universities—is my best bet at being able to take care of myself and build a life of my own. I’d love to not constantly be moving from place to place all the time, stressing about money and whether my mom is going to need a new liver one of these days. If we’re evicted right now, will we even stay here in La Jolla, or will we have to go somewhere else entirely?
For once, I actually want to stay where we are, though it’s only because I know a diploma from Oak Academy will go a long way toward getting me into one of my dream schools. On the other hand, moving away would mean I’d never have to deal with Hunter’s bullshit again.
Hunter.
I bury my face in my hands, trying to will away the image of his bare chest in the pool. The way he’d looked at me. Those damn sex sounds yesterday and today.
There’s that burning tightness between my legs again as soon as I think of him. The moans I heard hours ago flood into my head, making my pulse race, and suddenly I’m thinking about what would’ve happened if I’d been brave eno
ugh to interrupt him. He’d have zero shame about it, I’m sure, and would probably use the moment to humiliate me some more. I know that, and even still…I’m curious. He was looking at me while he fucked someone else in the pool. Was he thinking about me when he jerked off too?
Why am I even pondering this?
Of all people to have this effect on me, why does it have to be Hunter? And why do I have to keep running into him when his dick is out of his pants? And why does my traitorous body keep responding like it’s something erotic and not utterly mortifying?
Suddenly, I realize why my mom hasn’t opened those letters. Sometimes it’s just better not to know the truth. As long as doubt exists, the things that we’re most afraid of having to face can be both true and false.
Maybe I should start calling those unopened envelopes Schrodinger’s mail.
My phone vibrates with a notification, and I see a preview of a text from Emmett on the screen. I swipe it open and smile as I read, How’d the rest of your day go? Find all your classes okay?
He’s so nice and in that genuine way that comes from growing up with a healthy, well-adjusted support system. I bet Emmett’s mom asks him about school over the dinner table, bakes him cookies, and doesn’t tell him he’s getting fat.
Then I berate myself for being jealous of things I don’t even know are true.
Rather than get involved in an hours-long textversation, I figure it’ll be faster to just call Emmett and have a quick chat, so I dial him. He picks up on the first ring.
“How goes it, new girl?” he asks.
“Ha. It’s fine,” I tell him, keeping my voice low. “I’m dying over some AP Calc so I can’t talk long, I just figured a call would be faster.”
“I feel you on that, and I’m only in Algebra 1,” he says. “Speaking of which, wanna come over and study sometime this week? We should get started on that paper for World History.”
“Are your parents cool with me coming over late?” I ask. “I babysit this kid after school, and I don’t get out till 7:30 p.m..”
“Seven thirty is fine. They won’t mind. Actually, don’t laugh, but the whole thing was my mom’s idea. I told her about you, and she said I had to invite you over.”
“Oh really,” I say. “What exactly did you tell her about me?”
“Nothing. Just that you’re new and you didn’t really know anybody. She said to ask what your favorite kind of cookies are.”
Ha! Called it. “She doesn’t have to do that. I don’t want her to go through all the trouble…”
“It’s cool. She loves mothering everyone. So when are you free?”
“Wednesday is good,” I tell him. “And any cookies containing chocolate are fine in my book.”
“Wednesday it is.”
We talk for a few more minutes and then get off the phone. I may have had a day from hell, but I’m grateful to find that I’ve made a real friend, and when I turn back to my homework, I still have a smile on my face.
Chapter Eight
Camilla
Emmett’s gorgeous, Spanish-style house is in one of the family-friendly neighborhoods a few blocks from downtown La Jolla, and there are so many palm trees in the front yard that I turn to him and joke, “Are you sure your house is back there, or are we going on a jungle adventure?”
“This’ll be an adventure, all right,” he jokes back.
As soon as we step through the door, I can feel the warmth of the place—and not just because his mother is waiting there to greet us with a smile.
“You must be Camilla!” she says, sweeping me into a surprise hug. “Come in, come in. I have the cookies all ready.”
“Thank you so much. You really didn’t have to do that,” I say.
She waves my comment away. “The only thing I don’t seem to burn to a crisp is baked goods, so please enjoy them. They’re my pride and joy.”
“She’s not kidding,” Emmett tells me under his breath. “Next to her cookies, I’m chopped liver.”
“Oh hush, you,” his mom says, playfully whacking him on the arm. “So Camilla, where did you move here from?”
“L.A.,” I tell her. “And lots of other places before that. But we’ve actually been here for almost four years now. I’m only new to Oak Academy.”
“Well, I hope you love it. It’s a great school,” she says.
We follow her into the kitchen, which is done up in brightly colored Mexican tiles and smells like heaven. The glass doors to the backyard are open, and even though it’s dark out, I can see a little fountain out there that’s making soothing trickling sounds. I sink into one of the chairs at the table and let out a deep sigh. This is nice.
Emmett’s mom bustles over to the fridge and asks us, “Would you rather have milk, coffee, or tea?”
Glancing over, I notice she’s tall, like he is, with the same big hazel eyes and high cheekbones. She’s in designer jeans and a vintage Rolling Stones T-shirt, which makes sense since Emmett mentioned that she works from home as a CPA.
“Coffee would be great if you have decaf,” I say. “And cream. Thank you.”
“It’s just from the Keurig,” she adds. “Nothing fancy, if that’s okay?”
“That’s perfect,” I tell her.
“Make me one too, pretty please,” Emmett chimes in, loading up a plate full of cookies from the cooling rack on the stove.
The chocolatey, sugary scent is making my mouth water, and I want to devour them immediately, but I remind myself to wait until the coffee finishes brewing.
On the walls, I see pictures everywhere. Emmett, his siblings, and his parents, always smiling and laughing whether it be at the beach, on a hike, or in a foreign city in front of some monument or fancy tourist attraction. A real family.
“We do a big summer vacation every year,” Emmett says, coming up beside me with the plate of cookies. “Have you been to any of these places?”
“Some.” I point at the Grand Canyon, the Rocky Mountains, and Vegas. Only it wasn’t because my mom was taking us on a family trip. A bitter laugh spills out of me. “But they weren’t really vacations. They were just another one of our moves.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Emmett immediately looks away, and I feel bad for making him feel bad. “I didn’t mean…”
“Don’t feel bad,” I reassure him. “It’s not your fault I’ve moved around a lot.” I pause for a second. “I think La Jolla is actually the longest we’ve stayed anywhere.”
“Do you like it here?” Emmett asks, leading me into the living room.
An upright piano sits against the wall, and the eclectic, mismatched furniture is arranged around a brick fireplace. He sets the cookies on the coffee table and then plops into an overstuffed armchair, gesturing for me to sit wherever. I take the love seat.
“I do,” I say, surprised to mean it. “The ocean breeze makes the weather really nice, the traffic’s pretty light, and it’s big enough without being, you know, gigantic. Which is way better than L.A. because it doesn’t take an hour and a half on the bus to get from one side of town to another.”
His mom returns with a tray loaded up with our coffee mugs, half-and-half, and two kinds of sugar. I thank her profusely, take a quick sip of my coffee, and then immediately dig into a still-warm cookie because I just can’t wait any longer.
They’re peanut butter with big chocolate chunks, the gooey chocolate melting on my tongue. It’s chewy perfection, and I almost let out a moan. “Oh my God,” I mumble.
Emmett’s mom grins at my expression. “Does that mean they’re good?”
“They’re perfect.”
“I’m glad.” She musses Emmett’s curly hair, making him blush while he tries to maneuver out of her reach. “I’m gonna go get some corporate tax stuff done upstairs. Give a holler if you need anything.”
I wait for her to leave the room and then look over at Emmett. “Wow.”
He sighs. “I know. She’s too much. It’s embarrassing.”
“Not at all,” I tell him
. “She’s awesome. I mean, I wish my mom would bake cookies for my friends and tell me to call if I needed anything.”
Then maybe I could actually invite people over instead of anxiously avoiding the subject at all costs.
“Oh, she is awesome,” he admits. “But I wish she’d treat me like I’m almost eighteen, and not six.”
“Maybe she would if you knew how to make your own coffee.”
Emmett bursts into a contagious laugh, and I join in a little. All teasing aside, I can definitely relate to what he’s saying, even if our moms treat us like babies for entirely different reasons—his because she clearly loves him, mine because she doesn’t pay enough attention to me to realize I’m almost an adult. Except when it’s convenient for her, that is.
“Is your dad the same way?” I ask, curious.
“Worse.” Emmett rolls his eyes. “Imagine if a big teddy bear became a surgeon and then got a job at the children’s hospital in San Diego. That’s him. That’s my dad.”
I laugh because I am imagining it, and it’s the cutest thing ever.
We get our laptops out—his silver and sleek, mine ancient and bulky. While his hums to life the second he opens it, mine takes a couple minutes and sounds like it’s about to take off from the coffee table and shoot through the roof.
I definitely win at the sticker game though. Emmett’s laptop has a single one for the Lakers, whereas mine is absolutely covered in everything, from a “Save the Waves” decal, to a smiling cartoon avocado, to the Deathly Hallows, to a Six of Crows quote. They give my computer a bit of flair while also hiding all the scratches on the plastic.
Our World History paper gets done pretty quickly, since Emmett knows his shit and so do I. After Hunter’s assholery in debate class all this week, it’s a huge relief to be able to do a group project with someone who actually participates.
The cookies definitely help, too, as does the coffee his mom brought. It’s all so shockingly different from what I’ve known and the way I’ve been raised. How would I have turned out if I’d had parents who cared and didn’t have to worry about money all the time? Would I be less guarded with people, more happy-go-lucky like Emmett is?