“I can’t.” I tried to smile.
To my surprise, he burst out laughing.
“Feeling better?” I asked, remembering how upset I’d seen him a little while ago after what he told me.
“Yeah. It’s the June White effect,” he joked, taking my hand.
“Ready?”
William took a deep breath. “Yeah.”
As soon as we got downstairs, I cursed James for the mess he’d let run rampant throughout the house. I wondered where all these people had come from in such a short amount of time.
“Breathe, Will.” I tried to calm him down, putting my arm around his forearm.
I clung to him, but he froze when we sat cautiously at the edge of the pool.
“I’m pathetic, aren’t I?”
“Not at all. And if I can do something . . .”
“What do you say I get something to drink? It certainly helps,” he muttered at that point.
“Whatever you want, but—”
I watched him stand up. He hadn’t even lasted a minute.
“Okay, let’s go.” I started to get up, but William stopped me.
“No, June. Stay here. You’re my excuse to get close to the water again and not lock myself in my room.”
“Suit yourself.”
The pool was full of random floats. The music crackled from the speakers, but the screams from girls were even more deafening. Obviously the loudest ones came from where James was.
I watched him, his broad shoulders emerging from the water.
I couldn’t stand him, and what Will had just told me put him in another light. He would’ve killed someone. Was he really that dangerous?
“You lick the right side, and you lick the left,” I heard him say in his husky, sensual voice. He got out of the water and sat at the edge of the pool near me. I noticed that he was holding an ice-cream cone while he gave the two soaking girls instructions.
“Did you not hear a fucking thing? I can do better than that.”
A girl stuck her pierced tongue onto the ice cream dripping down the cone while the other giggled.
“There’s nothing funny about it. You have to practice for later.” I groaned so loud that he turned around and looked at me.
“What the fuck are you groaning at?”
“You make me sick,” I retorted, my arms crossed.
“You act all grossed out, but you’re still watching,” he sneered.
“How could I miss out on such a gross demonstration?”
“It’s called a metaphorical depiction,” he said, pointing at the ice cream. I rolled my eyes.
“Call it what it is: hyperbole. Have you noticed how much you exaggerate the truth—maybe you’re adding a few inches to it?”
