by Bethany-Kris
“Huh.”
Cross shrugged off his leather jacket, and tossed it over his arm. “Don’t worry. Zeke doesn’t use at all. He won’t be driving back high.”
Catherine looked up again. “But his girlfriend does.”
“He looks out for her, or whatever.”
Cross walked further under the pier.
Catherine followed.
“Besides, Wolf or Cal would cut his nuts off if they thought he was driving me around while stoned out of his mind.”
“Who?” she asked.
Cross tossed his leather jacket to the sand. “Wolf is his dad. Calisto—but I just call him Cal—is my step-dad. Sit.”
She did, tucked tight into Cross’s side on the leather jacket. The sound of the water echoed under the pier, and it made a soothing sound. Cross rested his arms over his knees, while Catherine stared at him from the side.
“I thought I was supposed to be making friends,” she teased.
Cross grinned. “You did. Three of them.”
“But mostly just one.”
His gaze met hers. “So?”
“So … thanks for punching Hugh and getting suspended for me, I guess?”
Cross chuckled, and went back to staring out at the water. “It was worth it. I kind of hate him, anyway.”
Catherine bit her lower lip to hold back the laughter. “That’s kind of terrible.”
“Terrible is my thing.”
She wiped her sandy hands off on the pleated skirt of her school uniform, but it did no good. The sand still stuck to her skin, scratchy and bothersome. Silently, Cross’s larger hands captured hers inside his. Without a word, he took his time to brush all the sand off her hands and fingers until there was nothing left. His careful hands and serious expression, focused in on his task of making her clean and comfortable, made Catherine smile.
And her chest got tight, too.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
Cross shrugged. “No worries.”
Catherine thought he’d drop her hands when he was done. He only dropped the one, and then he quickly grabbed something at his side before he was holding her hand with both of his again in a firm grip.
She felt him slide something into her palm.
“A gift,” he said quietly.
Catherine raised a single eyebrow, and flipped her hand over to see what it was when he let her go. A small conch shell, maybe an inch and a half long, and pale pink in color.
When had he even seen it?
“It’s pretty,” Catherine said, turning the little conch shell over in her hand. “Thank you.”
Cross plucked the conch from her palm, and gave her one of his winks. He began unwinding the thin leather cord that had circled his wrist like a triple-wrapped bracelet of sorts until it was fully undone. Quickly, he wrapped the conch shell securely in the cord, and it hung like a pendant.
“Give me your wrist,” Cross said.
Catherine held her arm out, not hesitating a bit.
Cross wrapped the cord two times more around her wrist than he needed to for his, even with the conch tied into it. Once it was secured, he pulled a lighter from his pocket, and held her wrist still while he burned the leather knot.
“It’s not going to slip off now,” he told her.
She flipped her wrist around, admiring her new accessory. She loved it.
Catherine loved anything different and unique.
Like daisy crowns or conch shells on leather bracelets.
She looked up to thank Cross—again—but the words didn’t quite form when she found his dark gaze already locking onto hers.
Maybe it was giggling laughter from up above, or the sound of water coming in under the pier. Maybe it was the memory of a bloody smile and busted up knuckles. Maybe it was just him seeking her out for no reason at all.
Or shit …
Maybe it was just Cross.
Catherine really liked the way he looked at her.
She didn’t know what it was, but it was something. So, she leaned over and kissed him. Quick and fleeting, a fast press of her lips to his—silky, soft and over before she blinked or thought about it for too long.
Her first kiss.
Ever.
For a split second, Catherine’s mind went stupid. She thought maybe she shouldn’t have done that at all, and maybe he hadn’t wanted her to. Besides a dumb crush, she didn’t have a lot of experience with boys, and she didn’t know how to act or what to do.
She stopped thinking all together when she looked at Cross again. His grin grew a little wider.
Catherine looked down.
“Are you going to do that again?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Are you going to do it soon?”
Catherine’s cheeks heated. “Maybe.”
“Do you mind if I do it?”
Her head popped up again, and her gaze darting to his. “No, I don’t mind.”
It seemed like that was all Cross was waiting for.
Her okay.
Her permission.
Cross didn’t just lean over like she had done—no, his whole body moved toward her. His hands found her cheeks, and he pulled her into him before he kissed her. His kiss was not like hers had been. It wasn’t fast or fleeting; he didn’t pull away a quick second later, or barely kiss her at all. Where she had been hesitant, he was not.
No, she found his kiss was almost rough, but in a good way. A hard press of his soft lips to hers, and then another. His thumbs stroked the line of her cheekbones as his tongue darted in between her parted lips. She realized then that he tasted sweet and warm at the same time. Her worries and embarrassment slipped away as she found that she liked this a whole lot, too.
It wasn’t so hard to do.
And it all felt wonderful.
Catherine hadn’t realized how much she needed air to breathe until Cross pulled away. His dark eyes watched her for a moment, pulling her into a silent hurricane of feelings and wonder.
“I’ll probably do that again,” he told her, his voice low and promising. “Soon.”
Catherine shrugged.
Nonchalant seemed the way to go.
There was no reason to say she couldn’t speak.
Catrina Marcello dominated rooms when she walked into one.
Catherine thought—if anything—that was what intimidated people the most about her mother. Then, people got a good look at Catrina. They saw her beautiful clothes, perfectly done makeup and dark red hair, her manicured nails sharpened into points at every perfect tip, and were caught off guard by her beauty. Even in her forties, her mother turned heads when all she was doing was walking down the street.
But to Catherine?
Catrina was just her mom.
They butted heads a lot. Her father liked to say that’s because they were too much alike for their own good. Catherine didn’t know how true that was.
She knew she looked a lot like her mother, much more than she took after her father. Her sharp cheekbones, full lips with a dainty cupid’s bow, olive complexion, and even her smile … it all came from her mother. Her green eyes and dark hair came from her father.
Catherine sometimes thought it would have been nice if her mother could have passed on more than just her looks to her daughter. Like her confidence and natural aura of superiority. As though the world was hers, and she owed it fucking nothing.
Maybe those were learned traits, though.
Catherine hadn’t quite learned them, yet.
Catrina bent over her daughter at the kitchen table, surveying the textbooks Catherine had laid out. “How was school?”
“Boring.”
Her mother laughed a tinkling sound. “Come on, now, dolcezza. Make an effort, and you might like it there.”
“It’s not so bad, really.”
Now, Catherine thought silently.
“Did you make friends?”
Catherine flipped to the next page in her book. “Sort of.”
“Johnathan said he went back to pick you up a bit later because you were hanging out with some friends.”
At that same time, Catherine’s brother strolled through the kitchen, following behind their father and muttering on about something or other. She caught Michel’s eye as he passed her by, but he didn’t speak up or say a word about who she had gone with that day.
“I made friends,” Catherine admitted.
Sort of.
Catrina smiled, pleased, and kissed the top of her daughter’s head. “See, I told you.”
“Yeah, I know, Ma.”
“Did Michel order you some pizza?”
“When I got home,” she said.
Catrina patted Catherine’s cheek in her motherly way, saying, “Tomorrow, I’ll make your favorites. It’s been a busy week. You know your father’s trial is coming up, and all.”
Yeah, it wasn’t like Catherine could forget the night almost a year earlier when FBI agents raided their home in the middle of the night. Her father was facing weapons charges, amongst other things. The trial was a few weeks away, as far as she understood.
“I don’t want you worrying about it,” Catrina said, bringing Catherine from her thoughts. “We haven’t talked a lot about it, or what to expect, but that’s just because we’re not sure right now on some of the details. Okay?”
Catherine frowned, still trying to focus on her homework. “It’s all right, Ma.”
“Well, it will be.” Catrina pressed another kiss to her daughter’s head. “Just remember, we don’t talk about the family with anyone, Catherine. That’s our rule, dolcezza.”
“Got it, Ma.”
“And stop feeling so put out about that school and the people there,” her mother added with a smirk. “You’re a Marcello, Catherine. Act like it. Own it.”
“Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to you.”
“Aw, Ma,” Cross muttered, and tried to wave his mother off.
It didn’t work.
Instead, Cross ended up ducking and dodging Emma’s kisses the whole way to the table. As soon as he sat his ass down, it didn’t matter. She kissed the top of his head with a quiet, Ha.
Across the table, his step-father sat with a smirk half hidden by a cup of coffee. Calisto tried to act like he was more interested in the newspaper in his hands, but Cross wasn’t stupid. His step-dad got way too much enjoyment out of Emma’s tricks.
Especially with Cross.
“Is it your birthday?” Calisto asked.
Cross shot a look across the table. “Shouldn’t you know?”
“Well, you didn’t ask for anything. You didn’t want a party. Makes me wonder if you want to pretend you don’t have a birthday this year.”
“Too old for all that shit,” Cross said as his mother slid a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him. “Save the balloons, banners, and cake for Camilla. She still likes that stuff.”
“Yes, I do!” his sister shouted on her way through the kitchen.
Camilla was loud enough to burst eardrums in the morning. Cross glared at his sister while she only smiled back at him. Who needed an alarm clock when they had Camilla Donati in the house screeching to the heavens?
“You’re too old for a birthday party, maybe,” Calisto agreed.
Cross almost shoved a bite of scrambled eggs into his mouth, but stopped last minute. “Are you saying I can have a house party?”
Calisto barked out a laugh, and pointed a finger at Cross. “Ha, no.”
“Just asking.”
He would never know if he never asked.
He would never get it if he didn’t try.
Simple enough.
“Besides,” Calisto added, going back to his paper, “you wouldn’t even invite kids your own age, Cross. You’d invite people way older than you, and I would end up with a trashed house.”
“I can’t help it that I don’t have friends my own age. I could keep them on the bottom level.”
There were three levels to the Donati home.
“The answer is no, son.”
“Never say I didn’t try,” Cross said, grinning.
“That you do.” Calisto sighed, and tossed his newspaper down. “It’s Friday, though, and you didn’t ask for a party here.”
“So?”
Cross filled his mouth with eggs and bacon, more interested in feeding his face than having a weird conversation with his step-father.
“So,” his mother said, sitting down at the table with her own plate, “did you set up something elsewhere? That’s what Cal is asking.”
“Trying to ask,” Calisto corrected.
“Why didn’t you just ask that, then?” Cross asked.
His plate was already finished.
According to his mother, he ate like every teenage boy that didn’t think they would ever get fed again in their lifetime. Cross figured he just didn’t have time to sit and care about the food, as long as it tasted good and went in his damn mouth.
Standing from the table, Cross leaned over and gave his mother a kiss on her cheek. “Thanks, Ma.”
“You didn’t answer my question, son,” Calisto said.
Cross shrugged. “No party elsewhere. I’ve got a game tonight—last one before winter. And Wolf is taking me to Chicago this weekend, so no party then, either.”
“Well. All right.” Calisto smiled, and picked up his paper once more. “Better for me to ask, and for you to tell the truth, then for me to find out later you lied, Cross.”
“I’m not having a party. I’d give you the damn address to the place if I was.”
“Language,” Emma chided.
Calisto ignored his wife’s warning. “Yeah, I got it, son. Relax.”
Cross glanced at the clock on the wall, noting the time. “I’ve got to head over to Zeke’s, or someone else is going to need to drive me to school.”
“Get going,” Emma said with a wave of her hand, “and try to be good, Cross!”
Cross was already gone before his mother could finish her sentence. He had just sat down on his bike—soon, it would need to be put away for the winter months—when his phone buzzed in his jacket.
Ignoring the bite of the November air, Cross pulled the phone out to find a text scrolling over the screen.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want a party. He didn’t hate his birthday, really, even if he had been saying he was fifteen for a couple of months before he even actually turned that age. It was just … what fun would it be?
Not much without a green-eyed, dark-haired girl.
Not much fun at all.
Happy birthday, Catherine’s text read.
He’d thank her at school.
His way.
Cross ignored the heys and the half a dozen gazes of girls as he sat down beside Catherine in the cafeteria. She finally made friends in her own grade and some from his, although sometimes, it seemed she could do without them.
He didn’t blame her.
Cross felt the same way about people.
“Here,” Catherine said the second Cross was seated beside her, “hold this for me.”
Cross took the sketchpad. “What do you want me to do with it?”
“Just … hold it there.”
He shot a look at the table she had been using before, but shrugged it off. She had the better idea, anyway.
Catherine turned toward him, and he faced her. Her back was to the rest of the girls chatting away at the table, and he wasn’t exactly open to conversation with them to begin with. This way, it was just the two of them facing one another, in their own space, and they didn’t invite attention or conversation.
Not that people didn’t try.
They just ignored them.
It wasn’t exactly new for him and her. He was glad she made friends, but he found the girls to be high strung, too fucking nosy, and boring as hell. Catherine was none of those things, so his attention went only to her.
He wasn’t there for the rest of them.
&n
bsp; Catherine popped the cap off a silver Sharpie marker, and went back to her doodling. Cross held the pad for her while she drew. “So …”
“Hey.”
Her head jerked up, her green eyes catching his. “Yeah?”
Cross leaned in, closed the small gap between them, and kissed her quickly on the mouth. Just as fast, he sat back the way he had been, as though he hadn’t done anything at all. Catherine smiled, though, shooting him a wink.
“Careful,” Trisha said from behind Catherine, “or you’ll get written up again.”
Cross eyed the girl over Catherine’s shoulder. “Don’t you have a new lipstick to mark on the bathroom mirrors with or something?”
Yeah, he heard about that shit.
Petty. Stupid. Nonsense.
The least the girl could have done was use something permanent—like spray paint—so it wasn’t washed off before the day was out. If someone was going to have a go at vandalism, go full on or nothing at all.
Trisha rolled her eyes. “You could try being pleasant, Cross.”
“I am,” Cross said.
To people who matter, he added silently.
“When?” the girl asked.
“Leave him alone,” Catherine piped up, never taking her attention off her doodling. “And she’s got a point, Cross.”
Catherine said her last words quieter than the rest.
“Oh?”
She frowned. “I’ve only got a couple of more write-ups before they call home.”
Cross rolled his eyes. “Who fucking cares? They call home, explain the ten write-ups, and start your score over again.”
Her laughter came out sweet and light, making him grin. “Yeah, you would see it that way. Like a competition for you to win or something. You get ten a week at least, don’t you?”
“Maybe.” Often enough. “I just mean, they don’t do anything but call.”
“But that’s what I don’t want.” Catherine flipped the pad over in Cross’s hands before saying, “I don’t want my parents pissed at me, that’s all.”
“So tell them you’ve gotten written up before the school calls and does it.”
That seemed like a simple solution to Cross.
Shit, his mother asked him regularly what he’d gotten written up for. She was a lot less angry when he told her before the principal did.