None of us move.
“Do you know how to take control, Zach?” I ask, peering at him beneath lowered lashes.
He lets out a breath, his flustered gaze uncertain as it slides from me to Easton.
“Do you really think you could be man enough to satisfy me?”
“Is that all it takes?” Easton’s words are low, almost too low to hear above the sudden pounding in my ears. Now, when I flick my focus back to him, he doesn’t take his penetrating eyes off mine. “Treat you like shit? Is that what makes you come?”
My breathing turns shallow.
Easton doesn’t talk to me. Andbrothersaren’t supposed to ask what makes theirsisterscome.
I remember the first night he laid eyes on me. When I was filthy, shaking, damaged. Today, I might have a fancy roof over my head and soap to wash away the dirt, but I’m still the same girl beneath. It’s important neither of us forget it.
With my gaze locked on Easton’s, I drop Zach’s hand. Then I lean close to Easton and whisper into his ear, “I don’t know. Do you want to find out?”
We stare at each other so intently I’m tempted to look away. I tease him often, taunt him shamelessly, but I’ve never come right out and said anything so bold. Tension stretches between us, curling around my ribs and squeezing. Still, he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t react at all. Meanwhile, chills break out across my neck.
“Okay ...” Zach takes a large step back and rubs the mop of curls on his head. Discomfort distorts his expression as he looks between me and Easton. “I don’t think I wanna get in the middle of, uh ... whatever this is.”
My throat’s too dry to speak.
Finally, Easton pushes off the locker. He doesn’t spare me another glance before leaving me in the corridor, and Zach follows closely behind.
As I stand alone, a weird, heavy feeling settles on my chest.
I did it. I got him to break his rules. To finally say what he was thinking. Even if it was short-lived. Even if it was the last words I expected to hear from him. It should feel good. Triumphant. But as I finally get my feet to move and lead me to bio, I can’t shake the bad taste in my mouth.
Once dirty, always dirty.
The following morning, I zip my black jacket halfway up and peer out my window, scanning the yard. I don’t know why I always check it when no one is ever watching. Force of habit, I guess. It doesn’t help my paranoia that the trellis scales this side of the house; I know from experience how easy it is to climb. I triple-check the window lock, run my thumb over the dull edges of the opal shard in my jeans, and exit my bedroom. Like usual, Easton’s room sits quiet when I pass it. Even on a Saturday, he’s up early.
Treat you like shit? Is that what makes you come?
I swallow and make my way down the spiral staircase. I haven’t seen him since he spoke to me yesterday; since his words have been on repeat in my head.
Right on cue, his voice travels to my ears before I enter the kitchen, and my pulse beats in anticipation. I see his T-shirt-clad back first, his broad shoulders blocking my path to the coffee pot as he pours a cup.
“Zach can take you,” he drawls into the cell phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear. “Because I’m not going.” He starts to pour a second cup. “It’s not my scene. I’ve got practice this afternoon anyway, so I’ll be beat by the time—”
I hop onto the counter, right beside the coffee pot he’s hogging, and smile. I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s talking to Whitney, and my presence is guaranteed to get him to hang up on her. I’ll never know why—maybe he doesn’t want me to taint her pureness—but it’s deeply satisfying nonetheless.
He lets out a low breath, something between irritation and dark amusement flicking through his expression.
“I gotta go.” There’s a short pause. Then he hangs up, slips his phone into his back pocket, and grabs his cup before turning and walking toward the island.
My eyes narrow on the pot, then they slide to the full mug beside it as steam clouds the rim. I know by now it’s not for me. I also don’t need to look up to know Easton’s sitting at the island sipping his own cup of coffee. Watching me glare at the empty pot.
He’s aware I always make mine around the same time as him. He’s also aware his mom follows behind me like clockwork every morning, expecting her own cup to be ready. Yet it’s the same story every day: he only makes enough for two cups—one for himself, the other for his dad. I get why he won’t make any for his mom; she likes her morning joe spiked with enough liquor to make a grown man wheeze. As for me, I guess he has his reasons.
My lips thin as I prepare my coffee, following it up with Bridget’s, and I try to ignore the bitterness creeping up my throat.
“Darling, no. Don’t be absurd.”
I glance at Bridget when she sashays into the kitchen, phone at her ear, her white designer heelsclick click clicking.
“Of course, I knew from the start it was just a rumor. You wouldneverdo such a thing.” She rolls her eyes and opens the top cabinet, rifling through her treasure of pill bottles.
