by Jordan Grant
Ian picks up a framed picture of my parents, William, and me at the Grand Canyon taken three years ago when both William and I were gangly and gap-toothed. I want to snatch it out of his hands and hide it against my chest. I don’t care that he sees me pre-braces. I care that he sees the girl I was—the real me—before the world cruelly set fire to my life and left me to sift through the ruins.
This is too intimate, too invasive. I stagger to my bed, letting my book bag fall to the floor alongside the library book I accidentally stole. I collapse, greeted by a face full of comforter. For a long moment, I do absolutely nothing. Once I catch my breath, I roll over, sit up, and point at the door.
“Get out,” I say, my voice thankfully steady.
Ian looks over his shoulder at me and raises an eyebrow. The left side of his mouth twitches before he carefully sets the photograph down, turns on his heel, and stalks toward me.
“Did you really think that would work, Stormy?” he asks, cocking his head.
I shrug. Did my room shrink? Or did his ego just grow even bigger?
“You are worse than my shadow,” I grumble, eyeing the wall straight-ahead, “always following me.”
He sits down beside me, and I don’t know if it’s body wash or cologne or what, but I want to slap away the scent that lingers on his skin. He doesn’t deserve to smell so delicious.
He snakes an arm around me and tugs me closer. I attempt to elbow him in the side, but he deflects it easily, staring at me as he plays with my hair.
“If you don’t get out, I will scream,” I mutter.
He tucks the black lock at my temple behind my ear. “No, you won’t. You want me here, just like I want to be here.”
Just like that, he calls me out on my bullshit.
I snap my head so fast, it’s a miracle our skulls don’t collide, but I shouldn’t have done that because he’s oh-so-close and now my gaze keeps falling to his decadent mouth.
The smartass in me is pissed she just exercised for this boy…man…god.
“Something inside you is broken,” I bite back. “I feel bad for you. You should be institutionalized. You should be locked away and never allowed in public. They should put you in a lab and study you.”
Ian grins and severs his gaze from my hair to look at me.
“Such a naughty mouth for such a nice girl.” His tongue darts out to trace the seam of his lips before he rests his forehead against mine and closes his eyes. I should stop him because all I feel is his warmth. “I meant what I said, Harlow. You are mine, and I am yours. I don’t know why you’re having such a hard time accepting it.”
He’s arrogant!
He’s infuriating!
He’s…He’s…mine.
The stair marathon must have messed with my brain. With a growl of frustration, I break us apart and lunge for his beautiful throat. He sees it coming, but not before my hands nearly reach their goal.
“Stormy,” Ian warns, the word gravelly and low.
Screw him and his beautiful face! Warmth crackles like lightning across my already flaming cheeks as I rear back to try again.
Screw him for confusing me!
“Stormy…”
Screw him for making me choose!
This time, I land my blow, two palms hard to his chest. The blow sends him rocking back. I don’t know if I’m going to try to shove him out of my dorm or get him out of the way so I can flee myself, but I don’t have the chance to do either.
He is fast, climbing over me and trapping my wrists above my head in one large palm. On his free forearm, he holds himself up, but everything below his belly is flush against me.
He pins me to the bed, and I am a caged animal, desperate for freedom.
I squirm beneath him. Everything about him is hard against my soft. My hair is in my face, tickling my nose, but all I smell is him. All I feel is him. All I taste is the promise of the cinnamon bubblegum that lingers on his breath.
I wiggle and writhe. I punch and slap and kick and grunt. Yet he remains. A minute...five? Ten? I finally stop, exhaustion melting my bones.
Ian stares down at me, and I am lost in melting pots of silver and stone. Something in the air between us ignites, and I feel the sting of it all the way to the throbbing pulse between my legs.
His mouth collides with mine, and I realize too late, I am not and never was the one caged. He’s just broken free of whatever prison he put himself in.
He kisses me like he’s trying to devour me, which is appropriate because I feel totally chewed up at the moment.
I can’t remember why I am supposed to hate him.
I can’t think.
I can only be.
He tastes of sin and cinnamon, and I want to bathe in the flavor of him. His lips are soft, molding to mine like they were meant to be there. My breath catches as his tongue darts out. When his tongue meets mine, warmth explodes like a firecracker low in my belly.
My breasts strain against the satin of my shirt, my nipples rigid buds that brush against his chest with each breath. His hand still cages my wrists as his long legs cover mine. I feel him, thick and hard against my belly. I am hot and achy and a little dizzy.
I arch beneath him, wanting—needing—something I can’t explain, and a growl vibrates deep in his chest as he pulls away. With his eyes locked on mine, he settles to the side of me.
Wait…why did we stop?
My eyes are heavy as he cups my jawline. I lean into his touch. Maybe the explosion he erupts inside of me can extinguish the darkness for good.
He trails a hand down my throat and unbuttons my shirt slowly, methodically, and I don’t stop him.
He continues lower still, his fingertips leaving a trail of goosebumps wherever they touch, and I don’t stop him.
I am powerful and powerless at the same time. He peppers kisses across my jaw and my cheeks, my nose and my forehead, my chin and my throat. When he finally kisses me again, his lips meeting mine, I am awash in him.
“God,” he breathes into my mouth, “you are beautiful.”
He lifts my skirt, and as we stare at each other, he slips a hand under the hem of my tights and then deeper, under my panties. Still, I don’t stop him.
He finds a spot no one has ever touched before, except for…I gasp, a spark shooting through me at the contact.
“So damn beautiful,” he growls into my mouth.
I am helpless as I grind against him, his fingers swirling down further. He slips one long digit inside me, and we both moan.
“Perfect.” His word barely registers.
His thumb finds my clit, and I arch up to meet him. He massages up and down inside my walls before sliding out. Emptiness threatens to swallow me whole before he pushes two fingers inside me just as his lips slant over mine. I mewl into his mouth, my hips moving in tandem with his strokes.
“Ian,” I breathe. My hands are everywhere. I can never have enough of him.
I trace the wall of his chest, squeeze the solid curve of his biceps, and let my fingers dip into the rigid indents of his abdomen. He continues his massage, sliding in and out, over and over again until warm shivers wash over me.
“Fuck, Harlow,” he growls between kisses.
His words—drenched with vulnerability and veneration—send me tumbling over the edge. I cry out as waves of heat wash over me, and I go rigid, sparkles of dazzling color exploding behind my eyes.
He kisses my hair.
I should regret what we’ve done.
I don’t.
“I want to stay,” he whispers, running my hair through his fingers and kissing it again, “but my father is expecting me for his weekly video call.” He nuzzles my neck, breathing in deeply before he adds, “Honor your word, Stormy. Return the favor.”
My words come out thick and slow. “I thought I just did?”
Ian laughs, and the sound hums like a vibrating guitar string inside his throat. “Oh, sweetness, it doesn’t count when you’re the only one who comes.”
&n
bsp; He stands, looking down at me, appreciation flitting across his dark gaze. He leaves, shutting the door behind him.
22
Harlow
I don’t know how long I lay there, my skirt lifted and my tights askew, laid bare by the king of Voclain Academy.
I still smell him. I still taste him. I still…want him, and I am nagged by the thought I always will.
I stare up at the ceiling, blinking slowly and hoping a psychic will pop down and answer all of my questions. It would be so much easier if someone would just tell me my destiny, laying out my life in a neat and orderly fashion. That way, I would have zero chances of fucking it all up.
Molly would be horrified by what just happened. She’d probably think I’m an awful friend. Or would she? Because although I adore Molly, logically I realize I haven’t known her all that long and I don’t know all that much about her.
Who was her first kiss? No clue.
Has she ever had a boyfriend? No idea.
What’s her favorite color? Okay, I got that one. It’s powder blue, which is different from sky blue and baby blue. Thank you, one part Molly’s explanation and one part Google.
Is she a murderer? No. Freakin’. Idea.
Part of me thinks I should just ask her, but when does that ever come up in conversation, casual or otherwise? Hey, Molly, how was your day? Oh, and—do you mind—was it you in the study with the candlestick?
No, I should just trust her. That’s what a good friend would do. That’s what William would do. That’s what I must do.
I’ve seen Molly stop her car to allow a pair of butterflies to cross the road—I know, not the safest driving choice—and pick up stranded worms off the sidewalk after an early morning rain and deposit them in the grass—sort-of gross.
The point is, Molly doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. She is devoted to her family. She is an amazing big sister to Atticus, and she is courteous and caring to strangers. She never strikes back, not even when Berkshire pushes her to what has to be her absolute limit. But Ian doesn’t strike me as a liar either. He may be a bully—he may be my bully—but he’s nothing but devastatingly honest, even when my feelings have to pay the price of admission.
I can’t ask him because I know enough to know the Rules—those stupid things I don’t understand—won’t allow him to tell me. Plus, if Molly was really dangerous, I think Ian would warn me. He would warn me, right? Asking Archie is off limits because of the Rules too, and Raven already said it’s Molly’s secret to keep or to tell.
So, here I am, stuck between betraying my friend and breaking my heart with no clairvoyants available to tell me my fate and no time machines to press rewind if I mess it all up.
I need my broken piece. I need William here. He could always untie the tangle of my thoughts and point me in the correct direction.
But maybe that’s being too generous. If he had lived, would he have still cared about me? More so than the fake friends and the fake girlfriend and the all too real temptations? I hope so, but the truth is, I don’t really know.
We have a tendency to overlook the sins of the dead—it’s only polite, after all—and I am just as guilty as anyone else of ignoring the not-so-nice traits of my twin. When we were kids, William and I were inseparable, but with every year, that bond stretched a little thinner. I was pulled in one direction, and he in the other, and like a rubber band, maybe that bond would have eventually snapped.
The thought of William brings along tears that fall silently down my cheeks. Nearly six months later, it still feels like I’m waiting for him to walk through the front door, drop his book bag lazily in the entrance hallway, and scour the fridge for a snack. When does a person stop being real and become a memory?
As I lay there, I swallow away the knot lodged at the back of my throat. No one will tell me the right choice to make or help me decide what to do. It is my burden to bear and mine alone.
I make myself get up. I shower, and as I towel-dry my hair, I am torn between what I need to do—work on a mountain of Adaptive English homework—and what I want to do—literally (almost) anything but homework. As I shrug on an oversized, knit sweater and a pair of black leggings, I make up my mind. Time to work on my string skillz—complete with the prominent z—as William used to say.
I will never be a famous violinist, but I like to play. It’s cathartic, a release to wash away the darkness like flecks of dirt down the shower drain.
I grab my violin out of my closet, shrug on my coat, and head out the door to the Music Hall. The Academy offers lockers to students, but I keep my violin in my dorm. I can’t leave it out, exposed, where Aurora or anyone else could find it.
My violin is one of my most prized possessions, gifted to me on my and William’s sixteenth birthday at a party held in the backyard of my grandparents’ New Hampshire estate. Grandma unveiled a baby grand piano for William and an Aubert Lutherie violin for me. Every time I pick it up, I am transported back to that evening,
— Harlow, 8 Months Prior —
William and I were undeserving. We were out-of-practice. Dust had settled between our fingertips and around our knuckles. We hadn’t played together in nearly a year, but when Grandma called for a performance, we took our positions on stage and it was perfect.
Beneath the weeping willows and strings of lantern lights, William and I played, and it wasn’t a classical melody or a famous duet. No, at William’s insistence, we butchered our way through Enter Sandman by Metallica.
Mom clutched her heart and swooned onto the chaise like she was an overwrought lady of the nineteenth century. Grandma startled so violently, her wine leaped out of her glass and fell in a sudden downpour onto Granddad. Dad choked on his champagne as he sputtered through his laughter.
William, though, was downright giddy, grinning like a maniac as he banged the keys like he could summon a rock god through his fingertips. A minute in and sweat dampened his blonde curls, his suit jacket lost somewhere (more likely never worn), and he smiled at me like he would never regret this prank.
Two minutes, and we both played through our laughter as Blaze Lahey and his cohorts belted out the lyrics from beside the enormous birthday cake. Three minutes, and we were both guffawing so hard we cried, and I had to close my eyes to attempt the guitar riff, which ended to cheers from the aforementioned cohorts. Four minutes, and William belted into the crowd along with Blaze. Five minutes, and both of us sweaty and with ruddy cheeks, bowed to a cheering crowd shouting for an encore.
That was the first time in a long time I thought we still might have a chance, that we still might be best friends.
I’ve been chasing that feeling ever since.
23
Ian
It took everything I had to not go to her dorm room last night and spill my guts, tell her about the net she somehow tangled herself in and all the ugly, dour things she is not allowed to know. But I pushed her far enough yesterday, and I’m in this for the long haul, not some hookup.
That is, if I can manage to not fuck it all up.
Admittedly, the odds are against me, but I have never been much of a betting man. I’m wading through unfamiliar, choppy waters here, but I intend on staying afloat.
A string of late-night hookups? Sure, adjudge me guilty. A few booze-fueled hit-it and quit-its? Okay, add a few charges to my indictment. An evolving rotation of fuck-buddies? Fine, how many charges am I collecting here?
But never long-term. Nothing serious.
I wouldn’t even count the…the ordeal with Aurora as anything. A nightmare I wish I could forget? A summer I barely remember between the blackouts? A rare lapse in judgment? No, that’s not quite right. A fucking epic mistake of Ragnarok-level proportions? Yeah, that would be it.
Although I may not know much about serious relationships, I am pretty sure booty-call behavior is strictly prohibited. That means no showing up at midnight and asking if I can kiss every inch of Harlow’s ivory skin.
Not that I don’t want to
kiss every inch of her. Even knowing the wrath my father would have unleashed if I had missed his call yesterday was barely enough to pry me away. Make no mistake either, the consequences would have been severe because the weekly sessions with the old man aren’t just normal how-you-holding-up chats.
My father does weekly video conferences because telephone calls alone can’t make sure I’m living up to the Beckett name. And living up to the Beckett name means I must look and play the part, even if it’s 90% bull shit and bravado. So I make sure no douchebags manage a punch to the visible goods. I dress like I am going to church—though the last time the Beckett family set foot in a place of worship was before I was born—and I make sure I have all the stats available. Grades, Coach’s weekly weigh-in, passing yards, fumbles, we cover it all.
Ladies and gents, please raise a glass for Ian Aldrich Beckett, heir to Beckett Enterprises, which has its poisonous talons in everything from fiber optic internet to commercial real estate. Wealth, beauty, power, anything you could ever want was his from birth. Sounds good, right?
Don’t be fooled. Allegiances and loyalties run thick as oil in the Beckett bloodline, and the pedigree is above everything else.
I live a life of my father’s creation. My destiny was set in stone before I was born. Speaking of my birth, I’m pretty sure my entry into the cosmos was just another step in my father’s business plan.
I am puppet, mastered by men who died decades before I was born. I have no choices, no decisions, no options—not ones that matter anyway—only inevitabilities. But I’m not a puppet when I’m with her. Harlow is real. She is the only goddamn thing that’s real.
I groan as the memory of yesterday hits me like a lightning bolt straight to the dick. Her face as she came all over my fingers is forged into my brain with steel and the smell of sex. Her blue-eyed stare a thousand galaxies away, the beautiful bow of her parted lips, her nipples, rigid peaks barely sheathed by the thin satin of her shirt, her back arching off the bed as she fisted my fingers, all of it stays there, ingrained. My brain knows it and by the tent pitched between my legs, my cock does too.