She's got everything we couldn't give her. The money, the status, a fucking future that doesn't involve looking over your shoulder for cops.
But her eyes...
Fuck, you can't filter out that kind of sadness. I've tried. Spent hours staring at her photos, looking for some sign that she's actually happy. That leaving us behind was worth it. Like we didn't all die the day she moved into that mansion and left us in the dust.
"I wish that were true," I mumble, more to myself than him.
We're not heading back to the house. I recognize this route, the way Cyrus takes specific turns like he's following a map only we know. My pulse kicks up a notch. We're going to the apartment—our dirty little secret even Kade and Tank don't know about.
I smirk. "Guess you do want to celebrate after all."
"Shut up."
He guns it, and the Audi purrs like it's as eager as we are to get there.
The building's nothing special. Just another forgotten piece of the city that the senator's constant quest for gentrification hasn't touched yet. We keep it off the books, pay cash, use fake names.
It's our sanctuary for all the things too forbidden to do elsewhere, even in our kingdom of sin.
The second we're through the door, Cyrus is on me. His mouth crashes against mine, a whirlwind of teeth and tongue, like he's trying to devour something that isn't really there. His heavy leather jacket hits the floor with a thud that echoes in the sparse apartment.
"Go change," he orders against my mouth, andfuckif that commanding tone doesn't make my dick throb.
"Yes,sir." I give him a mock salute and saunter toward the bedroom with extra sway in my hips.
The bedroom's exactly how we left it. Sparse except for the essentials. A bed, a mirror, and the wardrobe that holds our collection.
The pink plaid skirt. The heels I've learned to walk in without wobbling even if I'm bordering on too tall.
The sweatshirt that still, after all this time, smells likeher.
I wish I could say it's from the junk she and her mom left behind when they moved out overnight without a trace, like they were members of a version of the witness protection program that protects you from all the trailer trash you used to know.
But nope. This is the one I stole while she was attending freshman orientation at Saylor University.
I'm about as far from a college boy as you can get, but that didn't stop me from following her there and seizing on the one opportunity I'd had in years to get close to her without anyone noticing. I climbed in through her dorm room window, thanked my lucky stars her roommate wasn't there, and raided her closet hamper like some obsessed stalker freak.
And I guess that's exactly what I am.
I bring the sweatshirt to my nose and inhale deep. Vanilla. She probably didn't even notice it was gone. The closet was stuffed full of shit, most of it designer, so I figured she wouldn't miss a couple of cheap pieces. So I took a few, along with all the remnants from her old room I've made into a glorified shrine. Collected every piece like breadcrumbs leading back to a girl who doesn't exist anymore.
I strip mechanically, folding my clothes with more care than I usually bother with. The skirt slides up my legs, soft and foreign. The heels add three inches I don't need. The sweatshirt is snug, but Ellie always liked things oversized, so it works.
The mirror reflects someone caught between two people. Not quite Jinx, not quite her. Something else. Something fucked up but necessary.
I sit at the vanity and start on my face. Green contacts, obviously. They’re not quite her perfect emerald shade—they're more like Cyrus's—but they’re as close as I could get. Foundation to smooth everything out. Eyeshadow in the same pink she bathed every surface she could touch in. Lipstick in the same shade she uses. I know, because I stole a tube out of her makeupbag the same night I stole the sweatshirt and jerked off later in the shower knowing her lips had touched it, too.
Each stroke of the brush is a little too hard, punishment for everything I've already done and all the mistakes I'm about to make all over again tonight.
But it works. When I'm done, if you squint, if you're desperate enough, if you've had enough to drink or smoke...
"Fuck," I whisper to my reflection. "I amsofucked up."
When I emerge, Cyrus is waiting for me in that mood that only surfaces here. Darker. Hungrier. The flavor of dominant that would surprise anyone who knows him as the sarcastic hacker with a superiority complex.
I lean against the doorframe, one hip cocked. "How do I look?"
His eyes go black behind his glasses, pupils blown wide with want and that other thing. The thing we don't talk about.Can'ttalk about.
