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He was doing the staring now, but I didn’t have the courage to call him out on it. I’d been stared at enough times I’d gotten good at ignoring it, but not once had it ever made me feel like this. Over-heated, itchy, breathless.
&nbs
p; Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You seeped under the door, and I could hear Benito belting out the words. He was the first to start the karaoke, and ironically, it was always to iconic love songs. My cousin wouldn’t sleep with the same girl twice unless she had double-Ds. His words, not mine.
When he mangled his next line, a soft laugh escaped me. I let myself glance at Nicolas, expecting some amusement, but my laughter faded when I found him already looking at me. The darkness in his eyes shaded his sober expression.
The music and voices outside the door became indiscernible noise as blood drummed in my ears. He got up, set his unfinished glass of whiskey on a side table, and headed to leave. He stopped by my side. The ability to breathe ceased to exist when his thumb ran down my cheek, as light as satin and as rough as his voice. He gripped my chin and turned my face toward his.
We looked at each other for seconds that felt like minutes.
“Don’t follow men into dark corners.” A spark flickered to life in his eyes. It softened when his thumb skimmed the edge of my bottom lip. “Next time, you might not get out alive.”
With the warning hanging in the air, his hand slipped from my face and he left the room without another word.
I rested my head against the armchair and breathed normally for the first time since he’d walked through the door. I didn’t know what that was, why it felt like I had a continual live wire under my skin in his presence, but I didn’t want to analyze it. I knew it wasn’t a good thing. Anything that stops your breath can’t be good for you.
My gaze fell to his drink on the table.
I was out of my mind.
I was burning.
I closed the book and got up from my chair. Walking around the side table, I twirled the tumbler on the lacquered wood between loose fingers.
The remaining liquid sat on the bottom, golden and forgotten.
I never did like whiskey.
But I brought it to my lips . . . and I drank it anyway.
“If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain.”
—Emily Dickinson
THE WHISKEY WAS A MEMORY of warmth in my stomach as I sat on my haunches before my sister’s TV stand. “Fright Night, Evil Dead, or Night of the Living Dead?” I placed the movies on my lap and waited for a response.
Adriana’s muffled words sounded from the bed. “Sixteen Candles.”
My eyes widened. “Sixteen Candles?”
“Mmhmm.”
This was bad. Very bad.
“You’re absolutely sure?”
A sigh. “Yes, Elena.”
“Okay. . . let me go get it.”
I eyed my sister like she’d grown two more heads as I headed out of the room. However, she only looked drunk and tired, covered by a Star Wars blanket.
I returned from my room a moment later, popped the DVD in, and climbed into bed next to her. Stealing half the blanket, I pulled it over the dress I didn’t have the energy to change. Soft light flashed from the TV in the dark room as we watched the movie in silence.
“Elena?” Her voice was quiet.
“Yeah?”
