by Lilah Grey
Luke turns around and walks toward the back of the car to open the trunk.
“So how’d you afford this?”
Luke responds by slamming the trunk shut. A few seconds later, he’s right back next to me, first aid kit in hand. He sets it down on top of my legs, taking a few things out.
Why yes, I can be used as a table…
“Are you always this personable, or am I just lucky?”
He pauses for a brief moment, the muscles in his jaw tightening. I can’t help but smile; there is someone underneath that stoic exterior.
He slams the kit shut, grabs my legs, and spins me so that I’m facing him, legs hanging out of the door.
“Ow! Jesus, what the hell?” I squeal as Luke wipes my knee with an alcohol swab, a sharp, burning sensation lingering on my raw skin.
That smirk crosses his lips once again.
Ugh.
“Quit being a baby,” he says, peeling the wrapper off a bandage and tossing it aside.
He places the bandage flat against my knee, smoothing it out with his fingertips. His touch lingers longer than it should.
“I think it’s on,” I mutter.
Desire pools between my thighs as I feel his gaze rake across my body.
“Hand,” he demands, forcing me out of the moment.
The cut on my hand is more like a scrape and hardly needs a bandage, but I’m not about to stop him. I crave his touch. It makes every nerve ending inside me fire on all cylinders. It makes me feel alive, sharpening all my senses into a fine point.
I extend my hand to him, palm up. I watch his eyes as he stares at the scar on my forearm. Embarrassment flashes through me for a brief moment. I want to cover it, hide it away, but then another thought appears in its place. I want to tell him: See what you did? See what you made me do?
But I can’t.
My heart continues to hammer against my ribcage as he holds my hand gently in one hand, the other delicately tending to my scrape. His touch is tender and caring, and it’s almost too much to bear as my feelings for him well up inside me.
He left you once. Who’s to say he won’t do it again?
As soon as he finishes wrapping my hand, I pull away.
“Are we done here?”
He raises an eyebrow and stares at me without saying a word. I feel like he’s dissecting me with those pale blue eyes, as though he sees right through my act, the façade I’m desperately trying to hold up.
After a few moments, he lowers his gaze to my chest. He's not even subtle about it because he knows I like it. It’s true; I like it when Luke’s attention is on me.
I always have.
His gaze lingers for a moment longer before it rises to meet my eyes. “I suppose we are.”
He snatches the first aid kit off my legs with one hand and spins me back around with the other.
“Now buckle up. We’re getting out of here.”
He shuts the door, preventing me from protesting. I jiggle the handle, but the door won’t budge.
Child lock? Are you serious?
Luke. Is. Infuriating.
He hops in the driver’s seat, starts up the car, and reverses out of the parking spot. It’s not until he takes a right out of the parking lot—the opposite direction of the house—that I realize something’s up.
“I know it’s been a while since you’ve been back to Milton, but home is still that way.”
I motion behind us, but Luke remains silent. He keeps his eyes straight ahead as we continue down the road.
“Luke!” I shove his arm, trying to draw something out of him.
He grits his teeth as we pull up to a light. He glances at me briefly, but then his eyes flit back to the road.
“You’re not safe there.”
I laugh. How could I not?
Not safe? Okay, Luke…
Luke's knuckles turn white as he grips the wheel. His right eye twitches, a nervous tic of his. Was he serious? It was hard to believe. Who in the world would want to do anything to me?
“I’m not safe,” I repeat his words. “How so?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“So you expect me to just go along with you?”
He turns to me and smiles. “Yes.”
Heat floods my core.
Damn it.
Why did his smile still have such an effect on me?
I need to get out of here, but how? I can’t hop out of the car, not with the child lock on. I was stuck.
I play with my fingers in my lap, twisting and bending them as I try to figure out what to do next. I chew my bottom lip, letting it go a few moments later.
“Will you at least tell me where we’re going?”
“To my apartment in Austin.”
My nails dig into my thighs as sparks fly in my mind.
“You’ve been living in Austin this whole time? What’s wrong with you?”
I can’t believe it.
California? New York? I thought he was thousands of miles away. It was the only reason I could think of for why he never visited me. Distance. The entire time I was at Millwood, he was less than a few hours away…
“Only recently. I have places all over the country.”
Good for you.
“You forgot about that last part. What’s wrong with you?
“Nothing as far as I know.”
“You’re an asshole. That’s what’s wrong with you.”
All he does is shrug. Typical Luke. He thinks he can show up unannounced, expecting me to drop everything and do whatever he wants.
The gall of this man.
This beautiful, ripped, absolutely gorgeous…
Ugh.
I’ve watched girl after girl fall under his spell, listened to him fucking them as they screamed his name through our shared wall when we were younger. He always had a girl on his arm while a group of them trailed behind, waiting for their chance with him.
I wished I was one of them.
It was torture watching him burn through beautiful girl after beautiful girl. I learned early on that the only reason most girls hung around me was to get closer to Luke. The first thing out of their mouths when they’d come over would be ‘So where’s Luke?’
For the most part, I kept to myself. I had my best friend, Sarah, who I’d known before I became Luke’s stepsister. She never fell under Luke’s spell for some reason, although what happened between us was far worse; it’s still tough to think about.
I hated Luke. I hated that I wanted him. But most of all, I hated that he still held this power over me years later.
I look at Luke. “Stop the car.”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“You act like you have a choice,” he says calmly.
“I’ll call the police. Tell them you kidnapped me.”
He sighs. “No, you won’t.”
He's right; I wouldn't.
“I’ll call Damian.”
It’s a lie. I didn’t even know Damian’s number anymore. Hell, I didn’t even know if he was still in Milton. It didn’t matter, though. Damian’s a sore spot for both Luke and me, but I knew if I brought up his name, it would make Luke go crazy.
The two of them were best friends when we were growing up, identical in nearly every way: star athletes, great students, heartthrobs. Beloved by everyone in the community and destined to go on to great things.
Once they hit high school, though, they drifted apart. I don't know the whole story; Luke would never tell me. He became enthralled with writing programs and code while Damian focused on football.
During their senior year, I started dating Damian. It was the first time I’d ever seen Luke lose his temper. He was always in control, capable of bending any situation or anyone to fit his will. But not this time. Not with Damian.
Something was different.
Dating Damian changed everything. It was the start of my tailspin, although I didn’t r
ealize it at the time. If I could do things over, I’d tell Damian no when he asked me out. Maybe things would’ve turned out differently. Maybe Luke wouldn’t have left. Maybe I wouldn’t have gone to Millwood.
I’ll never know because I can’t change the past no matter how much I wish I could.
Luke shrugs his shoulders, his knuckles still white as he grips the wheel.
“Fine. If you don’t want my help, that’s on you.”
At the next red light, he leans over and reaches for my leg. I shift in my seat to move away from him, but his hand changes direction and opens the glove compartment instead.
“Something on your mind?” he asks, smirking.
I ignore him.
He takes a pill from a bottle, swallows it, and then puts the bottle back in the glove compartment. I forgot about Luke’s heart condition. He needed those pills, and I often saw him taking them during stressful situations.
The light turns green, and he makes a U-turn, heading toward our old house. It's not what I want, but I can't stand Luke trying to control my life.
He can’t have everything he wants.
I smile as I consider telling him just that, but I keep my mouth shut. We both do. Neither of us speaks again until we’re almost at the house, and I notice a few strange marks on his face. They run diagonally, three of them, and resemble claw marks, like someone slashed him.
I point to the marks. “What happened to your cheek?”
My question seems to catch him off guard, although I might be imagining it.
“I saw Margaret earlier today.”
“Why would you do that?”
They were never on good terms with each other. But now that I think about it, my stepmother was rarely on good terms with almost everyone. I have no idea what my dad saw in her.
“I was looking for you, but you’d already left for… work.”
He pauses for a moment.
“She was in a mood. We both had a few strong words for each other, and she ended up slapping me. Her nails dug into my face as she pulled back.”
I’m just about to press him, but as I open my mouth, I’m distracted by the crowds forming on the sidewalk opposite our house. Police cars are lined along our small street, flashing red and blue lights as an officer cordons off our lawn with yellow tape.
“What the fuck,” Luke mutters under his breath as another officer steps in front of the car, motioning us to stop.
Luke parks the car. “Stay here,” he says, hopping out a split-second later.
Did he honestly think I’d listen?
I try my door again, but it doesn’t budge.
Child lock…
I hop over the console and head out the driver’s side door, following Luke up the cement path that leads to our house. The stairway to our porch is blocked off with more yellow tape.
A female officer intercepts Luke. Her black hair is pulled back in a ponytail, revealing fine, vulpine features and hard green eyes.
“I’m sorry, but I’m going to ask you—Luke?” Her stern expression fades as her eyes soften. “Is that you?”
Ugh… who hasn’t Luke fucked?
Neither of them notices me brush past them, duck under the tape, and head up the steps to the house.
What is going on?
There’s sick feeling growing inside me, gnawing at me.
A well-built officer is standing in the doorway with his back to me, writing something down on a clipboard. I try to sneak by him, but he grabs me. Before he pulls me away, I see Margaret, motionless on the floor.
6
Libby
Everything around me fades into the background.
I'm sitting on the porch swing in front of our house as an officer speaks to me. He's kneeling down in front of me. His lips are moving, but I don't hear him. I hear nothing except for a constant hum, a sucking noise that drowns out everything else.
There are so many questions buzzing around my head that I’m quickly becoming overwhelmed. I close my eyes and let myself fall back into the swing. The rhythmic movement is comforting, but I know it won’t last long.
When the initial shock wears off, I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, but I find them dry. I’m more shocked than I am sad. The only thing I feel is relief now that Margaret’s dead. It might seem wrong, but it’s the truth.
After my mom left and my dad married Margaret, I thought that this would be my chance to have a real mother—someone who cared for me, who loved me. But it wasn't that way at all. Margaret had this idea of the perfect daughter, how she looked, how she acted; it was everything I wasn't.
I could never live up to her expectations; I was never good enough for her. Her biting comments and passive-aggressive actions made me even more insecure about my body and my self-worth.
I remember my first birthday as her stepdaughter. I had been wearing the same clothes for years, and they were becoming too small. She bought me an entirely new wardrobe. I was so excited. But that excitement disappeared as I began unwrapping the presents. None of them fit. All of them were smaller than what I was already wearing.
“Well… maybe in a few years, dear,” she’d said, rubbing my back as tears flooded my eyes and rolled down my cheeks.
Living with her was hell. It didn’t help that I was almost always sick, in and out of doctor’s offices and hospitals. They’d put me on new treatments each month. No one had a clue what was wrong. After a few days at the hospital, I’d be okay. They’d send me home, but I’d be back a few months later just as sick.
I think it had something to do with our house because it all started a few months after my father married Margaret and we all moved in together.
The only positive, if you can even call it that, was the attention Margaret gave me when I was sick. The sicker I became, the more attached and motherly she'd become.
Luke tried to help me.
He’s the one who suggested I try my hand at graphic design. He and my dad bought me a laptop and software to help me get started. I got angry because they spent so much on me. I knew neither of them had that kind of money to spend, and so did Margaret.
She was livid when I opened those presents. She ended up locking herself in her bedroom for the rest of the day and well into the next. She spoke to no one for more than a week.
I was grateful though. No one had ever given me such a thoughtful present. But now that laptop and software, along with all of my sketchbooks, have been sitting in my bedroom for years, unused and collecting dust. I loved those few years I spent with Luke, working side by side with him in his room.
Eventually, not even my art could distract me from Margaret, especially when Luke wasn’t there to deflect her. When he was distracted with other girls and projects, I had to find my own coping mechanisms.
I turned to cutting.
It worked for a while. It gave me a little pleasure during a time I felt only pain. It provided a brief but destructive escape from reality, but in the end, it tore my life apart.
When I finally leave my thoughts, I notice a blanket draped around me. I cling to it as I watch the cops on the front lawn. Some move with deliberate steps—serious people doing serious work—while others mill about, sipping styrofoam cups of coffee while they crack jokes with one another.
Luke’s talking with the female officer from earlier. His back is to me, but her’s isn’t. I can see her face clearly: rosy cheeks, warm from laughter, a smile stretching wide across her face, small dimples on either side.
Watching the two of them talk makes me overheat, so I let the blanket fall off my shoulders. The female officer rears back her head, braying with laughter at a joke I’m sure isn’t all that funny.
“Can I get you anything else, Libby?”
The voice makes jump.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” the officer says as he sits down next to me. I turn my head to look at him, and my breath hitches in my chest.
Damian.
In some ways, Damian reminded me of Luk
e. They had similar builds and demeanors, although Luke was always a bit more serious. Damian, on the other hand, was more laid-back, always cracking jokes. I guess it came with the mop of dirty-blonde hair and sun-kissed skin. He reminded me of a surfer. One that was built like a Mack truck and played football…
He’s traded in that wild mop of hair for a more professional style. But those eyes—a swirl of brown against a pool of green—and that sun-kissed skin of his hasn’t changed a bit.
“Damian?” My voice wavers in the air.
He nods, smiling. “That’s right.”
“Police?” I’m so out of it I can’t even form complete sentences.
He laughs. “Uh-huh.”
Out of all the possible career paths for Damian, I never thought police officer would be one of them. Professional athlete? Definitely. He had scouts scoping him out since middle school.
I wonder what made him stay in Milton. It’s such a small town. Apart from the drug abuse and whatever mischief the high school kids got into, our city was free from crime. Violent crime, at least.
Damian flashes a smile at me, and my stomach flips. I force myself to look away, shutting my eyes, but the images that flash through my mind make me feel worse. It’s an old memory, one that I’ve tried to suppress.
I’ve been successful up until now. Seeing Damian brings it back to the surface. A tear squeaks out of my shuttered eyelids.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” he says, giving me a comforting shake as he wraps an arm around me. “I promise.”
He wipes away the tear with his thumb, a tear that he probably thinks is for Margaret.
“What happened?” I ask, sniffling.
He lets out a deep sigh as his arm falls away. “We’re not sure yet.”
“What do you mean?” I ask as I begin picking at my fingernails.
“There’s not much I can say at this point.”
A chill races down my spine as he touches my leg, and I remember that I still haven’t changed from my uniform. From the way Damian’s looking at me, he doesn’t seem to mind.
I look out over the porch, toward the street. Most of the crowd has dissipated, but there are still some rubberneckers.