Those damn eyes. They’re getting me into trouble.
She’s getting me into trouble.
“Hey, Gage!”
This is not the time or the place. Especially with all the talk going on in the locker room. Especially with the evil-eye Jaycee’s burning into my chest, probably using her witchy x-ray vision to pluck out all my deepest secrets so she can run them straight to Barrett.
I don’t smile back at her. I don’t even walk closer. I just throw my duffle on my arm and yell back over my shoulder as I head to the door. “I can’t talk right now. I have stuff to do.”
Nothing settles a pissed off mood like pounding out a few repairs on my Scout. There’s just something about the metallic ding of the tools when I drop them on the pavement. The sweet scent of gasoline that hovers. The nervous energy expelled when I have to grit my teeth and really lay into some wrench work.
I’m on the creeper underneath the jacked-up front end when something kicks my boot. I roll out on my back, the sudden burst of sunlight from overhead temporarily blinding me. I squint as the haze dissolves.
Preston stands by the front bumper. Rayne’s with him.
He’s smiling. She’s not.
As a matter of fact, the eat-dirt lip pout and her eyes, locked on something in the distance, tell me everything I need to know.
I messed up earlier. Big time.
“We’re going upstairs to watch a movie or something.”
I don’t care about a movie. It’s the or something that scratches at my throat. I cough, trying to dislodge the heavy lump.
“Well, Mom and Dad are gone until late, so the coast is clear.”
“Sounds good!” Preston says. He pats Rayne on the arm, signaling he needs to get something from the car before they head upstairs. She nods, still without words or her usual smile, shifting from foot to foot.
I venture a peace offering. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
But no matter what I do, she won’t look at me.
Until finally she does, and I wish she hadn’t. Her eyes are shaded, grayed out. Almost sad. Or mad. Maybe a mixture of the two. I can’t be sure.
She blows out a loud breath and clenches her jaw, an intense glower suddenly piercing me like a dagger. “Can’t right now. I have stuff to do.”
Her words sting. She turns and joins Preston at the car. He grabs her hand, pulling her along behind him, up the sidewalk, and through the front door. It slams shut, a barrier between them and me.
I stare at his window, the lump in my throat back and bigger than before, my heart somersaulting against my ribs.
The light flicks on. She walks by the window. He’s right behind her.
The bile burns in my chest as I lie back on the creeper and slide under the Scout.
I can’t look anymore.
Two hours. That’s how long they’ve been in his room together. And they’re still in there. Preston’s voice seeps through the walls.
About an hour ago, I worked up the nerve to dash up the stairs to my room, without stopping once. I know they’re in there. I just don’t want to know anything else. Or imagine. Or see. Or hear.
Now, my stomach’s grumbling, yelling out for food, and going downstairs means going past his room. I press my ear to the door, listening. For what I don’t know. Some cosmic sign I’m supposed to maintain my distance, but nothing comes. The rumble happens again, louder this time, the insatiable beast demanding to be fed.
I ease open the door and step halfway out in the hallway. Preston’s door is cracked, and his voice comes out in long stands, freckled with words like spreadsheet and audit report and inventory. Is he really talking accounting to Rayne?
That’s when he picks up a new line of discussion. “Yes, Mom. Yes, Dad. I can put together a…”
Everything coming out of his mouth fades to white noise. I don’t give a crap about accounting, but I do care about Rayne. And once again, Preston’s pushing her to the background so he can answer a call from Mom and Dad. I sneak past the door, catching a quick glimpse. Preston stands by his desk, cell phone glued to his ear, as he shuffles through papers. Rayne’s not in there with him.
Where is she?
I creep to the stairs and shuffle down two at a time, coming up on the balls of my feet so I don’t make much noise.
Rayne stands in the foyer, staring at those stupid Chinese vases Mom had installed with the new wall shelf. She’s about to touch one—her fingertip a whisper away—when I clear my throat. She jumps and clasps her hand over her chest, eyes shut.
“You trying to give me a heart attack?” she gripes, her voice hard between the ragged breaths.
“You know Mom measures those things, right?” I tip my head toward the vases. “Like down to the millimeter.”
She studies them a minute and shrugs. One of those I-don’t-give-a-crap ones, complete with eye roll.
I sigh and trudge across the room to stand beside her. She refuses to look at me, but her hair is only inches from my nose and smells of lavender and vanilla. I reach out and touch her arm, just above the elbow. She shivers but doesn’t pull away.
“I’m sorry. I had a bad day in the weight room. I was just… stressing out.”
She side-eyes me, her lips stretched so thin they disappear into a flat pink line. “You could’ve talked to me, you know. I would’ve listened.”
“Not to this. It was stupid guy stuff, but I… I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
Though she’s still staring at the vases, a smile spreads across her face, her cheeks appling. “So, she freaks out if they’re out of place?”
“It drives her nuts. She’ll have a tape measure in here if they look remotely off.”
She bites her bottom lip, nodding, then reaches up, and with a quick motion, pushes one vase backwards and over to the left. A noticeable difference. One that’d drive Mom crazy.
“Naughty, naughty,” I chide, clicking my tongue.
“I know. You like that about me.” She turns her eyes on me at that moment, and chill bumps scatter down my entire body. I do like her grit, her edge.
It’s a side I doubt most people have seen. Probably not even Preston.
“So, I’m forgiven?”
“Yeah,” she nudges me with her hip. “Just don’t be a jerk again.”
“Never.” I laugh but a loud creaking followed by heavy footsteps from upstairs captures our attention. Preston’s coming, so I back towards the door, grabbing for the wooden molding behind me. Not running away. More like avoiding suspicion. “I’m gonna grab a bite from the kitchen. See you tomorrow.”
Chapter 21
Rayne
P
reston revs the Mustang in the driveway. There’s something about the low, gravely rumbling that irks Mama. Like it has too much testosterone in it. Like it’s Preston’s own primal beat-your-chest thing. Mrs. Davidson, me here, take your daughter. Have my way with her. Something along those lines with a lot of grunts.
She flicks the blinds apart with her fingers, peering out at him from the safety of the den, eyes wide as if at any moment he might hit the gas and barrel into the room with us. “And y’all won’t be alone?”
Last night, the Howards left for a long weekend in a Tennessee mountain resort. They stocked the fridge, told their sons good-bye, and when their car was out of sight, the boys planned a party.
“No ma’am. Just a small group hanging out tonight.” Yeah, if small is somewhere in the three digits. I’m not worried she’ll find out the truth. Mama doesn’t go out at night and she most certainly won’t be out driving. If she sends Daddy, he won’t trail me. He’ll just drive around a bit, go home and tell her everything’s as it should be. I’m not worried about town gossip either. They’ll never rat out Preston.
Mama walks out on the porch as I run to his car. Preston waves out the rolled down window. “Hi, Mrs. Davidson.” She deepens the glare but reluctantly waves back.
We’re quiet until my house is no longer in sight, like somehow Mama will be able to hear us if she can still see us. “Nice outfit,” he says, eyeing my jeans and Chucks.
“I’m assuming from that comment you know…”
“Yep. Jaycee dropped off your outfit change this morning.” He winks. “Sneaky, sneaky.”
Maybe. I call it conscientious. I’m proactively helping Mama not have a heart attack. Better to let her think I’m a dress-down-jeans-and-chucks girl than a little-black-dress-and-heels harlot. “It’s in my room. You can change when we get there.”
Three hours later, the Howard house is slammed, the music is ear-throbbing, and I’m seriously considering ditching the stilettos. I’ve seen Jaycee about one minute all night, but she’s been MIA a good two hours, and I can pretty much guess where she is considering Barrett’s also missing. Preston’s made his rounds with me on his arm, and now my feet are killing me. That’s partly why I’m hiding out here on the couch. And I really just need a break from smiling and pretending to like all these people.
I go undetected for a split-second until the cushion beside me moves, and Gage nudges my arm. “You hiding out?” he leans in and whispers in my ear. “Where’s Preston?”
“He’s supposed to be getting me a drink.”
“I hope you’re not too thirsty. You know how it is when you turn him loose alone.”
“Hell yeah,” I say and turn on the cushion to face him. “Just the other day—”
A shrill voice, belonging to a girl with long blond hair and six feet of legs, interrupts me. “So, you’re dating Preston?” She arches her eyebrows and stares down at me. That you’re is loaded. You’re as in no way am I good enough. You’re as in we’re mortal enemies.
“Yeah, I am.” What’s with this chick? Then I remember where I’ve seen her before. The bonfire. The one I called Legs-a-lot. The one who’d been pissed Preston ignored her for me. Her face is still twisted up just like that night.
“Unlikely.” She steps back and sweeps her eyes over me from top to bottom. “I heard he’s been slumming. Didn’t realize he’s this committed to the cause.”
No words. I push myself back into the couch cushions, stunned by her use of guerilla tactics on the social level. And where’s Jaycee? She lives for this drama. Never do I worry about anyone going toe-to-toe with me. Jaycee will annihilate them, but now she’s nowhere to be found. I’m alone.
Until I’m not.
Gage physically inserts himself between us, fists clenched tight. “Shut up, Ashlyn.” Ashlyn? This is the chick Charlotte wants with Preston? He’s in her face, yelling so loudly other people hear it above the music and gather around the commotion.
For a moment, he bucks up, but I know he’ll never hit her. Gage would never hit a girl. Not even a skanky one. And where’s Preston in all this? I crane my neck around and finally spot him in the kitchen, talking and drinking a beer. The red solo cup he’s picked up for me stands beside him on the table, still full and covered in condensation.
“Don’t get pissy with me because your brother’s looking for a charity case.” Ashlyn slams her hand in Gage’s face, so close her palm bumps the tip of his nose.
Gage erupts. “You,” he says, the vile pouring freely from him as he jams his finger toward her, “are jealous. Preston chose a smart girl, a classy girl, and you losers can’t compete with her. None of you can.” Gage’s eyes are wild, brimming with hatred, as he spews out the words, but even his last declaration makes him stagger backwards.
Talk about double takes. I have to look back at him twice to make sure he really said it. Everyone in the immediate crowd gasps. I check over my shoulder—Preston’s still chatting in the kitchen, ignorant of the fact his brother and I are about to cut a bitch.
“Whatever. She’s as crazy as that weirdo Mama of hers.” She cups her hands around her mouth. “Clean up on aisle three.”
Something snaps. I used to wonder why people called it that, but once it happens, you know. It’s like my sanity’s held in place by a little rubberized string, then bam! The whole thing rolls up like a window shade and leaves behind nothing but a blinding darkness and a mish-mash of sounds blaring in my brain all at once. In an out-of-body rush, I charge forward off the couch, slam into her and throw her back against the wall, during which she jerks her hands toward me, spraying my right arm and shoulder with her beer.
Gage grabs me from behind, pins my arms to my side, and then throws me over his shoulder like a sack of oats. I use up the rest of my energy on him, pummeling his chest with knee jabs as he carries me to the mudroom.
He kicks the door shut behind us and plops me on the countertop next to the utility sink and a large bottle of stain remover. He grabs a cloth from the drawer and wets it with the cleaner then rubs it into the stains with their sour-sweet smell hovering around us. For a moment, it’s silent except for our heavy panting.
“This is the stuff the maid uses on our uniforms.” Gage wedges himself between my knees as close as the countertop allows. He pulls my arm straight alongside his, and I wrap my fingers around the bulge of his bicep underneath the black button-down, his muscles flexing and relaxing with each stroke. “Want me to get Preston?”
“No.” Too quick. My lightning speed response causes him to look up. If the silver lining to this whole mess is stealing a few extra moments, then I’m taking it.
He swallows hard. “I’m really sorry about Ashlyn. Mom always favored her, so she thinks she and Preston are meant to be.”
“Not your fault.” I put my free hand on top of his, momentarily stopping his vigorous scrubbing. That’s when he notices the large cut on my hand with little droplets of blood leaching to the surface like a connect-the-dots game.
“Bad ass. A battle bruise,” he laughs, snarling his upper lip.
“It’s because of her God-awful claws,” I mumble as he rubs his thumb over the mark. “Ow. That kinda stings.”
“Poor baby. We’ll fix it.” He pulls my hand to his lips, hot and damp against my skin. He might as well have kicked me in the chest. My heart butterflies against my ribs, stealing my breath, and making me lightheaded. And tingly. All over tingly.
My boyfriend should inspire this. Not a boo-boo kiss from his brother. Preston’s touch is nice, but not hot. Like this.
“Gage…” I whisper. “About what you said… to Ashlyn…”
“Forget about it.”
“I can’t. Why’d you say it?”
“Cause I meant it. None of those girls…” he trails off.
I reach out and cup his chin in my hand, his five o’clock shadow scratchy against my palm. Guiding him in for a kiss would seem natural. Easy. But he pulls away and turns his head, looking at the beige tiled floor. “Don’t.”
I retract my hand as if burned by a hot stove. “Sorry. I didn’t mean…” He still won’t look at me, but his Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows back whatever it is he won’t put into words. “Gage… please talk to me.”
Finally, he looks back up, his blue eyes no longer vibrant but cloudy. Tempered. “Rayne, I…”
The door bursts open in a frenzy of arms and legs with Jaycee and Barrett tangled up in each other, back-pedaling through the opening and straight into Gage, who’s knocked forward into me. Our faces slam together, his lips a teeny-tiny fraction from mine. I want to kiss him. We’re so close. The musk of his cologne tickles my nose. The heat from his breath radiates down my neck. But what surprises me most is the look in Gage’s eyes. Hungry. Eager.
And for one split second, he tilts his head to the left like he’s going to initiate it. Please God, oh please…
“What the hell is this?” Jaycee screeches in slurred words, staggering sideways into the cabinetry, glassy-eyed and hanging on to the door handle like a crutch. “Wait… are you two… messing around? Did he try something with you? I mean, I know you two are friends,” she frames her words in air quotes, “but come on… this is weird.”
>
The vein in his neck throbs as his hand, which has landed on my thigh, presses deeper into my flesh. Spinning on his heels, he pushes past both Jaycee and Barrett, shoving them out of his way. Barrett falls backwards onto the floor, his beer bottle still stuck between his lips as he laughs. Jaycee wobbles on her heels.
I’ve only seen her this way once before, last year at a party of Ainsley’s we’d gone to after I told Mama I was spending the night with Jaycee. She drank until her face turned bright red, her eyes puffed up, and her attitude turned to crap. Happy drunk she was not. More like belligerent. Vile. She looks that same way tonight.
Jaycee pushes herself off the cabinetry and runs to the door, leans out and yells after Gage, “Like she’d want you! She’s got Preston. Not even close, Gage!”
She turns around, a flimsy grin on her face, and saunters over to me. “I just took out the trash. You can thank me later.” She drops her nearly empty beer bottle on the countertop, turning it over and spilling out the last remnants in a sticky, golden trail.
Inside, the anger boils in me like an unchecked pot on the stovetop and the lid’s about to fly off.
“Shut up!” I scream, scrunching my hair to the scalp. Why that helps, I have no idea. Maybe it’s a subconscious effort to the keep the anger from shooting my head right off my shoulders. Maybe it’s my way of binding my hands so I don’t put them around her throat. “Shut up! Where were you earlier when that Legs-a-lot heifer was assaulting me? Oh, that’s right—drinking and hooking up. Gage is the only one who stood up for me. Not Preston. Not Ainsley. Not you. Him. And then you bust in here starting drama? I’m done, Jaycee! D.O.N.E.”
I jump off the counter and shove past her, digging my shoulder into her arm as I pass. Halfway up the hallway, I pause and close my eyes, taking a deep breath and leaning against the vanilla-colored walls. I need to find Gage and finish our conversation. I open my eyes and immediately wish I hadn’t.
In the den, Gage is backed up in the corner beside the fireplace. Mallory presses closely in front of him, closer than any two people not flirting should be, and swirls her red hair around her finger. She laughs and touches his arm, a high-pitched squeal somewhere between a dying pig and braying donkey. And the way she smiles at him? Definitely donkey. But he’s no better, touching her shoulder, laughing at her stupid conversation like a fool.
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