And empty, because it’s over, and all those light touches that were filling me up with sensory overload are gone.
And angry, because why do I feel sad? I’m fucking fine. I’m fine!
And lonely. Very fucking alone. Because no one really does this for me. Even this wasn’t really forme. This is all just… pretend.
“Claremont,” he says, and I jump again. He’s standing beside me now. When did he stand up? He’s holding out a hand, like I need help getting to my feet. Is this pity? Is this condescension?
What the fuck?He’s looking at me like maybe I’ve been sitting here spaced out for a noticeable amount of time. His head tilts; suspicion, perhaps, or something like it. “Are you alright?”
I clear my throat, and stand without his help. I don’t go as far as smacking his hand away in a bratty fit of temper, but the urge is strong. He’s lucky I’m on my best behavior. If anyone else tried any of this babying bullshit I’d probably bite them. I stalk toward the stairs, but of course he follows on my heels. My shoulders tense until they cramp and I wish he’d walk in front of me so I didn’t feel like he was looming.
I can practically feel his breath on the back of my neck. I hate how much I like that.
At the top, in the hallway, we both pause. I’m not sure why.
I can’t look at him, so I stare at the floor. I know he’s looking at me, but I can’t seem to lift my chin. It takes everything in me to keep my face neutral and not to be wearing a petulant scowl.
“Call me Tommy,” I say suddenly, still not looking at him. I slouch into a more casual pose like I’m unbothered and normal and totally fine. “Not Claremont. Just Tommy.”
“Fine. Tommy.”
Ooohhh, fuck.He just said my name in the exact same tone he used when he asked me about lying. So subtly menacing and low. Like he’s warning me about something. Like he’s got a danger sign hidden behind his back.
I turn on my heel to flee to the breakfast room, but his hand catches my arm. I gasp, spin, and look up at him, a stinging rebuke ready and waiting on my tongue to lash out and be angry.
But none of those defensive words come out. Looking into his eyes hits me like a stun gun, choking me and stopping all my angry word vomit. This is why I’ve been avoiding his gaze all morning. I haven’t met his eyes for more than a split second at a time, and not at all if I can help it, and apparently, he’s noticed.
His eyes are dark, almost as dark as mine. Standing this close to him, I’m eye-level with his mouth, which is probably why I find it so distracting all the time. His brow is furrowed just the smallest bit, and I think he might be trying to figure something out. He looks intensely focused on me, his gaze catching and holding and never releasing. He’s reading me through my eyes, and his lips twitch at one corner, like he’s torn between frustration and amusement.
And that look, that confused look of his, somehow looking lost but powerful, unsure but commanding, directionless but possessive, all at the same time–that look cracks something inside of me.
I feel like the victim of a vampire–like I just invited a demon into my house, like now that he’s looked at me and I’ve looked back at him, it’s too late and he’s inside my head already and I’ll never get him out again. Like I’ll crave him and fear him for the rest of my life.
My lips part. I shift my weight so I’m closer to him again, probably about to say something regrettably stupid.
But I’m saved by the bell. And in this case, the bell is Young-gi’s bodyguard, the one that dragged Brain away from the library. What’s his name again? Yosef, I think.
“Pakhan,” Yosef greets Young-gi gruffly. “I took care of the video from the match. He should’ve known better than to film you.”
Young-gi doesn’t answer, barely acknowledges Yosef at all, like the task was so expected and low-bar that it doesn’t deserve a thank you. I pull my arm away, and he lets me slip out of his grasp. My bicep is warm where he held me. We hold our stare, until I pointedly look away.
This time, Young-gi is the one who turns and walks away.
I don’t stand there and watch him leave, because I’m not some needy, clingy, desperate fucking moron. I storm off barely a second later, by myself, and go get something to eat.
Chapter 8
Tommy
By the time I shower–washing that stupid bruise cream off me, because fuck Young-gi–and meet everyone outside, it’s late into the morning. We’re back at the lake, but instead of a bonfire, it’s a day for watersports. Further down the lake, almost too far away to see, a few of these rich kids are waterskiing, zipping around on a speedboat, while the rest of us stay closer to the dock to jet ski or just swim.
Well, I don’t swim, and neither does Kira. We’re sharing a huge lounge chair out on the wooden pier, a good distance away from the edge but close enough to see the racing.
It’s a good day for it. The weather is perfect: clear skies and sunshine and a wonderful breeze, and the lake looks so refreshing that I sort of regret the fact that Kira can’t swim. I won’t go in without her, that wouldn’t be very ‘doting boyfriend’ of me, so I stay with her on the dock and watch/cheer with her as people take turns racing on their jet skis.
Lexie went earlier, and she’s dripping and laughing with a bottle of hard seltzer held to her smiling lips, occasionally flicking water onto Kira. Janessa and another girl are outfitted and ready to go, standing off to the side of the dock with their lifejackets on, but they haven’t gone yet so they’re dry enough to take selfie after selfie after selfie after selfie… in clear view of Kira.
Kira’s been glancing at them. I’ve noticed because I’ve been watching her a little more closely now that I understand Janessa better. Janessa’s glances are filled with longing and pining and heartbreak.
