I give him a sidelong look. “You don’t seem like the ‘start your own business’ type.”
“Yeah?” He throws me a glare as he wades deeper. “And what is my type, Earnshaw?”
“Deliveries and odd jobs, with a side of beer-drinking and tailgating.”
“You got me so wrong, girl.” He surges forward, plunges into the waves, and swims away with long, powerful strokes.
I gape at his gleaming, wet back muscles for a moment, and then I follow him in.
We go out until he can barely touch bottom and I’m treading water. The sun is melting into the sea, liquid fire pooling along the horizon. Heathcliff wipes his face with a broad hand and looks at me, his brown eyes honeyed in the golden light, inky lashes beaded with sparkling drops.
He’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen—and the most dangerous.
“You shouldn’t be here.” I raise my voice so he can hear me over the rush of the sea.
“You think I’m here foryou? I’m here for Isabella.”
My chest tightens.
Heathcliff moves closer in the waves, his arms sweeping through the water. “I’m going to push that flimsy little dress up around her waist and pull down her panties and thumb her clit the way I did yours. I think she’ll whine so prettily for me. Then I’m gonna bend her over, wrap all that blond hair around my hand, and fuck her from behind.”
“Good luck with that.” I force the words out.
He leans closer. “If I thought you had a problem with it, I wouldn’t go there at all.”
“Why should I care who you fuck?” I manage. “I’m planning to seduce Edgar. So looks like we’re both getting laid tonight.”
“Wanna put some money on that?”
“Are you serious?”
“A bet. Who can get a Linton sibling to orgasm first. The stakes…let’s say twenty bucks since you’re poor.”
“You’re no Elon Musk yourself,” I snap. “And you’re on. It’ll be a challenge, though. Our ‘cult,’ as you call it, has one thing in common with literally all the Bible-based religions—purity culture.”
“Yeah, but I’ll bet Edgar has been inside a girl before. Maybe even a guy.” Heathcliff grins. “And Isabella is basically salivating for cock. I can smell her desperation from here.”
“You’re the worst.” I follow his gaze back toward the beach. “But you’ve got a point. Let’s go back. I’m freezing my tits off.”
“Can’t have that.” He swerves, facing the beach again, and we head inland.
Isabella is waiting for us at the edge of the water, skittering backward like a timid bird every time the water glides in and nearly touches her toes. “Here’s a towel, Cliff. You must be freezing.”
As usual, she ignores me and stands on tiptoe to wrap the towel around Heathcliff’s big shoulders. I can’t help letting my gaze lingeron the tanned expanse of his pectorals, dark, damp hair flecking their contours and the valley between them. Below a prizeworthy set of abs, another swirl of wet, dark hair is plastered to his skin, disappearing below the band of his swim trunks.
Isabella leads him toward the firepit, talking animatedly, while I follow, shivering. When Heathcliff walks past a tote bag of beach towels, he grabs one and flings it over his shoulder without looking back. I catch it, gritting my teeth against the clash of gratitude and anger thrumming in my heart.
I take it back. Ineverwanted him to show up. In fact, he has ruined this for me. I was all set to have a calm, happy, relaxed evening, and then he arrived, with his body and his face and his stupid mouth.
Forget singles night—this feels like high school. Not that I’d know from personal experience, of course—perks of being a lonely, homeschooled banshee. Anyway, a high school party would have beer, and alcohol is notably absent from this gathering. A pity.
Once I’m mostly dry, I put on my dress and hoodie again, and I join the others in a game of beach volleyball, during which Heathcliff seems determined to break either my nose or Edgar’s with the damn ball. Maybe his brand of supernatural, whatever it is, possesses an extra dose of strength. Or maybe he’s just trying to sabotage my chances of scoring with Edgar tonight.
If this is a game of chicken, he’s going to be sorry he started it. I’ll fuck Edgar just to prove I can, and if Heathcliff thinks I won’t go through with it, he’s got a nasty surprise coming.
After the game, there’s food—hot dogs and sausages mostly, roasted over the roaring fire. Isabella is vegan, so she brought a fruit salad and some raw veggies. Thomas Chaiya brought egg rolls from his mom’s restaurant, which he warms in a pan over the fire. They’rea little soggy on the outside and chilly on the inside but they’re still damn good.
Our church is disgustingly white and heteronormative, with the exception of a few families. I’ve wondered before how it makes them feel to be part of this freakish Wicklow community. Why do they even stick around?
