by R. S. Lively
“Sure,” was all I said.
“Anyway,” Mason said. “Thanks for helping me out with that guy.”
I nod. “Just keep your head down,” I reply. “You won't have trouble with Luke anymore. But, if anybody else bothers you, just let me know and I'll deal with it. You're under my protection now. The both of you.”
Mason chuckles. “You sound like you're in the mob or something.”
I shrug. “I just know how things work around here,” I say. “I'm the shot caller.”
“I'll remember that,” he says. “Thanks again.”
I watch as he puts his hand on his sister's back and leads her away. As they go though, she turns and looks back at me over her shoulder. Those green eyes, vivid and intense, burn into me, and I wonder what it is she's seeing.
Over the next couple of weeks, I hung out with Mason a bit. He was a nice enough guy, though I could tell he felt uncomfortable about being around me. I could tell he didn't much care for feeling like I was protecting him. He wanted to be known as a guy who could take care of himself – but, he also never strayed too far away from me either.
The whole time we hung out though, his sister never left his side. Nor did she ever say a word to me. She just silently stared at me with those unnerving green eyes of hers.
It turned out though, that Mason had been right all along. About a month after he landed in St. Aggie's, an aunt and uncle showed up to claim them, just like he'd said. I was surprised, but was largely indifferent, to be honest. It's not like we were best friends or anything. He was just somebody I hung out with. No biggie.
The only thing I remember clearly about them leaving was that silent little girl with the big green eyes watching me as I stood on the porch, watching them go.
Chapter Two
Darby
Ten Years Ago...
“Seriously, what are we doing here?” Jade asks me. “This neighborhood is scary. Girls like us shouldn't be walking alone in Hell's Kitchen, you know.”
“Relax,” I say and laugh. “It's not as bad as it used to be.”
I remember back when I was just a little girl and spent a month at an orphanage in Hell's Kitchen. Back then, it had been a rough neighborhood that scared the crap out of eight-year-old me. Yeah, the neighborhood is still a little rough around the edges to this day, but it's being gentrified, and I can already see the effects it's having on the area.
It's probably going to take a little while longer for it to become another upscale neighborhood, but it's definitely trending in the right direction.
It seems crazy given how close I am to it, but I haven't been back to Hell's Kitchen for a long while. After our aunt and uncle had taken us out of the orphanage, we moved Upstate for a couple of years. Eventually though, we moved back to the Upper East Side. It's not all that far from the Kitchen, but it still seems like an entirely different world. A world I don't really venture into.
I adjust the bag on my shoulder and look around at the sprawling urban world around me. The tall, red-brick buildings and can feel the history of the place washing over me. I stop before a vacant lot between two apartment buildings. The lot is overgrown with weeds and is filled with old tires, the husk of a stripped, burned out car, and a ton of trash.
My eyes stray to the spray-painted pictures on the walls. I look at the intricate designs and patterns the artist incorporated into his work. Most people look at it and call it graffiti. They call it a blight. When I look at some of these urban murals though, I see nothing but beauty. I see an artist telling a story. Inviting us into his world.
“Look at that,” I say, pointing to a mural on the wall.
“It's – nice?” Jade replies.
She's not into art like I am. She's more into hair, fashion, and boys. Typical of girls our age, I suppose. But, I'm not like girls my age. I like nice clothes and boys well enough, but it's not my sole purpose for existence.
Of course, moving in the circles I do, I'm expected to maintain a certain – image. My uncle is a criminal defense attorney. One of the best in the state and he makes a ton of money. Enough that he can afford to put me through a posh, prestigious prep academy, like Mason before me. And they are pushing me toward a college that's equally as prestigious. They want me to be a lawyer or a doctor, but I've held firm. I know what I want to do, and nobody is going to change my mind. I'm going to be a teacher.
The very upper-class lifestyle is nice and has a lot of obvious perks, but it's still something I'm trying to get used to. I know, poor little rich girl, right? Cry me a river.
Mason took to it like a duck to water. It wasn't long before he adopted that snooty, somewhat arrogant air of the rich kids I went to school with. He was always trying to prove that he was better than somebody. Always tried to prove that he belonged in those wealthy, elite circles. And he did it by trying to be a bigger, condescending asshole than they were.
Yeah, our relationship isn't exactly the best. We'd been close at one time. Inseparable. When we were in St. Agatha's, and even shortly after we went to live with our aunt and uncle, we clung to each other like we were glued together.
But, it wasn't long after Mason got a taste of that upper-class lifestyle and all its trappings, that he changed. He really changed. He became self-absorbed. Narcissistic. Arrogant. He became just another one of those rich kids who has the world handed to them on a silver platter and thinks they're owed something in this life.
I'm not going to deny that I love the privilege that comes with being part of such a wealthy family. I'd be an idiot not to. But, that's the thing. I recognize it as a privilege.
And it's not how we grew up – or rather, how we were growing up before our parents were killed. As young as I was when they died, I remember that we were a blue-collar, middle-class family. We never went without, but we certainly didn't have anywhere near the lavish lifestyle we do now.
Unlike Mason, I haven't forgotten where we came from.
“You're not really going in there are you?” Jade asked.
I look back and give her a grin. “How do you expect me to get the shot I want from so far away?”
She sighs. “This is why you asked me to wear this – costume?”
I look her up and down. She's in jeans, a white button-down shirt, and tennis shoes, as I'd asked her to be. Though she may consider it borderline scandalous to be seen in such casual attire – in public no less – I didn't want to attract any attention to us either. God knows, we get enough of the whistles and catcalls from the old perverts on our side of town when we're in our school uniforms.
Hell's Kitchen is an entirely different animal. I'm smart enough to know that. It's the last place two girls like us want to be running around in prep school uniforms.
I step into the lot and approach the mural, looking at it with awe. For a guy with nothing more than cans of spray paint, the work is exquisite. The mural is of an older black woman. She's reaching out to children of various ethnicities. It's the eyes on all the subjects that are the most captivating to me. The eyes are somehow so real. So, filled with actual life. They seem to be looking at you. Seeing you.
The artist really managed to capture the essence, that spark of life in the eyes of his painting. To me, it's awe-inspiring. It's beautiful. Digging my camera out of my bag, I pick my way around all the trash in the lot, careful to avoid turning an ankle on something. I find a vantage point and take some pictures of it, shooting it from different angles.
“I honestly don't know how anybody can say this isn't art,” I say.
Jade shrugs. “Because it's spray painted on the side of a building?” she says. “Instead of hanging in a gallery?”
I smirk and shake my head. Having spent my fair share of time in galleries, I can say that a lot of stuff that gets hung in them shouldn't be. I don't consider some of the pieces I've seen to be art. More like somebody pretending to be an artist desperately throwing paint on a canvas as they try to seem edgy or more thought-provoking than they actually are.
“Okay, got it,” I say. “I want to see if there are any others.”
Jade sighs. “This is so boring,” she says. “This is not what I had in mind when you said you wanted to do a walking tour.”
I grinned as we left the lot. “And what did you think I had in mind?”
“A walking tour of dress shops, maybe?” she asks. “Beauty boutiques?”
I laugh. “I need to get these for a project for Ms. Sutherland's class,” I say. “I appreciate you coming with me though.”
“You owe me,” she says, narrowing her eyes.
“Of course, I do.”
We walk down the street and are rounding a corner when a guy comes out of a bar and bumps into me. I stumble back, and he catches me before I fall. Looking up into his eyes, I feel my breath catch in my throat. There's something so familiar about him.
“Get your hands off her, you creep,” Jade snarls and smacks his hand away from my arm. “And watch where you're going while you're at it.”
The man recoils and looks at her, a slow smirk spreading across his face. “You the bodyguard here?”
Jade shrank back a bit but quickly caught herself. She lifted her chin defiantly and stared daggers through him. She was a small girl – all of five-foot-three, one hundred pounds – but, she does her best to not let other people push her around or intimidate her. My best friend, she's a feisty one.
“Yeah, maybe I am,” Jade says, trying to put some heat into her voice. “You want to make something of it?”
I stare at the man and know I know him from somewhere. I just can't put my finger on it. But, the feeling is like a splinter in the back of my mind and I can't seem to shake it. His attention is fixed on Jade – not that I blame him. She's a knockout. The perfect little body to go along with her supermodel good looks and blonde hair. She's usually the center of attention whenever we're in a crowd of guys.
Honestly, I know I'm not terrible to look at, but I feel ordinary when I stand next to her. My hair is red, instead of blonde. And I don't have the perfect little bikini figure. I'm not a big girl, but I've got some curves. I've got hips and full breasts. I know some guys are into that, but standing next to a tiny little thing like Jade, I feel like a manatee. A really unattractive manatee.
“Maybe I do,” he says.
The man steps closer to her. He's easily six-feet tall – probably a few inches taller than that. He's got wide shoulders, a thick chest, and under a tight t-shirt, I can see a toned body corded with lean muscle. He looms over her, engulfing Jade in his shadow.
She swallows hard and tries to put a tough look on her face, but I can see the fear in her eyes as the man glares down at her. His face is all hard angles and planes. He's got a strong jawline, blue-gray eyes, and neatly trimmed sandy-blond hair. He has classic good looks. Being the old movie junkie I am, I think he looks like a young Marlon Brando.
“Sweetheart, you ain't from this neighborhood,” he says. “You don't wanna step up on somebody like that.”
“What are you going to do, hit me?” she spits.
“I ain't gonna hit you,” he says. “I'm just givin' you some friendly advice. When you bring your posh little ass down here from the Upper East Side to slum in the Kitchen, you best know where you're steppin'. That's all I'm sayin'.”
I stand to the side, completely forgotten, just watching the exchange. The air around us is electric and filled with tension. It's like the air right before a storm breaks. It's heavy. Oppressive. And filled with the promise of violence.
I don't know what it is, but I don't believe he'd actually hurt Jade. Or me. He's tough. He looks hard. He looks like a man who's doled out his fair share of beatings. But, there's something about him that also seems – kind. It's like he's wearing this hard outer armor that's impossible to penetrate. But, something – maybe, my intuition or something – tells me that beneath that armor is somebody completely different. Somebody kind and caring. Somebody who would never hurt somebody just for the pleasure of hurting somebody.
And still – that intense aura of familiarity lingers.
“That's pretty presumptuous, you cretin,” Jade hisses. “To assume we're from the Upper East Side like that. How totally gauche.”
The man laughs like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard, practically doubling over in hysterics. Eventually, he stands up and wipes the tears from his eyes. I have to admit, it is pretty funny, but I bite back my grin and the giggle that threatens to bubble up out of my throat. Jade doesn't even realize how she's just given herself away.
“You're hilarious,” he says.
“I don't see what's so funny,” Jade shoots back.
“First of all,” he says, “people from around here don't use words like presumptuous or cretin. And we certainly don't use words like gauche. Those are words you only use if you go to some fancy prep school in richie-rich land.”
Jade's face colors and she looks away, realizing her error. As if he'd forgotten I was even there, he turns to me and I see his eyes widen. And when our gazes meet, I feel a current of electricity pass between us. I feel a bond of connection – like pieces of a puzzle have just fallen into place. Then, I see a light of recognition dawn in his eyes, and see a slow sweet smile touch his lips.
He snaps his fingers and then points one at me. “Your name doesn't happen to be Darby, does it? Darby White?” he asks. “I mean, I feel stupid for asking, it's just that –”
“Yes. Yes, it is,” I say quickly. “I'm Darby White.”
I'm speaking too quickly, but I feel an excitement bubbling up within me. I finally have a name to put with the face. I only hope it's the right name.
“And you're Carter Bishop,” I say. “Right?”
He nods, and his smile grows even wider. “Son of a bitch,” he says. “I can't believe it. What's it been, ten years?”
I nod. “Yeah, about that.”
“I don't believe it,” he says.
“Yeah, me neither,” I say. “How'd you know it was me?”
I see a hint of color in his cheeks and he cuts his eyes away from me. “Your eyes,” he says. “I remember your eyes.”
“This little reunion is great and all,” Jade interrupts as she gets her footing back. “But, who in the hell are you?”
I turn to Jade and give her a smile. “Sorry,” I say. “This is Carter. He was in the home Mason and I stayed at after our parents died. He – watched over us.”
He shrugs. “Not really.”
I laugh. “I clearly remember you beating up a guy who was picking on Mason.”
“I don't remember that,” I say.
“Great, so he's a thug?” Jade snaps.
I roll my eyes. “Ease up, Jade,” I say. “Carter took care of us while we were in the home.”
Jade looks at me and then to Carter and I can see something in her face. It's lust. I know my best friend well enough that I can see the attraction she has to him. Not that Carter is somebody she'd ever bring home to meet her folks, or even be seen out on a date with. She'd be more aghast at being seen with somebody like Carter in public than she is about being seen in jeans and tennis shoes.
No, she'd never deign to date him, but he's somebody she'd screw the hell out of though.
“Listen,” Carter says, looking at his watch. “I need to go run a few errands. Can I give you two a lift somewhere?”
Considering we'd taken a cab down to the Kitchen, I wasn't opposed to getting a ride. I looked over at Jade, who gave me a small, sly grin.
“That'd be great,” I say. “Thanks, Carter.”
We follow him around the building to a parking lot. He goes to an old classic mint green Thunderbird convertible, that looks like it's in perfect condition. It's a beautiful car and kind of fits with that “old Hollywood” look he has about him. It's a warm day, so the top is down, and he holds open the door and pushes the seat forward. Jade all but pushes me into the back seat and then slips into the front seat herself. He closes the passenger side door and I hea
r Carter chuckling to himself as he comes around to the driver's side.
He slips behind the wheel and buckles himself in, adjusting the rearview mirror so he can see me. When our eyes meet in the mirror, I feel my breath catch in my throat and an electrical charge surge through my body.
Carter starts the car and Jade slides across the seat, moving a little closer to him. He looks at her, a cocky grin on his face.
“Better buckle up,” he says and pushes her back to her side of the big, bench seat.
Jade pouts, a small frown turning the corners of her full lips down, but I see the fires of determination flare in her eyes. She is not a girl who is used to being rebuffed. And she is a girl who is used to getting what she wants. If you tell her no, she becomes doubly determined to make you say yes.
She shoots a look back at me and has an inscrutable look on her face. She's enjoying this. If there's one thing Jade loves, it's a challenge.
Carter pulls out of the parking lot and looks at me in the mirror. “So, where am I taking you?”
“Where ever you'd like,” Jade says, a flirty tone in her voice.
He smiles but says nothing. Instead, his eyes continue to flit between me and the road. Traffic isn't moving very quickly, and the sun is beginning to drift toward the horizon. I feel the gentle stirring of butterfly wings in my belly and a staccato rhythm beating in my chest whenever his eyes catch mine in the mirror.
“How old are you?” Jade asks.
“Twenty-four,” he replies.
“Well, why don't we go grab something to drink and go park somewhere,” Jade suggests.
I'm not much of a drinker, to be honest. But, if it means spending a little more time with Carter, I'm all for it. There's so much about him I want to know. We barely knew each other at St. Agatha's, but I've always felt that there was a connection there. Some sort of shared bond between us.
I mean, I was young and know how utterly ridiculous this all sounds. I mean, I was just a little kid, really. And maybe, it was my first crush or something. I don't know what it is, but there's just this sort of connection I feel toward Carter.