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You want him. You’ll look so good together, and at night, under the sheets, he’ll feel good, Clay. You’ll love it. His golden skin and narrow waist. His broad shoulders and big eyes that make him look so innocent until he smiles and you can see the danger. Everyone wants him.
But as I rinse out my mouth and look up at him and try to see him on top of me, I see a taunting little dare looking up at me instead. Her amused eyes locked on mine as she lies on the weight bench.
A body smaller and softer than Callum’s and lips I can feel between my teeth, because sometimes I want to bite her until she bleeds.
God, she pisses me off.
I open my mouth, letting the mouthwash fall out as I lean on the counter. My belly suddenly pooling with heat down low, and my mouth waters, nearly tasting her.
Liv. I breathe out, staring into the sink. Attention-seeking, rebel-without-a-clue, bitchy annoyance. I grip the edge of the counter.
I should just leave her alone. She’s none of my business.
But confident people don’t need to be loud, and it’s not my responsibility to make her disdain for everyone around her easy. I won’t stop pushing back until she runs from this place.
Shutting off the light, I grab my phone off the bed and fix the stuffed octopus propped up against my headboard. I have dozens tucked away in my closet and under my bed, but I only keep one out in the open.
I saw one in an aquarium in Orlando when I was about six—so beautiful and graceful—but I don’t think I was obsessed until my father joked that they were actually aliens. My mother laughed about it, but as I grew up, I discovered there is a significant portion of the human population who really believe it. After that, I was hooked. The ability to do what no other creature can. Being that different from everything else around it. The allure of its secrets.
I don’t know—they just called to me.
I slip on my flats, take my school jacket and backpack, and leave the room. Stepping into the hallway, I look right, seeing my parents’ door closed at the end of the hall, but then I glance at the room right before it and make my way over.
Henry’s name decorates the dark wood, spelled out in an arch in my little brother’s favorite shade of blue. Sometimes I’ll open the door. His smell still lingers. But I never go in. I like thinking he was the last to walk on the carpet or open the drawers of his dresser, even though I know my mom is in there frequently.
I’m just glad she’s kept everything the same.
I touch his name, inhale and push down whatever is bubbling up in my chest, and head downstairs.
Detouring into the kitchen, I snatch a bottle of water from the fridge and the container of chicken salad Bernie, our housekeeper, fixed for me, sticking them both into my backpack.
Putting on my blazer and heading through the foyer, I take my keys off the entryway table and move to the door, but I glance out the window panel on the side and see my father’s car in the driveway. Morning dew glistens over the hood of his slate gray Audi.
I stop. I thought he was in Miami.
I drop my bag and twist around, a smile pulling at my lips. He’s home so little anymore, business taking him to D.C., San Francisco, and Houston, but mostly, Miami. It seems like he’s there more than home the last few months.
One of the double doors to his office is cracked, and I squeeze the handle, peering my head inside.
“Hey,” I say.
He sits behind his desk, light brown hair disheveled, tie loosened, and one leg of his wrinkling gray pants and shiny black shoe propped up on his desk. A stream of cigarette smoke snakes into the air above his head as he blows out a puff.
He pulls his foot off his desk, smiling, “Morning.”
I saunter in, doing a playful little walk with my hands behind my back like I’m up to something, and swing around his desk, sitting on the arm of his chair and pull out a fresh cigarette from the marble box near his computer.
“When did you get in?” I ask as his arm goes around my waist, holding me steady.
For most trips, he flies, but Miami is close enough to drive.
“Just a couple of hours ago,” he tells me, taking another drag. “Is your mom up?”
“I don’t think so.”
He watches me as I take his lighter off his desk. “Early start today?”
It’s actually not as early as I usually leave. I think he just doesn’t know my schedule anymore. Or what time school starts, or that we have service on Tuesday mornings before first period, or really anything else about me.
