by Rachel Jonas
Don’t overthink it, stupid.
Black images slink upward, wrapping around the length of his arm. From the diamond-studded watch that gleams in the light, until they disappear beneath the sleeve of the white-tee squeezing his dense biceps. He sits there, like a god watching over his people, frozen in time while the world moves around him. Actually, it isn’t hard to imagine he plays that role well.
The steady surge of bass pulsating from tall speakers ends and a new song starts—something deep and evocative, fitting the ambiance perfectly. Suddenly, I have Jules back, marginally more sober than when she’d run off to dance. I’m aware of her huffing breathlessly at my side, and I totally mean to pay her the attention she deserves, but I can’t. Because the Greek statue cloaked in flesh has risen from his throne and, if I’m not completely insane … I think he’s coming my way.
Ho-ly crap.
His height is as staggering as I imagined, and I’m transfixed as the crowd parts in anticipation of his every step. The sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones would make any model lose all hope of ever reaching this new bar he’s set for perfection. Not a single feature is average. Not a single one possibly measured on anyone’s scale of beauty.
Broad shoulders roll and dip beneath his t-shirt with the slow, intentional gait that practically has me melting in my heels. I more than appreciate how the fabric hugs his frame to his waist, where only the front of the shirt disappears behind the designer belt looped through his dark jeans.
His stare is set on me and I swallow hard, only remembering I’m not alone when Jules speaks.
“Oh, my gosh, girl… Do you have any clue who that is?”
I don’t turn, but know Jules must have followed my gaze. The only response I give is an embarrassingly distracted shake of my head.
“King Midas himself.”
She says that as if I know what it means. However, I’m not coherent enough to seek clarity.
“This must be their place,” she adds. “Well, one of their places, anyway. Their family’s main spot is downtown, the penthouse in one of their dad’s hotels or some shit. I think the boys actually have their own floor, but that could be a rumor. All jokes aside, though, I’d trample my own grandmother to tap that. Hell, I’d do it just for a lick,” she adds cheekily. “Not even kidding.”
There was a moment of silence where I didn’t speak, and neither did she.
Then, suddenly, “Is he coming over here?” she screeches.
Right away, she moves to fix her hair in my peripheral. I’m not offended by her assumption that she’s the one he noticed. It has nothing to do with her vanity, or her seeing me as some kind of ugly duckling. This is just kind of the order of things in our friendship. I’m the tomboy who cursed the day she got boobs. Meanwhile, Jules had been stuffing since fifth grade, because she lacked the patience to wait for Mother Nature to give her a rack of her own.
Flirting and dating, her thing. Work and ball, mine. It’s only due to a grueling weekend of practice freshman year that I know how to walk in these shoes. Jules wouldn’t stand by while I rolled into the ninth-grade Homecoming dance wearing high-tops.
I, on the other hand, saw no problem with that at all.
“Please let me get lucky tonight,” I think she means to whisper to herself, but instead repeats it three times like a chant.
He’s closer now, just on the other side of the bonfire. But before he can even round the flames…
Intercepted.
Hardcore.
By a busty cheerleader-type, no less, with brown hair stretching to her waist. I stare as she bounces into the picture, blocking my view. At first, she’s not much of a threat, because there are only whispers exchanged between them, but my heart sinks when she slides her tiny, manicured fingers down his stomach. They don’t stop until they reach the front of his jeans. And I’m not just talking some casual caress, either. I mean, this chick grabs a whole handful of him. Like there’s no one else around.
It’s then that his gaze leaves me, slowly tearing his eyes from mine down to hers. She whispers something else and it brings a telling smile to his fleshy lips. At this point, I realize there’s no chance of stealing his attention back from her. No guy would ever pass up a sure thing for a maybe.
He doesn’t resist when Do-Me-Barbie takes his hand to lead him off toward the main house, and likely toward a bedroom.
I realize my stare still lingers in the direction where they’ve just disappeared, and I probably look like a helpless puppy. But that’s what I feel like. A puppy who’s just been shoved backwards off the porch, into the freezing snow.
“Oof,” Jules sighs. “Well, that sucks a little. Talk about anticlimactic.”
Despite disappointment twisting in my chest like a knife, I laugh. “Story of my life.”
She turns abruptly when my comment seems to register.
“Wait a freakin’ minute!” she says, drawing the syllables out for dramatic effect. “You … the ice queen herself … were interested in him?”
A sigh rushes from my lips. “Don’t get too excited. The moment didn’t exactly end with a bang.”
“Maybe not, but this breakthrough still deserves a moment of recognition. Has there even been anyone since—”
“Don’t … say his name,” I warn sharply, which has her hands shooting toward the sky in surrender.
“Okay, okay,” she concedes. “Well, as fun as this is, I think I’m over this little soiree,” she announces. I’m surprised, but too happy at the prospect of leaving to question what changed her mind.
“I should get home to check on Scar anyway. She’s always trying to sneak Shane in when I leave my post.”
Clutching my arm as we cross the lawn, Jules laughs. “Lighten up, BJ! They’re just friends. Despite being brothers, Shane’s nothing like—”
“Don’t … say his name!” I interject again. “If you say his name, you’ll summon him like some kind of … I don’t know … wickedly persistent demon.”
“Wickedly hot demon,” she mumbles, which prompts me to nudge her ribs.
She rolls her eyes with a smile. “Fine. Whatever you say. I won’t say his name.”
My heart relaxes a bit as we stumble through the grass arm-in-arm. “Thank you.”
She’s eyeing me, and it’s when she bites the side of her lip that I know what she’s about to do. I’m too late to stop her.
“Ricky Ruiz!” She blurts it out to the universe and there’s no taking it back. Not even when she clamps a hand over her own lips. The big, dumb grin she’s hiding behind it makes me want to arrange a meeting between my fist and her nose.
“See?” she beams. “I said it, and nothing happened.”
I hear her loud and clear, but she knows why I keep distance between Ricky and me. Because rules equal order—no unsolicited visits, no casual phone calls.
Not that he’s respected either boundary in recent months.
I’m hit with a barrage of memories, reminders of how he morphed from being my big brother’s best friend, into… it honestly doesn’t even matter.
Water under the bridge.
“The sky didn’t fall,” Jules’ continues, trying to push her agenda. “The Earth didn’t open up and swallow us whole. You were worried for absolutely—”
The phone sounds off and I’m speechless for a few seconds, in shock by how accurately I called it.
“Looook what you’ve done, Jules!” I scream toward the sky, unable to hold in a smile when she belts out a laugh.
“But wait, you seriously have this dude saved in your contacts as ‘The Mistake’?” She’d seen that before I hit ‘ignore’.
I decide not to answer her or him. Meanwhile, her red mane quivers with a head shake.
“A little harsh, don’t you think, BJ?”
“About as harsh as you continuing to call me that, after I’ve asked you not to on countless occasions.” I conveniently ignore the rest of her comment.
“Yes, we’ve discussed it, but af
ter over a decade of friendship, I think I’ve earned the right to discreetly call you ‘Blow Job’ for a cheap laugh,” she argues. “Now, stop trying to change the subject.”
Busted.
“You know from the bazillion texts he’s sent he’s not calling about a you-and-him thing, so why not pick up? Put him out of his misery, maybe?”
In theory, Jules is one-hundred percent right, but she’s forgetting something. I have no interest in speaking to or about Hunter. He’s made his bed, now he’ll lie in it.
Alone.
“How far is the Uber?” I ask, instead of continuing this conversation.
Jules clearly doesn’t want to drop it, but she knows I’m stubborn, hard to push once I plant my feet.
“Five minutes away.”
Cool. Pretty sure I can avoid a resurgence of that conversation for five measly minutes.
We stand at the edge of the road in silence, which is unlike us. Her stare is burning a hole through the side of my face, now that she’s frustrated I’ve shut down.
“Fine, we’ll talk about something else,” she concedes, and then releases my arm to cross both hers over her chest. “Tell me what you thought of tonight.”
I’m not quite sure what she’s getting at, so I shrug. “It was fine, I guess. Bunch of spoiled rich kids smoking weed and drinking. Just like the south side, there’s just bigger houses and money.”
She rolls her eyes, which means that isn’t the answer she was looking for.
“Do you think you’ll, you know, be okay?” I don’t miss the genuine concern in her tone when asking. “Most of these people will be your classmates at Cypress Prep. Guess I just need to know you’re cool with the change.”
“CP is a means to an end,” I answer with a sigh. “It’s an opportunity, and I don’t get many of those, so … carpe diem and whatnot.”
I fall silent when my thoughts shift to how I lucked up on said opportunity. As much as I don’t want to think about my brother right now, I have Hunter to thank.
“You’re always so evasive,” Jules accuses, which isn’t a lie.
“And you love me just as I am.”
“Mmm … more like I tolerate you just as you are. Big difference, BJ.”
The set of headlights heading our way brings a sigh of relief to my lips. It’s the first step to there being an end to this night. I’ve had my fill of pretending I fit in here, had my fill of pretending my life hadn’t been turned upside down this year.
In so many ways.
All I want is to go home, enjoy summer break, and revel in the last stretch of normalcy I’ll have for a while.
With the clock winding down, I better enjoy it while I can.
@QweenPandora: As expected, the party was epic. Thanks to the north side’s favorite triplets, TheGoldenBoys! No one called the cops with noise complaints, no random acts of violence were committed, and only one idiot nearly drowned. Any way you slice it, that’s a win! Hats off to our hosts, KingMidas, MrSilver, & PrettyBoyD.
P.S. Several new faces were spotted among the crowd, including a rather free-spirited redhead and a reserved blonde. Anyone got info on them? One thing’s for sure; if they stick around, you can count on me to report back.
P.P.S. I cannot stress enough how important it is that you use protection. If we learned anything from the a-hole who almost drowned in three-feet of water, it’s that the world isn’t quite ready for this generation to reproduce.
Later, Peeps.
—P
Chapter 2
—July, one month later—
WEST
Sterling sticks his head into the study from the hallway. He’s on lookout, and also scared shitless, which isn’t exactly helpful.
“Hurry the hell up!” he warns. “Dane just texted. They’re pulling in.”
I hear him, flip him off, then keep searching. They’d spend a couple minutes inside the parking structure, then a minute and a half riding the elevator up twenty-six floors. If I’m not done by then, we’re screwed.
“Where the hell is it?” I whisper the question to myself, wishing Dane had stayed to help me cover more ground, but having him keep watch in the lobby is better. It’s the reason we now have an ETA on our parents. Still, we might’ve planned better if the whole ‘heist idea’ hadn’t been drafted up about ten minutes ago.
It started with the phone call—turned screaming match—between my father and me. A neighbor at the Bellvue Hills house decided tonight was a good night to snitch, telling that we’d had parties there nearly every weekend since the start of summer. So, as he sped through the streets of downtown Cypress with Mom listening in the background, he informed my brothers and me that access to all our bank accounts had been blocked until the start of the school year.
He’s pissed, but it has nothing to do with the house. He hasn’t even been by there in nearly a year. This is about control. The almighty Vin Golden hates the idea of something like that going on under his nose without his permission.
So, instead of losing out on the deal I struck with the owner of a 1970 Chevelle, I’ll let good old Vin pick up the tab.
My phone notifications are going off like crazy, and on the other side of the threshold, Sterling’s resorted to cussing me out under his breath. The combination of both sounds only makes my nerves worse. He’s losing his shit, which makes me start losing my shit.
“Pandora’s starting with her updates,” Sterling pops in to say. “One of her minions reported in on Vin, said they saw him blow through a few red lights to get here.”
Which means he’ll be rushing up here double-time if he’s that pissed. My window of escape just closed in a little more.
I move down a drawer on the desk, still holding on to hope that I’ll stumble across a very specific credit card. The black one with no limit. The one my father only brings out when he’s really fucked up, so bad the only remedy is to buy Mom something expensive enough to stop the tears.
Sad thing is, that’s usually no fewer than three or four times a year. Perks of being an asshole.
I won’t be using it to purchase diamonds or some exotic vacation. My splurge has a LS6 454 engine under the hood.
“Junk. Trash. Bullshit.”
Stacks and stacks of unopened envelopes only slow me down as I rifle through. I push them aside and still find nothing.
“Forget it. I’ll have to come back once they’re in bed.”
“About fuckin’ time.” Sterling barely has the words out before I hear his feet shuffling across the marble, ready to hightail it out of there. Pretty sure he’s already made it to the elevator, waiting to take it down a floor to our own place.
“When the hell did you become such a pussy?” I call out, knowing he’s probably too far away to even hear me by this point.
It’s been a while since I’ve seen him so on edge. The whole team swears off weed from July through the end of our football season every year. It just hits Sterling a little differently than the rest of us. Whereas we enjoy that shit, he damn-near needs it just to function. Dude’s wound tighter than a drum and the only thing that offsets it is getting laid more often.
Lucky for him, ass is never hard to come by.
I’m almost to the door and in the clear, but the soles of my sneakers squeak across the tile when I halt. Doubling back is about the dumbest thing I can possibly do, but … I have an idea where the card might be.
“Shit.”
I glance over to the far wall. The obnoxious, gold-framed oil painting hanging just above the fireplace is more than art. It conceals a safe. My dad has no clue I’ve known the code since I was ten, but it’s one of his many secrets I’ve kept over the years.
Only, this one might actually help me, which is new.
I glance in the direction of freedom, and then back toward the art.
“Shit,” I mumble again.
Moving at lightspeed across the room, I flip the painting at its hidden hinges. An array of glowing, green numbers glare back at me f
rom underneath it. I punch in the six digits permanently etched in my memory. The buttons beep with every touch, and fucking Sterling’s anxiety has taken ahold of me now, too.
I press the last digit and … success. For a hot second, I swear I’m 007 in this bitch, before remembering the ticking clock. I peer inside the small space and take inventory.
A silver USB.
One of several pistols he owns.
A box of ammo.
The card I came for, and … a cell phone.
I fully intend to ignore everything except what I’ve been in search of, but I lose focus anyway, zeroing in on the dark screen resting at the back of the safe.
There could be a perfectly reasonable, innocent explanation for why my father—a respected real estate developer here in Cypress Pointe and beyond—has this in his possession. However, in order to believe that, I’d have to pretend not to know the man behind the mask.
He’s cold, manipulative, a shit father and husband—the dickhead trifecta.
Temptation is too great. The phone is in my hands before I can talk myself out of it. Glancing over my shoulder quickly, I power it on. The fifteen or twenty seconds it takes for the thing to get going feel like hours. When it finally does come to life, I’m prompted to type in an access code. It could have been anything, but I didn’t have to try more than once. It was the same six numbers as the safe, the same as the passcode he chose for the elevator that grants access to their penthouse and ours.
My mother’s birthday.
A guilty habit, no doubt.