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Anyway, the point is that he didn't deck me. Even now, he's making this face like he's concentrating—clearly trying to keep from scowling like he wants to. "You want to see the bathroom?" he asks.
I'm smirking again as my eyes flicker up to meet his. "I think I can potty by myself. Your towels are the pink ones, right?"
Oh yeah, my new stepbro definitely wants to smash my face up to match his.
"Right." I think he tries to roll his eyes as he folds his arms over his chest. "Yours are blue."
"My favorite color."
"I'm sure. If you want to go tonight, just meet me downstairs—"
"You'll see me at dinner, DG. In fact" —I wiggle my brows— "we might even sit beside each other."
This time, he at least manages to roll those baby blue eyes. But when he tries to glare, he can't. He looks like someone's chastising father. "Do you need anything else, Ezra?"
"Oh, I need a lot of things. What do you have, Josh Miller?"
He swallows—I fucking see it—and then drags a breath in. It makes his shoulders rise. I watch them fall. "Do you need help with anything? Bringing your bags in?" He looks like he’s gritting his teeth.
"I can carry my bags. But thanks for the brotherly offer."
Another soft breath out, and he's escaping through the door that I assume must lead to our shared bathroom.
I look down at the pillow again. Soft yarn. Pretty solid crocheting. I lean my head against the chair’s back and close my eyes, remembering when I learned to crochet. I hear another door shut—one I assume leads from the bathroom into his room. I stand up and chuck the pillow onto my bed. Then I head out the door.
Josh
This guy is an asshole.
I'm not usually judgmental, but it's really obvious there's something with him. Who knows what his mom is like, or what his life was like until this point. I know he had a stepdad, and his mom and that guy got divorced, and then she married again. Maybe that shit messed him up. Or maybe up in Richmond they just raise a bunch of wise ass kids that turn into...well, bullies.
That word is over-used, if you ask me. Schools go crazy over bullies—our school even did a whole stupid video session on how to keep from being bullied, like a video could help you—but I think that's sort of what he is. He’s one of those that gets off on making fun of people.
Not that I’m worried. This is my turf. He's the new guy. The new quarterback, a little voice in my head says. I shut it up. I shut the entire line of thought down as I pull on clothes I'll wear to dinner then to Mason's. The first T-shirt I spot is indigo, with a leaping bass on the back. It's from a fishing tournament a few years back. I hit some luck that day and won one of the minor trophies, even though pro anglers rolled in from near about everywhere, with their shiny, sponsored boats and cheesy fishing vests.
I hesitate before I pull the thing on, already anticipating him calling me big bass boy or some dumb shit. For that reason, I have to wear it. Because, screw him. Ezra Masters. He might have been the king of his dumb prep school in Virginia, but no one knows him here. Everybody knows me, and they like me, too.
You need to chill out, I tell myself as I step into a pair of beat up khaki shorts. I'd honestly rather wear some basketball shorts, but that's what he had on. God knows what sort of field day he'd have with that.
"You gonna keep on walking or just eye fuck me?"
The words burble up in my brain like those methane bubbles at hot springs—toxic and unexpected.
I brush a hand back over my hair, looking at my forehead in the full-length mirror I inherited from Mom when we moved into this house. The gash is pretty bad, and my head still hurts—that dull, need-to-squint-your-eyes hurt. But I'm fine.
Need to pull that cap back on when I go down for dinner, or my mom will ask thirty thousand questions and of course, he'd notice. That douche doesn't need to know my whole life story, and I'd rather him not see Mom henpecking me. I make a mental note to be sure I'm not so cool toward her that it hurts her feelings.
Then I slip my feet into my old Adidas slides and drop down onto my love seat. I push my hands into my hair, tugging lightly. I think of my face—blue eyes, dark hair, and yeah, he's right, I've got a few freckles. My friend Jenna says I look like a young Marlon Brando, but I know that's bullshit. She's just got a hard-on for old Brando.
