by KB Anne
“Oh that. Well, yes. They will be staying with us for a few days. Scott will stay in his room, and Breas will,” she looks at him and points, “you will sleep on the sofa.”
He clasps his arms behind his back and rocks back and forth on his heels. “Of course.”
She turns back to the sink. He winks at me. He actually possesses the nerve to wink at me in front of her. A warm flush shoots into my cheeks, and then I remember my name and my thirst for violence. I stomp down on the tip of his bare toe.
“Argh,” he yelps.
“Don’t forget to wear your boots at all times.”
Gram purses her lips. “Gigi, that wasn’t nice.”
A flash of guilt passes through me because I disappointed her.
“I still don’t understand why they can’t stay at their house. It’s less than a hundred feet away, and they’re both seventeen.” I glance over at Breas nursing his toe. He doesn’t look seventeen. He certainly doesn’t act seventeen. He seems much older and far more experienced than Scott will ever be.
“Gigi, they’re staying here. End of discussion.”
I flinch. Gram doesn’t argue with me often, but when she does, you need to nurse your wounds for a long time after.
“Who are you, and what have you done with my gram?”
She rolls her eyes. “Set the table. Or better yet, cut some new roses. The ones from the other day are already wilting.”
“I don’t blame them. Being forced to live in these conditions,” I say, jutting my chin at Breas, “makes me wilt.”
He walks alongside me. “I’ll come with you.”
Scott walks out of his room off the kitchen. “I wouldn’t do that. When Gi’s in a mood, she needs at least a seventy-five-foot radius between her and anything sharp. Step back and let her pass.”
“At least someone respects my wishes,” I yell on my way out the door.
“No,” he yells after me, “just want to keep the bloodshed to a minimum. Blood stains are a bitch to get out.”
“Young man,” Gram warns.
He mumbles the makings of an apology, but I’m not interested in his groveling. I practically run to the greenhouse. First, the hickey situation. Then the Breas/Kensey thing. Then the spell/curse work with Lizzie. And now, Breas staying at my house.
When does it end?
Apparently with me six feet under.
My foot hooks the hose, and I fly into the air without a net to catch me. Two seconds later, I eat dirt. My hands dig in and clutch the soil.
Do not be afraid, for you are one with Earth and Beast.
I’ve always listened to the voices in my head, but this … if I mentioned these voices to anyone, I’d be committed faster than someone can say, “Cuckoo’s Nest.”
* * *
Eventually I returned to the kitchen with a new vase of roses, but I promise you, I took my time, selecting only the finest of blooms, carefully cutting the bottoms, meticulously dethorning the stems, and making sure the arrangement met my standards.
During the meal, Scott kept Gram and Breas entertained with football scenes starring himself and Ryan. I knew he was purposely diverting attention away from me, and I appreciated his efforts. Gram, however, was not happy with me. She made her feelings known when the meal was over and she informed me I would be cleaning the dishes on my own.
As long as Breas keeps his distance, I relish the time alone. There’s something very grounding about cleaning dishes in warm, soapy water. I dip, scrub, and rinse in a soothing rhythm.
Breas steps up beside me and murmurs in my ear. “Shall I help you clean?”
My insides go warm and fuzzy. I hate the way my body reacts to him. I’d much rather knee him in the groin than fall into his lap.
“Not unless you to want to wind up in the emergency room.” I plunge a knife in and out of the water for emphasis.
“You know, Gi, you can fight your desires as much as you want, but the soul wants what the soul wants.”
I clutch the knife handle in my palm. “And what do you know about what my soul wants?”
“Plenty,” he says, winking at me. He strolls out of the room leaving me to stare at his back. I lift the knife. I wonder how accurate my aim is.
Scott wraps his hand around mine. “Gi, put it down.”
It’s annoying how he always shows up when I’m contemplating doing something particularly nasty.
I plunge the knife back into the water. “I wasn’t really going to do it.”
He reaches in, grabs the knife, and dries it off. “Somehow I don’t believe you.” He slides the knife back into the block, picks up the block, and puts it in the cabinet above the fridge. I’d need a stepstool to reach it. “What is it about him that drives you to such violence? I’ve never seen you act like this before.”
“If I knew the answer, I probably wouldn’t tell you.”
He sighs. “You need to think about your actions before you act. I won’t always be here to protect you.”
“I doubt that. I’ve been trying to lose you since we could crawl, but you keep following me around like an oversized labradoodle.” I yank his head down so I can scratch the top of it.
“Arf, arf.”
When I release him, he picks up a towel and begins drying off the dishes. “When we’re done, want to watch a movie?”
“You bring The Shining?”
“That should be assumed, but the knife stays in the kitchen.”
“You’re such a bore.”
26
Red Rum
Boo Bear pushes his head into my leg, his subtle hint that he wants to come up. People say it’s the border collie in him that causes him to nudge people. I think it’s the pug in him that makes him short legged and lazy.
“Do you need some attention?” I coo. “Did I not give you enough love today?”
Sphinx claws my leg to remind me I’m already busy caring for the Queen, and the Queen doesn’t share. I gently lift her and set her on the sofa next to us.
“What’s with the blind animals?” Breas says.
I almost forgot he was in the living room with us. Boo Bear growls in annoyance, but his troubles are soon forgotten with a good scratch behind the ears.
“They’re animals. Some are blind. Some aren’t. The blind ones can see better than the ones who rely on their sight. Say, for example, what they think of you.” I lift Boo Bear and point him at Breas. A low growl rumbles from his chest. “He’s an excellent judge of character.”
“Interesting. I’ll remember that,” he says. He almost sounds conversational, and I realize that he and I have never actually had a proper conversation. There’s been kissing and hickeys, stomping and kicking, but not much verbal exchange other than barely laced threats.
Scott clears his throat. “The movie. No talking.”
“Tough crowd,” Breas says, winks at me again and turns back to the TV. Jack Nicholson just accepted the job at the inn.
Boo Bear purrs low in his chest as I scratch his back. He’s definitely more cat than dog. Though Sphinx would disagree with that assessment.
Breas pulls out a flask from his pants. He unscrews it and takes a swig. “Ahhh,” he sighs. “I needed that. Want some?” He extends it to the sofa.
“Yes!” I reach for it. Alcohol will make his presence more tolerable. The liquid burns my throat as I swallow. “Irish whiskey? Isn’t that a cliché?”
He laughs. It’s a nice laugh. Deep but not too deep. Baritone without the brass. “Not if you’re Irish or thirsty.”
When I hand it back to him, our fingers touch. It might be my imagination, but sparks fly.
He offers the flask to Scott on the other end of the sofa.
“No way. I’m not upsetting Gram by drinking in her house.” He casts an accusatory glare at me.
I wave it off. “She won’t mind. Everyone needs to kick back once in a while.”
“Some more than others,” he says and stands up. “I’m going to bed.”
“B
ut the movie just started. We haven’t even gotten to laugh at the kid riding all over the inn on his Big Wheel, and you’re the one who wanted to watch it.” My throat burns, but that could be the alcohol.
He shrugs. “Long practice today. Math and chemistry tests tomorrow. Which, by the way, I believe you have as well.”
“It’s fine.”
Scott’s fingers skim the ceiling as he stretches. I always forget how tall he is. Then he drops them to his sides and shakes them out.
“Good night,” he says and disappears down the hall.
An awkward silence follows his departure. Or at least I imagine it’s awkward because I’m left alone with Breas. The whiskey’s dulled the blade, but I could still make it sting.
He leans over to hand me the flask. “You want to keep watching?”
I shrug. Disinterest proves a lack of commitment.
He moves over to Scott’s vacant spot. “Come on, I want to laugh at the little boy on his bike. Who’s he talking to all the time anyway?”
I tip back a large shot before returning it. Heat travels to my fingertips and toes. “Movie trivia one oh one …”
* * *
I don’t know if it was the whiskey or Stephen King’s fault (he’s definitely guilty of something), or a combination of the two, but while “red rum” screams fill the living room, I wind up on Breas’s lap. It’s not where I thought I’d end my day after his hickey betrayal, but when it comes to that Irishman, my judgment is often impaired. His fingers slide along my back as I pour myself into the kiss.
I may be one of those people who will make the same mistake over and over again, but at times like these, who wants to learn a new lesson anyway?
27
Repeat Offender
I can’t decide which is worse: the hangover or the realization that I hooked up with Breas and that this morning I will see him in all his smug glory for conquering me yet again. As I descend the stairs, each step adds to what I think is remorse, but it might be regret.
Gram sets a steaming mug of tea on the table at my spot. She lifts her head when she hears footsteps. Her eyes go round. “What happened to you?”
Scott glares at me. His anger blasts into the air like an angry storm wave. “Are those new hickeys?”
I reach up and adjust the scarf that obviously didn’t hide the new batch. “No, they get darker as they fade.”
They both raise their right eyebrow. It’s eerie how similar they act sometimes.
Breas strolls into the room. “Good morning everyone. Beautiful day today, don’t you think?” He sits down and begins eating the bowl of oatmeal Gram left for him. He scratches his neck, purposely drawing attention to the hickeys covering it.
I scowl at him. His super healing powers mysteriously evaporate when he decides to get me drunk in my house and tries to have his way with me.
He didn’t by the way. I considered it. We were close, too, but just before we got carried away, I called it a night. I figured I’d made enough mistakes for one day. (I’ve made enough to last a lifetime.)
His hickeys are retribution. I’m sure of it. But how did he make them disappear the other day when today his neck’s covered with them?
“What?” He asks with an innocence that does not become him.
“Nothing,” I growl. “Scott, I’ll meet you outside.” I grab my hoodie and backpack and stalk out to the truck.
No one tries to stop me.
No one calls me back to eat.
No one cares whether I stay or if I disappear forever …
I should pack up all my crap and wander the streets of Pittsburgh. Gram might worry about me, but in the end, she’ll understand. She’ll realize that living with Breas is intolerable.
The moment I step outside the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I whirl around, searching up and down the street for the source of my discomfort. The curtain on the neighbor’s front window shifts, but I’ve been watched so many times by her that I don’t even acknowledge her presence.
“You coming?” Scott says as he climbs into the truck, acting as if I didn’t have a mini-tantrum in the kitchen moments before. I guess he’s used to it, but still, doesn’t he notice someone watching us?
Or watching me. I think I’m being watched.
I take one last look around. The faint remnants of cigarette smoke reach my nostrils—it’s the only indication that someone other than the neighbor was stirring this early in the morning.
Scott ignores me for most of our ride to school, which is fine. I know he’s mad at me for drinking last night and for hooking up with Breas, but honestly, I’m too tired and hungover to talk about it. Besides, I can’t get rid of this feeling that we’re being followed.
“Why do you keep looking over your shoulder?”
Yep, he’s definitely annoyed.
“No reason.”
He turns into the school parking lot. “Would you quit it? You’re making me paranoid.”
Welcome to my world. “Whatever.”
He yanks the keys out of the ignition. “Yeah, whatever.”
He slams the truck door shut. The cab shutters with the force of his rage. He’s never taken out his anger on the truck before. He must be really pissed. Though I’m not sure why. Is he mad that I drank at home or that I hooked up with Breas again or some other completely unrelated reason?
I watch him stalk away without even a backward glance before climbing out of the cab. When I do, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up again. I twirl around. There’s not one person out of the ordinary. No one who feels dangerous, because that’s exactly how I’m feeling—like I’m in danger. But there’s an electricity too. And this time it has nothing to do with Breas.
I hurry into school with the hope that the concrete walls will provide some safety from whoever’s watching me. The second I step inside the building, I’m bombarded with hundreds of impressions and thoughts from my classmates. Boyfriends. Girlfriends. Forgotten homework. Chem tests. I shove in ear buds to block the noise and head to first period. Ironically, a classroom full of students and a responsible adult seems like a much safer alternative to loitering the empty halls.
I forgot about the new hickeys, but my classmates didn’t. Even with the music blaring, new lies and imagined misdemeanors force their way into my mind. I am all anyone can talk about. It appears that, now the channel’s open, I can’t change the station or shut it off.
Fan-freaking-tastic.
* * *
By lunch, Scott abandons his anger with me and finds me in line. “You okay?”
I want to tell him the truth. That I’m not okay. That everyone is talking about me, and I know this because I can read their minds. Plus, someone’s watching me, and I can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing. But I can tell he already has enough on his mind.
“Sure, why wouldn’t I be okay?”
“No reason, just checking on you.”
“Uh-huh,” I reply, acting like I have no idea that he spent the morning trying to mop up the mess my new hickeys created. He’d like to pretend that nothing happened between Breas and me, but our classmates make that impossible. The rumors are nothing new. It’s what people do when they don’t have a life of their own. But this feeling of someone watching me? It’s making me itch.
He wanders in front of me, searching for a table, while Ryan takes my tray and tugs me into his side.
“You okay, Gigi? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I let him soothe me. He takes care of people just like Scott. That’s what bonds them together. It’s not the football muscle. It’s not the rousing testosterone at pep rallies. It’s this basic primal need to care for others.
“Just tired,” I whisper.
“Scott told me you and Breas got drunk. I can’t believe you drank at your gram’s. You’ve never done that before.”
“Ryan, there’s a lot you don’t know about me. I’m not a good person.”
He pulls me closer. “You can keep tellin
g yourself that, Gigi, but the ones closest to you know the truth.”
Normally, this would be the time for me to crush his foot or elbow him in the stomach, because he’s getting too touchy-touchy with his feelings, but contrary to popular belief, I don’t like to hurt the ones I care about.
Kensey slithers next to Ryan. “Don’t tell me you’re hooking up with this skank whore. You can do so much better. You have done so much better.”
He keeps me tucked in. “We all make mistakes, Kensey.”
She gasps and stomps away. The buckles on her motorcycle boots clank with every step.
“Looks like someone went shopping at the bike shop,” Ryan says, as we watch her black leather body disappear around the corner.
I tsk-tsk because, really, what else can I do? “Her boots are hideous and loud. She’d never be able to sneak in and out of a house with that footwear.”
He nudges me. “That’s my Gi. Always thinking exit strategy.”
Lizzie stops in front of us. We were so busy watching Kensey, we didn’t even notice her.
“Everything all right here?” she says.
I smile at her, but she doesn’t return the greeting. She crosses her arms instead. I think back to our conversation yesterday and her claim that Ryan liked me more than her. She’s so twisted inside her head. Maybe that’s what love does to a person. Ryan’s crazy about her—even without her stupid love spell. He’s just afraid to make a move on her because they’ve been friends for so long and he doesn’t want to ruin their friendship. But I know what they both want.
I lift Ryan’s arm off me and place it across her shoulders. “He was trying to make me feel better. He succeeded. Now, I’ll leave you two alone. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Ryan pulls her close to him. “That leaves a lot of room for opportunity.”
“You’re welcome,” I nod at them before disappearing out the closest door and up the nearest stairwell, acting as if I don’t have a care in the world. As if I don’t have a thousand-pound weight wrapped around my neck. As if my best friend with that stupid eye necklace wasn’t thinking about cursing me. I may not always get a clear read on her thoughts, but I certainly know she was deciding what curse to use on me.