by L.J. Shen
“Dean,” I said, as coolly as I could, freeing my wrists and placing my palms flat against his chest. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. His lashes dripped water, and everything about him was raw, wet, and delicious. Somewhere in the back of my head, I knew that this was monumental. This thing we shared in that moment. I’d never feel it with any other guy again. This slice of life was ours, even if I didn’t want it to be.
“Rosie,” he countered.
“I’m sick,” I repeated.
“Don’t say that. You’re not sick. It’s just a fucking condition.”
I shook my head, water and tears flying back and forth. “It’s not just a condition. I’m going to die really young, Dean. In my thirties, maybe forties…fifties, if I’m lucky.”
“Shut up,” he hissed between clenched teeth. His palm slammed the wall behind me, and I shook with more than just the cold.
“This is bullshit!” he spat out. “No, you’re not.”
I needed to find another tactic. Fast.
“Listen, you can’t do this, okay? We can be friendly,” I lied, because I knew by that point that we couldn’t. “But you can’t throw me into pools in the middle of the fall—first of all, I really am sick, and even if I wasn’t prone to pneumonia, it’s not that fun to be thrown into icy water anyway—and Millie. It’s not fair to her. You can’t treat her sister like that. Like…like…”
“Like what?” he challenged, his pupils flaring.
Like you want me.
Does he?
My hormones were rebelling. My morals charred me from the inside. Every hair on my body stood on end. His hand snaked between us and cupped one of my cheeks, tilting my face upwards, forcing me to look at him. “Like. Fucking. What. Rosie?”
There was something in his eyes. An intensity I’d never seen before. It was unsettling, because that something told me he had no idea what he was doing. He just knew it was wrong. And like me, he was confused, hurt, and angry.
“Like you want me,” I echoed my thoughts quietly.
“But I do,” he supplied. “Maybe it’s time for some musical chairs. Your sister doesn’t care for me too much, Baby LeBlanc.”
He didn’t care too much for her either. He cared about her. Which made him even more alluring, because our goal was mutual—protecting the person I fiercely loved.
But at the same time, bitterness ate away at me every time I watched the complete and utter waste that was their relationship. When I witnessed how her eyes drifted to Vicious when he was around. How Dean and I looked at each other from across the room. I wanted to grab my sister by the shoulders and shake her. Tell her to pull her shit together and go with the guy who made her heart swell. But I was in no position to ask her for anything, considering my parents ripped our family from our home in Fairfax, Virginia, and moved us all the way to California so I could have better health care. Since I had friends and a social life and she had nothing—precisely because of that decision. So, I let her have them both. Dean’s body and Vicious’s heart.
“If you don’t let me go,” my teeth chattered, and not just for impact, “I will get a lung infection. Dean.” His name was a warning, and this time he let me push him with my palms, swimming away from me and watching me climb to the edge of the pool, my heavy, soaked clothes pulling me down.
I didn’t turn around to look at him. Was too afraid he’d see my eyes, doped on euphoria, tainted by lust. And my face, rosy in contrast to the rest of my quivering, blue self.
I saw him in my periphery swimming to the edge, bracing his forearms on the wet tiles, his chin propped on his balled hands.
“This shit is toxic. We need to stop it before it goes any further,” he muttered, more to himself than to me.
“Any further than what?” I stripped out of my hoodie and tossed the heavy fabric onto a nearby sun lounger. “Than kissing and dry-humping my sister to oblivion and back while hitting on me?” My voice was trembling.
“Rosie,” he said. A high-pitched laugh escaped me. Rosie, my ass. He was with my sister. True, I pushed him to be with her, but it didn’t make me any less bitter. “Don’t twist this against me. You told me to be with her. You fucking told me to touch her, too. What do you want me to do? Ignore her ass?”
I hated that he had a point, and I hated that something so logical made me feel so illogical.
“This,” I pointed between us from where I was standing on the edge of the pool, “is not going to happen. You’re dating Emilia, Dean. We can’t ever be together.”
“Says who?” he challenged.
“Says me. And society. And logic. And culture. And damn, every love film and romance book I’ve ever consumed.”
“Mmm.” A playful grin found his luscious lips again. “That can’t be right.”
“It is,” I fired. “Juliet didn’t have an older sister named Julie that Romeo sampled before he decided she was the one.”
“Juliet never went head-to-head with her fucking feelings,” he yelled, banging his fist on the tiles. “Since when are you such a pussy?” Dean jumped out of the pool so fast, it looked like an optical illusion. He got in my face, snarling. “Since when do you give a damn about what people think? I pegged you all wrong. If you walk away from this, I’m going to give this thing with Millie a shot.”
It sounded like a threat.
“What have you been doing all along?” I snorted. It wasn’t his fault. By the time he noticed me, she wanted to date him, and he couldn’t back down. Besides, he made her life so much better. Gone were the days where her locker was stuffed with garbage and people muttered ‘white trash’ when she passed in the hallway.
“Waiting on you,” he answered, and we both let out a sigh as rain started knocking lightly on our standing figures.
“Well.” I smiled sweetly, and it took every ounce of energy in me to show him my teeth and dimples. “You have the green light to fall in love with my sister. As I said, nothing will ever happen between us.”
Five seconds later, Millie appeared at the pool, wheeling her bike along. We told her that I fell into the pool and that he jumped in to save me. My cheeks were flushed and the pool wasn’t that deep and I was a great swimmer. But Millie’s eyes were elsewhere—so was her heart—and I had a feeling that even if she caught us with our pants down it wouldn’t matter.
I never made it to my doctor’s appointment that day.
But I did catch pneumonia that granted me a trip to the ER and a four-day hospital stay. I’d missed two important exams and had to spend hours in a percussion vest.
And that following Thursday, when I got back home after avoiding Dean and Emilia, a book was waiting on my pillow, along with a note. The Bronze Horseman in paperback. The yellow Post-It note said:
Fuck society.
Fuck logic.
Fuck culture.
Fuck your illness.
And you know what? Fuck you.
Here’s a book about how shit like ours can work. Read it.
—Dean.
But the next day, I tucked it into the slit in Dean’s locker with a note.
Make her happy. I will kill you if you ever hurt her.
Fiction is magical. Reality is painful.
—Rosie.
We never spoke of this again until Millie ran away.
But I did buy my own copy of The Bronze Horseman.
Reading it.
Memorizing it.
Reciting it.
Never, ever forgetting it.
Eleven years ago
In the end, Millie and I made a pretty decent couple. Before she pissed all over it, that is.
I didn’t put a name on what we were or weren’t. Was it love? Probably not, but I cared for her and enjoyed her company. Only thing was, I enjoyed her sister’s company more. But it was becoming less and less of a problem, since Baby LeBlanc took a step back, and even though she never explicitly said anything, I knew she was avoiding me. She made things simpler.
But Vicious didn’t.<
br />
Notorious for making things messy, he did what he was expected to do—he ruined.
Vicious tried to get back at me for dating Emilia LeBlanc in many ways. Sadly for the fucker, I wasn’t a little pushover like his fanboys. We got into fights—physical and verbal—every other week over the subject, but I knew breaking up with Millie would leave her exposed to him, and I didn’t want him touching her. He bullied, taunted, and hated her. He had enough time to ask her out. Now she wanted to be with me, and Rosie pushed me straight into her arms.
And more than I wanted to please Millie, I wanted to please Rosie. Really fucking bad.
Eventually, Vicious did manage to get back at me in a way that cracked through my shield. Turns out that shit was thick, but not unbreakable after all.
He kissed Rosie.
He threw a party at his place, and we were cooling down from almost beating the hell out of one another. That wasn’t out of the ordinary. What was out of the ordinary was the way he made me taste my own medicine for the very first time. And let me tell you, it was nasty.
I was walking to his kitchen to get myself a bottle of water after popping a Xanax to take the edge off. Tanked as fuck, I knew I needed to go check on Millie. Last time I saw her at that party, she ran back to the servants’ house looking upset because of Vicious.
I bumped shoulders through masses of sweaty, glittery bodies, and when I finally got to the fridge, I found out Spencer ran out of water. I looked around—the kitchen was a colossal, cherry-wood and dark room better fitted in Buckingham Palace. Everywhere you looked, there were people. A couple making out against the sink, a bunch of ballers doing shots on the island, and girls snorting the Ritalin I brought over that night. I pushed two of the snorting girls away and swung the pantry door open, knowing where the bottled water was kept.
Turning on the light, I froze in place.
Vicious was there, hovering over Rosie like darkness that was about to swallow her whole. His lips were on hers and her lips were on his, and I wanted to rip them away from each other and tear his body to shreds, organ by organ.
They kissed. Her eyes were closed. His weren’t. His arm rose, and he flipped me the finger, his busy lips smirking as he grabbed her waist with his free hand, jerking her body to his. There was no passion there. No lust. The whole thing looked fucking technical and cold. She deserved so much more.
Like who, asshole, like you?
“What in the fuck is this?” My teeth crushed every word that left my mouth. My voice startled her and she jumped, placing her palm over her heart. “Get your hands off of her before I break them.” I felt the darkness in the pit of my stomach spreading like ink, taking over.
Vicious twisted his head to look at me, one of his hands still in Rosie’s hair. He smirked.
“Make me.”
It was an invitation I was only too happy to accept. I grabbed him by the collar and backed him away from her, slamming him against a case of mini-champagnes. I was bigger, stronger, and fucking scarier. His head smashed against the heavy box. He pushed me away. I pushed harder.
“Dean!” Rosie yelped. I recognized, rationally, that she wasn’t mine. Recognized, yes. But I didn’t understand. There were other guys. I saw them talking to her at school and at parties. They never got too far with her. Rose LeBlanc got her name for a reason. She was full of fucking thorns. She was so beautiful—so ridiculously, unbelievably alluring—that just like real roses, she grew little spikes to protect herself. Because everyone wanted to have her.
Everyone including you, asshole.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I hissed into Vicious’s face. Ten minutes ago, it was him who almost kicked my ass. We were constantly changing roles. It wasn’t hard to see why. No one said it out loud, but now, it finally made sense.
Each of us was with the wrong fucking sister.
“I’m doing what you want to do.” His eyes narrowed, and he licked his bottom lip, still swollen from that kiss. “Shoving my tongue into Rosie LeBlanc’s mouth. She tastes good.” He chuckled, slapping my back good-naturedly. “Like a fruity gum and 7UP and the girl you’ll never have.”
I threw him across the pantry, and he landed on a twenty-pound bag of rice. I wanted to kill him, and—I had no doubt—was going to if Rosie hadn’t tackled me, pushing me to the opposite side of the small room using her non-existent strength.
“Jesus. Stop it. You’re such a mess. Go away.”
“This is bullshit,” I yelled in her face, tugging at my hair. “You don’t even like him!”
“Irrelevant. I can do whatever I want.”
“And what you want is to rip my fucking heart out?”
Shit. I said that out loud, didn’t I? I was the one hurting her. My head hung down, and I felt all the blood rushing to my eyes. A part of me was glad I was going to move away for college soon. This town was boiling with hot gossip and out-of-control drama. I didn’t want to be there when the puss and shit overflowed.
“Yes,” she whispered, a mixture of elation and guilt marred on her face. She also looked just as drunk as I was. “Maybe it’s exactly what I want.”
“I don’t think you want to hurt me.” I lifted my head up, holding her gaze. “I think Vicious does, and you’re playing along because you’re shitfaced. Let me take you home.”
“No, thank you.” She looked the other way.
“Funny you say that, I think it’s time you grab your shit and get the hell off of my property, Cole.” I heard Vicious behind my back, tucking a joint into his mouth. A joint I gave him. Prick.
“If you ever touch her again, I’ll make sure you have no lips to kiss anyone with. Just for future reference.” I shrugged, turning off the lights to the pantry they were still in, just to be a dick.
Step. Another step. Then another. Making my way out of Vicious’s house was the longest journey I’d ever made. There was an urgency inside me to do something, but fuck if I had any idea what it was. I wanted to break up with Millie, but I doubted it would make any difference. Rosie still wouldn’t date me—she may even hate me more for bailing on her sister’s ass. And Vicious was definitely going to corner Millie and make her life a living hell.
Back then, I didn’t even know how fucking bad things were, because after that party, Vicious bragged about Rosie chasing him around all month, making Trent and Jaime believe that she wanted him, when really, she was begging for him not to tell her sister. She didn’t know he already did. But I knew, because Emilia had told me—through tears, by the way, what a fucking joke this relationship was—claiming she was fearful her sister would get hurt.
Rosie didn’t know, but her little drunken mistake at the pantry pushed me deeper into a bottomless rabbit hole and right into the arms of my vices.
That night, I was too drunk to drive, so I called a taxi back home.
Then crawled up to my room.
Locked the door.
Took out a bottle of Jack Daniels from my nightstand drawer.
And did to it what I wanted to do to Vicious.
I finished that motherfucker.
I POPPED THE TRUNK OF the waiting taxi when we got out of the airport and swung both our suitcases inside. By that time, I was fairly sober. And by “fairly sober,” I mean I could distinguish faces, colors, and large shapes. Good enough for my parents, so Rosie had to make do with that shit, too.
Twisting my head to check on her for the first time since I’d boarded the plane, I drank her in. I was out of it most of the flight. Not that it mattered. Baby LeBlanc wouldn’t have talked to me if I were the last person capable of speaking on planet Earth.
But that was then and this was now, and now she looked like she had a lot to say to me.
I slammed the trunk, leaned against it—the fuckwit taxi driver was inside talking to his wife on the phone in decibels more fitted for a Broadway show—and folded my arms, waiting for her to pour her sweet wrath on me.
“Should I pay a visit to Mommy Cole? Tell her that her son ha
s a drinking problem?” She frowned, peppering the question with a little cough. It was adorable. Baby LeBlanc didn’t even know my mother, let alone have the power or authority to talk to her. I tugged at her ponytail as I bypassed her, opening the door to the backseat and tilting my chin for her to hop in. She did. I rounded the vehicle and got into the seat next to her.
“My drinking isn’t a problem. It’s when I’m not drinking that things start to get fucked up.” I pressed my knees into the driver’s seat on purpose. I was too tall and too big for this car, and the fucker deserved it anyway. He hadn’t shut up since we got in, barely taking a breath to ask where we were heading.
She pulled out a lip moisturizer and dabbed her finger into it, patting her lips. The sweet scent of cotton candy filled the backseat. I wanted to lick the shiny gloss off her finger, then shove it into her skinny jeans, watch her finger herself with my saliva all over it. She was talking to me now. Fuck if I had any idea what she was saying. I blinked, trying to refocus.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, Dean, but I’m worried about you.”
“Funny shit, because I’m worried about you.” I ran my fingers through my hair, knowing damn well it made her thighs press together. “Worried you can’t resist me for much longer.”
“You live too hard.” She disregarded my comeback, which I loved about her. She never took the bait. But she was going to. Eventually, she was going to succumb to the pressure I was putting on her ever since she broke up with Dr. Dickface. Because giving up was not in my dictionary. When I wanted something, I took it. And I fucking wanted her. A lot.
“You don’t live at all,” I retorted. “That cruise-control shit that you put your life on? Sleep, work, volunteer, repeat? I’m putting an end to it soon.”
She turned her head to look at me and swallowed. I pretended to look ahead, giving her the time to remember she liked what she saw. Luring her into a web. Waiting for her to get tangled before I devoured my prey.