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Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Sliding to the foot of the bed as quietly as possible, I manage not to wake June as I pull myself to shaky legs, then throw on a T-shirt. She lies there, perfectly still, her breathing languid and steady, the epitome of angelic.
And I dreamed of defiling her.
Sullying her sweetness.
God…what the hell is wrong with me?
What did Wendy do to me?
I have to get out of here. I feel like I’m choking on a cloud of filth, desperate for clean air. Racing from the bedroom, I snatch up my cell phone and keys, then pop my shoes on and stalk outside into the humid, late summer night.
I get into my car.
I drive.
And fifteen minutes later, I’m rapping my knuckles against Wendy’s front door.
She peeks through the curtain after a minute passes, inspecting who the hell would be knocking on her door at one in the morning. I’m not sure if she’s more stunned or relieved to see that it’s me.
The door cracks open. She’s clad in a white robe, her hair in disarray. “Brant?”
“You’re wrong,” I tell her, pushing my way through the threshold. Wendy paces back, her eyes wide. I sound menacing. Ready to pounce. “I’ll show you how wrong you are.”
Closing the gap between us, I tug her robe apart until she’s bare before me, clad only in her underwear. Wendy gasps, and we’re both breathing heavy, both confused, both rattled to the bone.
I kiss her.
I kiss her hard, crushing her mouth to mine, and erasing June for good.
I burned myself today.
And while I know my hand will heal, some burns are destined to leave a permanent scar.
16
FIRST CLUE
JUNE, AGE 17
My lungs tighten, my chest achy and sore. Nearly bruised.
I take a quick break from the routine, turning to face the wall, then lean over, hands to my knees as I catch my breath. I’ve been feeling winded more often, especially today after learning the rigorous choreography for a contemporary ballet performance I’m participating in this fall.
Sweat dots my brow, my lungs wheezing.
“Everything okay, June?”
Regrouping, I straighten my spine, stretch, and take a giant swig of water once the boulder on my chest releases. Pivoting with a smile, I nod at my instructor, Camilla. “Perfect,” I chirp as I tug at my ponytail. Camilla blinks, studying me for a moment before continuing with the routine.
When the class is over, I sweep back the rogue hairs that slipped loose from my hair tie, damp with sweat, and close my eyes to center my breathing.
“You really nailed it today, June. I’m impressed.” Camilla comes up behind me, a light hand sweeping down my back. “You sure you’re okay, though?”
“Absolutely,” I say without hesitation, despite the way my lungs still squeeze. “I’m excited about this choreography. It’s so modern, yet elegant.”
