by S. Love
For reasons I don’t fully understand, my spine prickles. Sharp needlepoints that travel to the back of my neck, fizzle into a smoke cloud and blur my senses. I become acutely aware of my own breathing, my breasts rising in a feverish, labored rhythm.
Garrett notices it, too, and heat blooms under my ribcage and someplace much farther south. I squirm in my seat, chasing release that I’ve convinced myself doesn’t exist. Not in this squelchy leather vinyl, at least. I need more. I’m screaming on the inside. On the outside I’m burning up with fever-like symptoms, flustered by what my body’s trying to do to me.
Garret’s hand grazes his crotch, the discreet squeeze before he pushes his palm across the black denim speeding up my heart rate even more. He wets his lips. “I could still be your first, Lyla. If you still want it.”
Isn’t this what I’ve been compromising myself for? And the prize feels all wrong. Amazing, but wrong. ‘Yes’ is on the tip of my tongue, but that’s where it stays. No amount of coaxing or raging hormones can dislodge the magic word and set it free.
The main reason I don’t cave and offer myself on a shiny, silver platter is currently in a blissful world of her own. Masie lines up the cue stick with a cluster of balls, giddy as she makes the shot on her own without inappropriate, lecherous help from Ozzie. Her friends cheer her on, even though the ball she hits rebounds off the side rail and spins the wrong way. They’re cheering because she hit the right ball, doesn’t matter she didn’t put it in the pocket.
She’s got good friends.
Masie’s not a bad person.
YOU are a bad person.
“Back off, G, and splash some cold water on it.”
Garrett’s weak protests penetrate my prison of guilt, and then Ozzie’s helping me out of my seat, my hand tightly secured in his. He cops the Hennessy as he tows me away from the table, and I double my steps to stay closely behind him. My head swirls from the sudden rush of movement and I give in to the pull, the weight on my muscles too heavy to fight against and win.
Taking a swig straight from the bottle, Ozzie pounds the liquor. Saliva gathers under my tongue from watching him, and I shake my head vehemently when he tips the bottle toward me. I can no longer see straight as it is.
The next thing I know, a curtain of cold beads caresses my skin and slides through my hair, pink neons blind me, and then I’m passing under the blacklights. Ozzie’s fingers withdraw from mine, even as I squeeze to hold him there. But then his arm bears down around my shoulders, the intoxicating scent of his cologne and sporty bodywash rinsing over me, and he digs his hand into the frayed pocket in my shorts.
I manage to keep up with him, the freakish lighting hell on my alcohol-infused vertigo. I don’t protest Ozzie’s intimacy, instead lying my head on his chest as his invasive handle on me strengthens, drawing me protectively into his side. He’s the only real, solid thing I can rely on.
Clearing the ultraviolet hallway, I suck back the foisty air to quell the swishing nausea. It barely helps, and it’s only when we burst through a fire exit and into an unlit alley that I tear myself away from Ozzie and double over, heaving onto the road.
My head’s spinning, the acid in my stomach clawing at my throat and souring my mouth. The vodka and Hennessy taste a million times worse coming up than when it went down.
“Did you do this to her?” Sounds like Falcon’s deep, threatening tone, but I don’t up look to confirm.
My heaving dries up, and I wipe my mouth with my forearm. Strands of hair stick to the dampness on my cheek. Falcon’s charging toward me, and I resist when he gathers me by the waist and leads me away from the arcade. Too intoxicated to walk in a straight line, my body slumps and liquifies, forcing Falcon to take most of my weight.
“I can’t fucking trust you with anything, can I?” The vibrations from Falcon’s gruff voice rattle through me.
My head bobbles like a cheap, novelty car ornament, drunker now that I’m outside, the fresh air hitting me like a liter bottle of Absinthe.
I don’t question when Ozzie’s opening the rear passenger door to a waiting car and helping me inside. I flop down into the leather and lean my head against the window, fiddling for the button to let the window down for a strip of salty air so I can breathe.
“Where are we going?” I mumble. I have the worst taste in my mouth. “Can I have a soda, please?”
I lurch forward, hitting my shoulder off the back of the driver’s seat. The person sitting in the seat turns his head, a wry smile creping over his features, illuminated under the dim, interior light.
I smile back. “Hey, Topher. Where did you come from?”
The engine purrs to life, the car pulling forward and out of the alleyway.
Ozzie gives Topher side-eye, his eyebrow rising. The streetlight whizzing by hurts my eyes, sending me back into my seat. My stomach swishes like I’m at sea.
Ozzie levels a bored look over his shoulder. A trace of disgust hovers around his mouth, and I flip him off. “Sleep it off, Lyla. You’ll be none the wiser tomorrow.”
Chapter 15
My mouth’s abnormally dry. A pounding above my eyelids like I’m being beaten with a hammer from inside my skull, the pain radiating down to my neck. I sit up in bed, the white sheets bunched at my waist, the ceiling fan whirring above me.
It takes me a shaky while to gather my bearings and work out how I got here and where I’ve been. I stare down through a blurry film at Ozzie lying shirtless on his back beside me, on top of the covers, and my headache pounds harder, slamming into my temples with the force of tiny, ferocious fists.
I reach for the glass of water on the nightstand, guzzling for rehydration and then muttering my gratitude when I see two aspirin. I swallow them both with the rest of the tepid water, and I don’t give Ozzie another thought as my head hits the pillow and I settle back into sleep.
I wake up alone, the white, fiery sun higher and brighter in the pale blue sky, streaming in through the sheer, flimsy drapes at the French doors in my bedroom.
A shower does very little in terms of making me feel more human, and as I trudge downstairs, the cottony dryness lingers in my mouth despite having brushed my teeth twice. The taste of last night’s alcohol curls my stomach. At least I’m off today, and I’ve made plans to go home and visit my mom. Once this shakiness and unforgiving undercurrent of nausea subsides, I’ll be glad I booked a ticket for a sixty-minute bus ride to St. Charlotte. At the minute, though, my innards are twisting in on themselves at the very thought of the non-airconditioned, bumpy journey in the searing, summer heat.
As much as I’d prefer to avoid confrontation with any of the Osborne family members, I head into the kitchen, the dull, incessant pounding at the back of my head demanding cold vitamin C loaded with the juicy pulp I like so much.
Thankfully, it’s only Ray and Mariah in the kitchen. And the two least threatening Osbornes are about all I can handle.
Ray standing at the stove is a surreal image, and I do a double take on my way past him to the fridge.
“Good morning,” I say, taking note of the bowl on the counter beside the stovetop. Batter’s smeared up the sides of the clear, glass bowl and dripping over the work surface.
“Morning.” Ray glances up long enough to give me a fleeting smile. Next to the bowl sits Mariah, her wild mane of curly hair controlled by a luminous pink scrunchie at the crown of her head. She’s holding one of Cindy’s gold-plated ladles in her small hands, her bare legs dangling over the side of the counter. Her shorts match her scrunchie, and she’s wearing a plain, white T-shirt that hangs from her slim shoulders two sizes too big.
“Morning, Mariah,” I say, opening the long cabinet door to grab the Orange juice from the fridge.
“Morning,” she mumbles. There’s no smile, but I’ve come not to expect one from her.
I shake the carton of Orange juice. “Would you guys like some?”
Ray doesn’t look to see what I’m offering, just says to the skillet in front of
him on the lit burner, “No, thank you.”
“Mariah?” She eyes the carton, nibbling on the inside of her cheek. Then she nods yes.
I pour her a glass, filling it to halfway, and then hand it to her. “What’re you making?” I ask, the question aimed at either of them. Mariah isn’t much of a talker.
“Pancakes,” Ray answers. “Okay, Mariah. Pour one in. Just watch your arm on the side of the pan there. It’s hot, and I don’t feel like any visits to the ER room today.”
A high-pitch sounds, everyone’s head turning to see where the noise is coming from.
“Shit,” Ray curses from under his breath, his annoyance from the interruption furrowing his dark brows. “That’ll be work. Lyla, do you mind watching Mariah for me while I take that? It’s important.”
Walking away, he’s left the kitchen before I can agree. My bus leaves in twenty minutes, and that’s if the damn thing runs off the schedule. Oftentimes, it’s five minutes early, when it’s not obscenely late. Lord, how I despise being a pedestrian.
I plaster a wide smile onto my face and take up Ray’s position at the stove. The oil’s hot, smoke rising from the base of the iron skillet. “So, you’re in charge of spooning in the batter?” I ask Mariah, taking stock of the ladle ready in her hands.
She nods, but her pouty lower lip says she’s no longer pleased to be making pancakes.
Regardless, and because I simply have no other options here, I instruct her on filling the ladle with the right amount of batter and then help her pour it into the pan.
By the time we’ve produced two batches of only partially burned pancakes, my bus—if it’s on time—will be pulling up to my stop.
With a deep sigh, I lift Mariah down from the counter, then I grab the syrup from the cabinet and a packet of blueberries from the refrigerator.
“These look good.” I set everything on the table and pull out a chair for Mariah. “I bet you’ve made these before, right?”
Mariah shakes her head. “Mommy doesn’t like pancakes.”
“Oh.” I pause halfway to sitting in my own chair, recovering myself before I start gaping at the loose information. It’s obvious Ray isn’t leaving his office any time soon. I heard him slam the door around ten minutes ago. “What does your mommy like?” I ask, instead of voicing the questions I’d really liked answered.
Mariah sits a meagre head and shoulder-tips above the table, her pancakes untouched in front of her and her hands on her lap.
What the hell happened to this kid? She’s so timid.
Her big hazel eyes flick upward, following a spot over my shoulder. She doesn’t smile or say anything to whoever’s there, so I can rule out Topher.
The faucet turns on, my periphery identifying Ozzie at the sink.
Mariah’s eyes drop to her plate, her shoulders hunched inward. She knows he doesn’t want her here. He doesn’t even have to say the words, he oozes hostility with barely any effort.
Asshole.
“Mariah made Pancakes,” I say, appealing to Ozzie’s gentler side that’s unlikely hidden away. Still. A girl can’t just give up. “Would you like some?”
Ozzie draining his glass is the only noise in the kitchen. And then he says, “Sure. I’m starving,” and I almost fall out of my freaking chair.
Is he being… nice?
I hide how surprised I am by him agreeing to eat breakfast with us. I almost forget I’ve missed my bus home. Almost. But my memory’s all there, and I need to figure out another way to get home. I would call my mom to pick me up, but she gave her car to Talia and hasn’t shown any interest in buying herself a new one. Sometimes I wonder if money’s tighter than she makes it out to be. I also know my mom would never put that burden on me or Tal, so I won’t insult her by raising the subject.
“Grab yourself a plate,” I say to Ozzie.
He slides one out from behind the glass door in the overhead cabinet and carries it to the table. When he’s sitting, I stab a fork into the stack before he changes his mind about eating with us, and I drop two pancakes onto his plate.
“There’s blueberry and syrup.” I know he can see what’s in the middle of the table, but if the conversation settles into silence Mariah will probably become more uneasy, and I’ve got enough to deal with without finding ways to cheer up a five-year-old.
I eat my own breakfast, the first bite stirring up a less than pleasant reaction from my weak stomach. Reaching for my glass of OJ, I take a big swallow, washing away the stodgy pancake with no intentions of picking my fork back up. I keep an eye on Ozzie instead, satisfied when he douses his pancakes in syrup and tosses on a handful of blueberries.
“Can I see Daddy?”
The tiny voice across the table from me drags my gaze from Ozzie to Mariah, who’s still made no move to touch her breakfast.
I look at Ozzie as he pushes an overloaded forkful of cooked batter into his mouth. “Can she?” I ask. If anyone’s interrupting Ray in his office, it’s going to be one of his own children.
“Why’re you asking me?” Ozzie says with his mouth full.
“He took a work call up to the study and I haven’t seen him since. I was supposed to be on a bus home right now, but, well… I missed it.”
Ozzie’s chewing slows, his gaze easing steadily over to a somber Mariah and then back to me. “He just took off and left you with her?”
I scorch him with a scolding look, signaling to Mariah with a quick flick of my eyes while her head’s bowed. “I wanted to stay with her, and he didn’t take off. He had an important phone call to take care of. He started all this.” I wave a hand over the table. “The pancakes. I just finished them off.”
Ozzie lowers another inquisitive look at Mariah. With a deep sigh, he puts down his fork and then sucks syrup from his thumb. I do a poor job of pretending I don’t notice the flex of his abdominal muscles as he stands up. “I should be surfing today.”
Oh, he’s talking to me.
Quickly, I lift my eyes from his stomach to his face.
“Lucky for you the swells are shit. Get whatever you need to go home and meet me in my car.”
“You’re taking me home?” I adopt the same insipid tone he’s using, but it frustrates me how much I care that Ozzie’s showing an interest in someone other than himself.
“Looks that way.” He lifts his brows, like he can hardly believe it himself. “Try and be done in five minutes.”
What Mariah’s going to get up to today dawdles at the back of my mind as I leave the table. All those people living under one roof and none who want to spend any time with her.
Chapter 16
As I approach the passenger side of the white Jeep Wrangler, Mariah sitting in the back is a scene I wasn’t expecting to walk into. I don’t make a big thing of it, but I can’t help smiling at Ozzie as I pull open the door and climb inside.
My head’s not as far in the clouds as Ozzie thinks it is. I know he’s only brought her along with us as a guarantee to get me out of the house for the day. But whatever, I’ll take it.
I look through the gap between my knees when I feel the floor moving under me. Sand covers the black mat, and it’s no small amount. More like buckets of the stuff have been dumped for storage.
“It’s like a beach in here.” I skim the sole of my ballet flat over the gritty surface, carving through the sand to clear a patch for my feet.
Ozzie jams the key in the ignition and shifts into reverse. “That’s kinda why I bought it.”
“For your surfboards?” I ask, pulling on my seatbelt. When you imagine a surfer, Ozzie isn’t exactly the kind of person that springs immediately to mind. Surfers and that whole beach lifestyle centers around laid-back vibes and taking life whichever way it comes, as it comes. Ozzie is neither of those things.
“Yep.” He pulls the Jeep out of the gated driveway and we leave the conversation behind. If I could go back in time five minutes, I would have chosen the backseat and sat next to Mariah.
A local radio sta
tion fills the silence, and I even catch Mariah humming to a Katy Perry song. I turn up the volume up for her and sing along quietly myself. The only time Ozzie speaks is for directions, and the sight of my ordinary house less than an hour later—in a street where nearly every aged, clapboard dwelling is identical in blandness—stirs the sleeping delight in my belly, my hangover reducing to a bearable residue now that I’m back on my home turf, with people I actually like. None who I’m paid to clean up after. I’m staying the night, I decide. I’ll go back to Cape Pearl on Sunday evening, recharged and re-inspired to start work on Monday morning.
I’ve unclipped my seatbelt and I’ve got the passenger door open before the Jeep’s come to a complete stop. My mom must’ve seen us coming because the front door opens and she’s walking down the narrow, paved path cutting between the slightly overgrown lawn.
“Hi.” She pulls me into a hug, one hand smoothing over the back of my hair. “Missed you.”
“Missed you, too.”
“Who’s that?” She pulls away before I’m ready, reminding me I’m not alone. She walks to the end of the path and through the open gate, right up to the sand-strewn Jeep parked at the curb.
The passenger side window slides down, but whatever’s exchanged between her and Ozzie is inaudible. I think I get the gist, though, when Ozzie cuts the engine and my mom opens the rear passenger door and helps Mariah out of the Jeep, picking her up by the waist and setting her on the sidewalk.
“He’s not staying,” I pathetically call out to the back of my mom’s head.
“He is now,” she calls back. Mariah’s hand slips into my mom’s, and they both go into the house together, leaving me in the yard with Ozzie. He winks as he walks around me, lightly knocking into my shoulder. And then he waltzes into my house, closing the goddamn door behind him.
I let myself inside, voices coming from the kitchen leading me there first. “Shouldn’t you text or call your dad and let him know where Mariah is, so he doesn’t worry?” Or was this your plan all along? I wonder. To invade my house and further torment me on my own time.