I swim to the opposite end of the pool and get out. After grabbing a towel, I dry myself off and pat the lawn chair. “Come here.” My voice is low and throaty. I want her near me. Sorrow with me eases the ache in my chest. “Tell me about your time at Rush’s, this plan you have for him, and how awesome the inside of his house is.”
“Wow, almost word for word.” Her eyes gleam under the lights from the heated lamps around the pool. “Can you bring me a towel?” She points at the towel I’ve draped over the other lawn chair.
I tsk. “Uh-uh. Strut your stuff, sweet Sorrow. I want to understand and see with my eyes what I am willing to burn the world for.”
14
Sorrow
He did not say what I think he just said. He’ll burn the world for me? Little, insignificant me? The villains in my romance books burn the world down for their women. Trace Saints will do that for me? Do I want him to?
I don’t. I don’t want Trace to be a villain. Neither do I need a hero. I’ll be the warrior who slays the dragon and beats the villain at their own game. I don’t need rescuing, though I know I’m damaged beyond repair.
Except I’m not. Having swam in the warm pool and laughing as I swam side by side with Trace, knowing that his competitive nature prevented him from losing to me on purpose, I didn’t think about my past and how messed up my parents were, like I usually do. Instead, I thought about the present with Trace and about my future. It is starting to look less bleak.
Knowing that his gaze is on me, I swim to the nearest ladder rather than to the opposite end of the pool, where it’s shallow. Grabbing on to the ladder, I pull myself up, giving him a side view of my long hair that falls to my mid-back, a sliver of my small breast peeking from the side of my tiny bikini top, my creamy thigh, and my long legs.
My proportions are off. I have a shorter torso and longer legs than most girls my height.
At first, I hated how my body looked. Then, I changed my mind after trying on an outfit Leigh picked out for me. Trace’s eyes widened, and his Adam’s apple bobbed before he looked away, his cheeks flushing, when I stepped out of my bedroom to grab fruit and something to drink from the fridge. It was a royal-blue sweater paired with a black miniskirt and knee-high platform boots. Leigh said the skirt and boots would draw any hot-blooded male’s attention to my long, slender legs.
Mortified by the thought of unwanted attention, I changed and stuffed the clothes and the boots in the back of the closet. The next day, after watching Trace salivating over the girls in their skimpy outfits, I put on the clothes. His anger was like a thick, palpable tension that filled his truck and followed me to class.
That day, I found out there was more than one predator in our high school. Afterward, I covered up in loose-fitting bland clothes that didn’t make me stand out. I only want to blend in, like a chameleon.
At this moment, though, with the hottest guy in our school watching me with his long legs straddling the lawn chair with his elbows on his knees and his hands tented in front of his mouth, I want to stand out.
I walk to Trace with my hands clasped behind my back. My hips sway. The tips of my hair cling to my wet skin. I stick out my chest.
The closer I get, the more intense his gaze becomes.
He takes me all in, his gaze sweeping me from my head to my bare feet and back to my face again.
The darkness that lives in him seems to exude from his body, surrounding him like a black cloud. I swallow down my nervousness. He crooks two fingers and pats the spot between his legs. My steps falter.
Jesus, will he use his fingers on me? Do I want him to? My body heats from the inside out. I fan my hot face. Trace smirks. I nearly melt in a pool of need at his feet. I really like Trace’s smirks.
Embarrassed that I’ve taken the strut your stuff too far, I cross my arms over my small breasts and walk-run to him. Grabbing the towel, I hurriedly dry myself off and wrap it around my body before sitting in the chair next to his. Trace surprises me when he gets up, puts his muscular arm under my knees, and sits us on his chair with me sideways on his lap.
Not knowing what to do with my arms, I circle them around his neck. He rewards me with a grunt full of satisfaction before he tells me to spill the details from my time with the Grays.
“You should already know about them.”
I don’t want to talk about another boy and his family. I want to know more about Trace and his parents. They’re always gone. Does he miss them? Or does he like it when they’re gone? It isn’t easy to tell. He’s either brooding or has on his mask of nonchalance when we’re home alone.
“Rush said he’s known you your whole life.”
“That’s a bunch of BS. Just ’cause we live in the middle of fucking nowhere within miles of one another doesn’t mean we’re close.”
I suck in a quiet breath. “You don’t like him.”
I stare at his side profile. Why does a boy I’m interested in have to be so handsome? Why can’t he be ugly? Then the girls wouldn’t trip over themselves getting to him, and I’d have him all to myself.
“We football guys don’t get along with the rugby dudes.”
My dad watched football all the time. I could hear him yelling at the upstairs television while I was reading or painting in the basement.
“Why’s that?”
