“Thank you! That’s what I said!” Aulie exclaimed. “He goes to college, and suddenly, the dude becomes Mr. Personality. You could have used some of that charm when you were pounding my Doritos, you know. I would have shared.”
Jack shook his head with a smile. “Nah, stealing them was half of the fun.”
Gus blinked. “Mr. Personality, huh? Must have missed that transformation.”
“I think it suits him.” Aulie’s delicate voice became a melody for his beating chest. The music ignited a thousand little fires where darkness blanketed Jack’s core.
Mr. Personality, huh?
Maybe he could be that kind of guy, after all.
ChapterOne
Aulie Desfleurs
Five Years Later
Play:Something’s Got a Hold on Me by Etta James
“He’snaked,Emy! Naked! Why would you show this to me?” Glossy pages filled with pro-athletesin the buffrustle in the early morning wind as I fling the wretched magazine on my lap into the air. It falls with a plop on the patch of dirt in front of the garden bench my soon-to-be-ex-best-friend Emy and I are sharing. Like the cursed relic it is, it lands open to a page I’d do just about anything to forget.
What’s the going rate for a lobotomy these days?
I blink at it. No, no, that won’t do. Stop staring. Better yet, pray and repent for your sins or something.
My eyes flutter closed and despite the peaceful natural sensations surrounding me—slow waking waves, a subtle breeze, birds chirping in the trees—the image, equipped with hard lines of muscle and a devastating smolder still haunts me. Apparently, it took less than a second for my depraved mind to memorize the illicit content Emy shoved in my hand the minute I sat down beside her.
If it’s going to haunt me, I might as well focus on the real thing. Because, well, I’m weak, and there’s a decided thirst my pumpkin spice latte will not quench. No, I fear only looking, again, will satisfy this particular need, even if I know I absolutely, most positively, shouldnot.
My eyes flicker open once more and greedily drink in the spread in front of them. Tattoos cover a forearm, flexed and corded, resting on a sheet of plexiglass. The ink dances up his bulging bicep, further defined in the high contrast of the black-and-white photo. I follow the line of his arm, meeting a set of powerful shoulders that hold the head of a man who exudes self-confidence.
A wild graphite gaze—a color I know to be sapphire in technicolor—bores heavily into mine, sinful and magnetic. Like it’s reaching through the lens and page to steal my forsaken soul and claim it for himself. Which is a problem. A major, major problem.
If I were staring at a stranger, these descriptions would be fine. I’d feel zero guilt appreciating the craftsmanship of this photo. I could savor my pumpkin spice latte (that I only spilled a little of in my dramatics) with Emy, soak in the breathtaking view of King’s Pond glittering in the golden hue of morning, and remark on the clever way the penalty box covers his unmentionables.
And we could sit here, unbothered, and it wouldn’t matter that the words coming to mind aredevilishly handsome, compelling, commanding, devastating,andarresting,because I’d be a nobody, admiring a somebody who willfully posed for a picture like this.
I’d be a nobody daydreaming about a rake that needs a bit of reforming. That spends more time in the penalty box than is good for him and needs someone to help him correct the dangerous game he’s playing.
But here’s the thing, while I, Aulie Desfleurs, am a cardigan-wearing nobody, the picture in front of me is ofsomebody known.Somebody important to me.
It’s Jack Parker, one of my best friends.
Illicit feelings and thoughts, that are far too dangerous to entertain given my history, scramble my brain and fry my circuits.
With a groan, I bend down and pick up theIron InspirationBody Issue, dusting it off and shoving it back into my traitorous roommate’s hand. “I really didn’t need to see him naked, you know.”
“I think the correct term is nude since this is a rather artful representation of his body,” Emy says, further digging her own grave. “I’ve never been more frustrated that someone is in a penalty box in my life.”
“I’ve never been more thankful for the penalty box,” I reply and try to keep my mind off the contraband still open in Emy’s hands. My eyes draw back again to Jack’s chest. Nondescript lines of cursive live on his left pectoral muscle, and they keep my attention for far longer than they should. He’s had them since the first summer he came back to Chawton Falls after a few years away, but I’ve never been able to read them properly.
“Seriously, Emy, why did you have to torture me with this first thing in the morning?” I whine, stretching my legs on the wooden bench we’re sharing.
“Because torturing you is fun, and I want you to have a fling with a hot hockey player who’s head over heels in love with you.”
I scoff at the notion that Jack Parker, the man who teases me to no end and sees me as his little sister, could be in love with me. No, there’s a better chance that my brother Gus would join a commune and go on a digital detox, or Emy would stop trying to set me up with everyone with a pulse, oxygen intake optional.
“Fine. Ignore me,” she says.
