I laugh against his chest. “You’ll have to marry me, then. Otherwise, we’ll be living in sin.”
He tilts my chin up with his thumb, staring into my eyes. “I’d marry you in a heartbeat.”
When I swallow, my throat somehow becomes drier. “Sure,” I mock. “Because you’ve known me for all of a fortnight and for half that time, you were with someone else.”
“Hey. Em meant nothing to me, and what can I say? When you know, you know.”
The conversation has taken such a weird turn that I just shake my head in surrender. “Fine. We’ll get married and I’ll keep house for you, and we can have two and a half kids together and by the time they’re grown, maybe I’ll have worked out what I want to be.”
“And in the meantime, you can meet Stefan and take him up on the kind offer of a job to pay your rent so you can stay in school and get your sister back so when I ask you to marry me you won’t say yes for all the wrong reasons.”
“Fine.” I let my face slump onto his chest, muffling my words. “But… if I want to stop working for him later, I can, right?”
“Well, yeah. You’ll be an employee, not a slave.”
“It’s just…” I put on my best Marlon Brando voice. “Every time I try to get out, they pull me back in.”
Zach’s blank face shows me either I need to work on my impressions, or he doesn’t get the reference.
“Never mind,” I say, earning a smile. “Buy me lawyers. Set up the job. I guess I’ll just spend the rest of my life owing you favours.”
Zach’s voice is as satisfied as a cat who’s been into the cream. “That sounds like a wonderful deal.” He positions me on my back and moves down until his head is between my thighs. “Now let me kiss everything better.”
CHAPTERTWENTY
LILAC
The next day,Saturday, Zach pulls up outside the flat at five to nine, better than punctual. Although I’ve been ready since eight, I still duck into the kitchen out of sight to take a deep breath before responding to his knock.
He frowns at my best blouse over my least torn pair of jeans and purses his lips. “You don’t have anything better?”
“Only the dress you bought me. Most of my outfits are this, only more raggedy.”
If he doubted me, my appearance at school over the last few weeks has given ample ammunition to show it’s the truth. He beeps the car door open for me. “We’ll swing by the house. I’m sure Dad’s last girlfriend left half a wardrobe full of clothes behind. Hopefully, there’ll be something there.”
His dad?
If I weren’t already in the car, I would have bolted.
“What?” he asks, pulling out into traffic. “You don’t approve of wearing second-hand clothing?” After navigating the intersection, he winks at me. “Thought you’d be more environmentally conscious than that.”
“I’m more worried about the dad part of your statement than the clothing bit,” I mutter.
“Don’t worry. He’s probably not at home and even if he is, I’m sure he’ll find some excuse to get as far away from me as possible.”
The words come out in a harsh tone, but I relax into the buttery leather seat. Any personal problems that’ll keep me out of the range of older Zach clones are fine.
Although the drive to his home doesn’t take long, the differences between our suburbs make them feel a world apart. I’m used to long lawns, browning in summer, with kids’ toys and old cars jacked up on bricks crowding the space.
Along Zach’s street, I can’t even see the lawns for the six foot high walls that surround and isolate each property. If good fences make good neighbours, these people are the best homeowners on earth.
To enter his section, we have to wait for a large metal gate to slide into its holding. Once we’re past, it rumbles back across to seal the entrance with a solid thunk. The house sprawls over the equivalent of three sections worth of land with a double-story entrance built to intimidate rather than welcome guests inside its doors.
Inside, I count six rooms before we even hit the dual staircase that leads to the second floor. The tiles underfoot are made of stone; probably marble, but I don’t have enough experience to judge.
The colour scheme is muted, beige and ivory and stone and grey. Nothing so crass as black or white or brown and certainly nothing matching to the chaotic orange and cream of my room at the flat.
“It’s along here,” Zach calls when I fall behind, my step slowing as my eyes feast on the generations of wealth steeped within the walls. Polished tables sport vases I could work a lifetime and still not afford to repair if broken. Along the walls, artworks outshine the family portraits dotted here and there. One canvas must be three metres long while another wall sports a triptych that oozes with dark menace.
