“Right?” Elowen said, her gaze on Orion, no doubt. “All that back-and-forth…imagine that in bed.” She gave me a nudge. “You don’t have to imagine. You get Tucker whenever you want.”
I barely heard her, my eyes drinking in Xander, who was all sleek lines and lean muscle, rowing with speed and fluidity. As stroke seat, he set the pace, which meant everyone behind him had to keep up.
“Em?”
“Yep, sure,” I said absently, my gaze stubbornly refusing to let go of Xander. He was rowing like a man possessed, his teeth bared, pulling and then pushing… It was the easiest leap of the imagination—like mental Photoshop—to put myself underneath him, to be the recipient of that heated exertion…
As the boat drew closer, the coaches on the dock were grabbing at each other like excited kids on Christmas morning. The guys gaveit their all, Dean shouting at them through his mic’d headset topull, goddammit.His voice laden with commanding authority I’d never heard from him before.
Finally, the boat arrowed across some finish line only they could see. The guys immediately slumped in sheer exhaustion while their coaches jumped up and down.
“Six minutes, forty-eight seconds!” the coach shouted. “Six-forty-eight,you magnificent bastards!”
“Holy shit,” Aria said. “For a two thousand meter, that’s insanely fast.”
I nodded, unable to keep my grin from breaking ear to ear as the guys cheered tiredly, landing heavy thumps on each other’s backs. Dean leaned forward to grab Xander by the shoulders and shake him, laughing. Then the guy behind Xander, Henry Moore, took a turn grabbing his shoulders and giving him an awkward from behind hug. Orion, at the other end of the boat, pumped his fist, and even Tucker looked ecstatic.
Only Rhett at the bow wasn’t cheering. He looked downright murderous.
“Fucking Bender,” Aria said and stood up with a huff.
“That was hot,” Sierra said. “Dean Yearwood can tell me how hard to pull anytime he wants.”
The rest of us busted out laughing as we all went down to greet the guys at the dock.
Tucker enveloped me in a quick embrace, then went right back to celebrating with the guys and talking shit about New Haven Prep in the upcoming regatta.
Xander looked tired but satisfied, surrounded by the coaches and Dean, who were making a big deal about “stroke rates” and his “punishing pace” and thumping him on the back. He was clearly their hero. He took it all in with a quiet dignity that was sexy as hell. Sexier than all the chest puffing and loud bravado around him.
Until he saw me. Then his expression lifted into surprise and something like happiness.
I crooked my little finger at him and smiled. He smiled back…just as Tucker grabbed me and spun me around. The guilt hit me; this was his win too, and I was supposed to be happy for him, but I didn’t feel anything at all.
***
That night, Jack came down to dinner wearing all black. Black jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt with a black armband around his right bicep. Even the fingerless burn glove that he wore over his left hand was black. His hand was nearly healed, but I knew under that glove, his skin was terribly scarred and would be for the rest of his life.
My brother took his seat across from me with more energy and enthusiasm than I’d seen in a long time, digging into his dinner with a strange, bright smile. My stomach clenched, as the air suddenly felt electric.
And not in a good way.
“Is this a preview of your Halloween costume for Saturday?” my father asked mildly.
“Nope.”
“Then what is it, Jack?” my mother put in before taking a sip of wine, as if she needed to fortify herself before hearing the answer.
“Well,” Jack said conversationally. “I learned something very interesting in history class last week.” He cut into his steak and took a bite. “Did you know that Victorians had detailed rituals for mourning deceased family members?”
Mom stared at Jack with wide eyes while my dad set his fork down with deliberate slowness.
“Jack…”
“It’s quite fascinating,” Jack said in a jovial tone, talking around a mouthful of steak. “A widower, for example, would be expected to wear black for one year, but a widow wore black for two full two years. Fucking patriarchy, am I right?”
My mouth went dry as my mother covered her eyes with one hand, her other gripping the stem of her wine glass.
“Jack,” my father said. “That kind of language is unacceptable—”
