“Stay away from the local guys, you understand?” Jake tells me.
I look up at him.
He continues, “If you get a boyfriend, you won’t be able to see him once we’re snowed in anyway. Besides, they’re not your type.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m telling you they’re not your type,” he shoots back. “I will let you know when one is.”
What a Neanderthal. For Christ’s sake.
I keep quiet, no desire to argue with him. I’m not looking for a guy, but I can take care of myself. His sons grew up with him in their faces. I’m used to making my own decisions.
“They’re bored,” he tells me. “And when you’re bored, you only want two things, and beer doesn’t last forever.”
So they’re different from other guys my age, how? I know what teenagers are into. I know what men want from women. I’m not a fragile rose petal.
His teeth work my palm, and flutters hit my stomach.
I look up at him, the fact that I now live with three healthy, semi-young males, all of who are also part of the “local guys” he’s warning me about.
“You don’t get bored up here during the winter?” I taunt, dropping my voice to just between us. “When the beer runs out?”
His eyes tighten at the corners, getting my meaning. Are he and his sons any different? Will there be more naked women hanging out around the bathroom?
He finally gets hold of the splinter and pulls it out, but I don’t look away, even as it stings.
He lowers my hand, rubbing his thumb over the small wound.
“It’s fine.” I pull it away, wiping whatever little blood was there.
“Are you sorry you came?” he asks me.
Surprisingly, I’m not taken off guard by the question. Probably because I wouldn’t be scared to be rude if the truth was in the negative.
“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly.
I’m not happy, but I wouldn’t be happy at home or at Brynmor or probably anywhere. I didn’t expect to be happy coming here, so it doesn’t matter.
I look out of the shop, all of the guys revving their engines and turning their bikes around to leave. Noah backs away, obviously not joining them.
“Do you like being here?” Jake presses.
“I don’t know,” I tell him again.
“Where would you rather be?”
I don’t know. Why does he want to know? I don’t…
I finally meet his eyes, chewing the corner of my mouth.
“I don’t want to be…” I trail off, trying to find the words. “I don’t want to be…”
But the sentence comes out sounding complete. Like that’s my answer. I don’t want to be.
His eyes turn guarded as he looks at me.
“I don’t want to be anywhere,” I quickly say.
I might’ve had some misperceptions about what to expect here, but I at least thought three single men wouldn’t desire a lot of touchy-feely conversation. This guy seems to want to connect, and it’s aggravating me.
I turn and start to walk out of the shop, just as the dirt bikes are all speeding away.
“Make some sandwiches, please,” Jake calls after me. “Just put them in the fridge to grab and go. Doesn’t matter what kind. We’re not picky.”
We’re not picky.
I walk into the house, head for the kitchen, and yank open both fridge doors. Then I pull open the crisper and freezer drawers below as I take stock of everything I have to work with.
He’s keeping me busy. I should be grateful. And he’s giving me a chore where I don’t have to talk to anyone. I like to cook. I can listen to music and be left alone.
And sandwiches aren’t hard.
I tap my fingers on the door handle as I hold open the fridge. I don’t know. He just rubs me the wrong way, like he’s enjoying his guardianship a little too much. My parents wouldn’t have cared if I’d had orgies in my bedroom as long as nothing wound up on Snapchat.
This guy, though…
Already he’s flexing his dominance. Mind you, I have no interest in orgies—or men right now, anyway—but I’ve been raising myself for years, and now I have to downshift. It’s too much to ask. I may only be seventeen, but that’s only on paper.
Why the hell does he want lunch now anyway? Breakfast was an hour ago.
And at that, my stomach growls. I falter a moment, holding my hand to my stomach.
I didn’t eat breakfast.
Or anything since the berries at breakfast yesterday.
Pulling out lunch meat, the condiments, and some lettuce, I get busy, building some sandwiches, taking bites of one to get something into me, and then I cut them diagonally and place the triangles onto a large plate. I find the Saran wrap in a drawer on the island and wrap up the tray, setting it in the fridge.
Not sure if that’s their lunch, but that’s all they’re getting out of me. I’ll see if he needs me to run into town for anything. I could use a drive.
But just as I go to close the refrigerator door, I see a drop of water hit the glass just above the crisper drawer. Bending down, I put my hand in a small puddle of water.
It’s leaking.
Peering into the back of the fridge, I try to gauge where it’s coming from and see the motor frosted over and caked with ice.
I stand up straight and chew the corner of my mouth. Should I tell him? I’m sure he knows.
Spotting their iPad on the counter, I grab it and turn it on. A password prompt comes up, and right away I enter “nomercy,” hazarding a guess. It immediately unlocks.
Heading to YouTube, I check the model of the refrigerator and bring up some videos. Over the next hour, I empty the refrigerator and work it away from the wall, putting all of my weight into pulling it out and unplugging the power. Then, I swipe some tools from the shop and get to work following the video’s directions, chipping away and unthawing the motor, repairing the leak in the tube, and reassembling everything. I’m not sure if it will work, or how mad he’ll be if I made it worse, but that’s a perk of being rich. I’ll buy him a new one.
I stop twisting the screwdriver, realization hitting all of a sudden. Can I buy him a new one? I mean, minors can’t inherit money. Their guardians have power of attorney until they’re of age.
So technically, my inheritance is completely in his hands. Unless my parents put something into a trust, which their lawyer might’ve had the foresight to do, but…
Should I be worried? The money never mattered, but that’s only because I always had it. I talk a big talk, but if I can’t pay for college, then that changes things. Did my parents trust him with me and my well-being, or…was there just not anyone else? I don’t know if I can trust him, but I definitely didn’t trust them to do what was right for me. This guy has my future in his grip.
For the next ten weeks anyway.
Despite the kick up of my pulse, I forge ahead—lost in thought—and refasten the motor cover and reach behind the appliance, plugging it back in. The motor gently purrs and cool air starts to breathe back into the machine. So far so good.
“You did that?” I hear someone ask.
I turn my head, seeing Noah standing at the island, shirt off, sweaty, and out of breath, as he looks at the video on the iPad I have propped up on the counter.
Looking over to where the leak was, he sees it’s now dry.
“Good job,” he says. “We’ve been meaning to get on that.”
I turn back around, but not before I take another quick glance, noticing his torso and arms are completely clean of any tattoos. I don’t know why that strikes me as off. Maybe since his father has one, I thought he would.
Getting busy, I reload all of the food into the fridge, faintly hearing some kind of machine running outside and guessing it must be Jake.
“So, when do you turn eighteen?” Noah asks.
I don’t stop as he just leans against the island, watching me.
“November first.”<
br />
“You gonna leave then?”
I glance at him, taking a moment to realize what he means.
I don’t have to stay now. Didn’t his father tell him he gave me a choice on the phone?
“I would leave,” he offers. “I would leave in a heartbeat. You’re here, and you don’t have to be. I have to be here, but I don’t want to be.”
“It’s as good a place as any,” I reply softly, placing some condiments back onto the door shelf.
“Why?”
“Because you’re still you, no matter where you go,” I retort.
I stop and look up at him, his sweaty hair falling in his eyes and his hat hanging from his fingers. He still looks puzzled.
“There are just as many happy people in Cleveland as there are in Paris,” I explain. “And just as many sad ones.”
“Yeah, well, I’d rather be sad on a beach.”
I snort, smiling despite myself. I laugh a little, but I quickly turn away, pushing the amusement down.
But in a moment, he’s at my side, putting the A.1. and Heinz sauce on the rack on the door.
He stares down at me, and my stomach dips.
“You have a pretty smile, cuz,” he tells me. “If you stay, I’ll make you smile some more.”
Oh, geez. Isn’t he charming?
Ignoring him, I finish reloading everything, not even caring that nothing is organized. He laughs under his breath and helps me—both of us getting the job done in a few minutes.
Jake walks in and heads for the fridge, and I move out of the way, letting him in.
I gather the tools I used and start to walk away to put them back in the shop where I found them, but I hear my uncle’s gruff voice.
“Where’s the sausage?” he asks.
I turn toward him, seeing him sift through all the shelves, nothing where he left it now.
“There was mold growing on it,” I tell him.
I threw it away, along with a few other things.
But he just looks at me, and I steel my spine. “It can be cut off,” he says.
Cut off?
Gross. There are levels of decay. The mold just makes it easier to see the really bad parts.
“You don’t waste any time, do you?” he gripes, moving things out of the way, appearing to look for something else. “Everything’s rearranged.”
“Dad—”
Noah tries to step in, but his father just stands up straight and looks at his son.
“And where the hell did you go?” Jake asks.
He had left earlier. Was he not supposed to?
But Noah’s jaw just tenses, and instead of answering, he shakes his head and leaves. I don’t know if I envy Noah or what. He doesn’t get along with his father, either, but at least he has his attention.
I drop my eyes and tap the iPad screen, closing out YouTube and the refrigerator repair video I used.
“Look,” Jake says, turned toward me and his voice lower now. “Don’t go above and beyond, okay? We run a well-oiled machine here, so just do what I ask. Reorganizing the refrigerator or cabinets or decorating—anything like that—is not necessary. Or really appreciated, to be honest. If you need ideas for chores, I can give you plenty.”
I nod.
And I set the tools on the counter and leave the kitchen.
That night—hours into a thunderstorm that had been raging since after dinner—I snap awake, every muscle in my body tight and hot. I clench the sheets at my side, my chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, and sweat dripping down my neck.
I gasp, trying to breathe, but I can’t fucking move. I try to swallow, but it takes four times before I’m able to wet my dry throat.
I roll my eyes around the room, fear lingering in my brain, but I’m not sure why as I take inventory of my surroundings.
The room is dark, the storm still rocking against my windows, and I hear the drops pummel the deck outside my room.
Slowly, I stretch out my fingers, prying my hands off the sheets, and I sit up, wincing at the ache in my shoulders and neck from being locked up too long.
Did I dream? I close my eyes, the tears I don’t remember crying seeping out and joining the ones already wetting my face.
I don’t remember anything, but I must’ve been crying or screaming, because my throat is burning and my knuckles ache from clenching my fists. I quickly glance at my door, relieved to see it’s still closed. Thank God I wasn’t loud enough to wake anyone.
I throw off the covers and walk to the chest of drawers to retrieve my phone.
When I was a kid, I had terrible episodes of screaming and crying—absolute midnight mania—where I’d wake up and carry on, but I was completely asleep. They said it was night terrors, and when it was over—when Mirai or whatever nanny soothed me back to the sleep—I never remembered anything. I only knew it happened, because my muscles would be drained, my throat would be dry, and I’d wake up with my eyes burning from the tears.
I pick up my phone and turn it on.
1:15 a.m. Tears prick my throat, but I push them down.
It was always somewhere around 1:15 a.m. my parents had said. Some kind of internal clock thing.
But my night terrors ended. I haven’t had one since…fourth grade, maybe?
I drop my phone back onto the dresser, propping my elbows on top and holding my head in my hands.
I’m an adult. I’m alone.
I glance at the door again. I don’t want them to hear me screaming like some nutcase.
I finally notice a sting on my arm and look down to see three, red half-moons on my forearm, and I instantly know what they are, the memory coming back like it was yesterday.
I’d clawed myself in my sleep.
The bag of candy still sits on my dresser, and I shoot out my arm, swiping the bag off the dresser and into the garbage can off to the side. What the hell was I doing in my sleep? How could I not wake up? What happens if I’m alone in L.A. or when I go off to college, and I have to have a roommate?
I shouldn’t be alone.
But I’m not sure I should stay here with them. My parents’ death could be triggering it.
Or it could be something else.
Jake
She shouldn’t be here. This is a mistake.
I can’t do Tiernan any good. I can barely keep my own kids under control. Noah is ten seconds from packing a bag and leaving any day, and Kaleb…
Jesus, Kaleb... I’ve never been able to imagine that kid’s future, because men like him don’t live long. He makes too many enemies.
I throw off the covers, having a shitty night’s sleep despite all the space I had in bed without Jules there.
I need to start locking the doors at night. I mean, what guy doesn’t want to wake up at two a.m. to a twenty-three-year-old, naked redhead on top of him, but she’s making a habit of it.
And the sex isn’t very good.
I rub my hands over my face. I don’t know. Maybe it is good, and I’m just bored. I can’t talk to her. Or the three who came before her.
I certainly don’t have any business having another responsibility under my roof right now.
Or ever. I’m a terrible father, and I’m too old for more surprises like a teenage girl living in my house. Hannes could go fuck himself wherever he was in hell.
Sitting up, I throw my legs over the side of the bed and stand up, grabbing my jeans off the chair.
That son-of-a-bitch. I hadn’t spoken to my step-brother, or anyone in that family for over twenty years, but I’m worth a mention in his will? Was there really no one else who knew her and would’ve gladly taken her?
But no, I called her up that night, heard something in her voice that grabbed hold of me, and I spoke before I had a chance to think.
The kid has problems.
Of course, that makes her no different than my own kids, but Hannes and Amelia fucked her up. She’s so different than I thought she’d be. Quiet, rigid, afraid. I have no idea how to handle her. I’m n
ot smart enough for this. People like her, who don’t show emotion are finding other ways to release it.
So, what is it with her? Drugs? Alcohol? Cutting?
Sex?
I stop, an image of Tiernan in the backseat of some car—sweat on her face, hair sticking to her cheek, eyes closed, breathing hard—pops into my head.
I let out a breath and yank my T-shirt off the chair, tucking it into my back pocket for later. She better not. I’m not supplying this town with new pussy. I cock my neck side to side, hearing it crack a couple of times.
Hannes and Amelia should never have had a kid. I never understood what her parents saw in each other, but shit sticks together, I guess. The best thing that could’ve happened to Tiernan was to lose them, and I’m only sorry it didn’t happen sooner.
I walk to my bedroom door, open it, and cross the hall to her room.
I knock. “Tiernan.”
It’s only just after five, and I rub the sore muscles on my neck. I don’t want to wake her up, but I didn’t get a chance to apologize yesterday because she stayed in her room the rest of the damn day.
But I’m not letting her hide in here just because I was an asshole.
When there’s no answer, I knock again. “Tiernan?”
The house is silent other than the faint music Noah sleeps to drifting out from underneath his bedroom door.
Hesitantly, I crack open her door, slowly in case she freaks out, and peek my head inside.
“Tiernan, it’s Jake,” I say in a low voice.
Her smell hits me, and I pause.
It smells like…
Like skin, wet from the rain. Déjà vu suddenly washes over me, and I inhale deeper. Skin with the faintest hint of fragrance. Like that soft, hidden place behind a woman’s ear that smells like her but also a little of her perfume and shampoo and sweat.
And suddenly I can taste it. It used to be my favorite place to kiss her.
God, I’d forgotten.
I clear my throat, straightening my spine. “Tiernan,” I call, but it comes out as a bark. Not sure why I’m aggravated now.
I take a step into the room, but as the bed comes into view, I see it’s already made, and she’s definitely not in it. My heart skips a beat, and I open the door wide, looking around her bedroom.
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