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“So you didn’t grow up here?” I can’t help my interest, nor can I help the way that staring at Arlo is something I’d like to do often. His face lights up when he’s happy, and he’s so responsive in conversation, soanimated, that it’s hard to focus on anything else when he’s here.
But that just makes it even more obvious how much he doesn’t fit in with the other Lost Boys. He’s too nice. Genuinely nice. Not Ezra’s version ofnicethat comes with blood and a body count. Nor is he Isaac’s version of nice, which feels, at times, overwhelming and intense when all of his attention is focused on me, and he can’t seem to look at anyone, or anything, else.
They can be a lot, but Arlo is just enough.
“Nah,” Arlo says, shaking his head as he rests his elbows on the table and gazes at me with level, dark eyes. “I grew up in Florida, but my uncle moved us here when my parents died.” He says it so casually, and I’m itching to know what happened to him that made him aLost Boy. But I won’t ask. I shouldn’t, and it feels rude to do so when I’ve only spoken to Arlo a few times now.
He’s essentially a stranger to me. Though it’s hard to feel that way when he talks to me like we’ve been friends for ages.
Which really just makes it harder for me to be pissed about the tattoo on the back of my neck, but I’m going to do my best to remain pissed off. At least until I figure out what in the world I’m doing or how I’m going to get it covered up.
A pang in my chest surprises me when I think that, and my eyes drop to his arms, where his rolled up sleeve shows the same tattoo on his tanned skin.
It reallyisa nice tattoo. It matches the one on my neck almost exactly, and there’s no denying the skill that Arlo has or the way the tattoo sitting between my shoulder blades looks beautiful and striking.
Not that I’m going to tell him that.
“What about you?” Arlo asks, and the amusement in his tone makes me wonder if he knows what I’m staring at and that maybe he’s asked the question already.
I truly need to stop spacing out and get my shit together when it comes to the Lost Boys.
“I grew up here. In the southern part of the city back before the Chancellors had done a lot to make it better,” I say, sitting back against my chair so I can glance around the nice café while I speak. “My mom and dad are dead as well.”
“What happened to them?” Whatever inhibitions I have about not asking him about the intricate details of his past, he apparently doesn’t share.
“Car accident,” I shrug. “Drunk driver, a red light. It’s not that interesting of a story.” Nor is it one I want to relive. Seventeen-year-old me had a hard time coping with everything that happened, and I’m pretty sure that their death was the initial trigger that led to my decline into suicidal depression.
“Is that why you cut yourself?” He certainly is going for the throat, and I take a moment to think about that before I respond. My hand inches to my tattooed wrist, and I stroke the long scar that will never heal to be as subtle as the others. It’s not exactly obvious in most situations, thanks to my tattoo that covers it, but it’s as noticeable as it can be even with the black and pink ink over it.
“Not…exactly,” I say eventually, still working on how to answer fully. I wonder if this will all be relayed back to the other Lost Boys, and I consider asking Arlo that. In the end, I just sigh and continue with my answer. “Maybe that’s what started everything? I loved my parents, and it was hard losing them as a kid. But things just kept getting worse and worse. My grades tanked. I couldn’t get enough scholarship money to go to the schools I really wanted to go to. My aunt wanted to move me across the country and sold my parents’ house to pay off some ofherdebts…” I shrug. “I can’t pinpoint a definite moment when I decided I wanted to end it, but obviously, I did.”
“I’m happy you didn’t succeed.”
The words are a surprise, and I glance up, my brows knit together, to meet his dark eyes set in his handsome face. “What?” I ask finally.
“I’m happy you failed. Ilikeyou. The others like you too, though Ashe and Cy mightdiebefore they admit it.” He meets my bewildered look with a cheeky grin. I can’t help but snort at his words, and I rest my elbow on the table so I can pillow my chin on my hand.
“I’m pretty happy I failed too,” I say, shrugging one shoulder. “Though rehab sucked, and I learned I’m pretty bad at horseback riding. I went to one of the rehabs in the mountains that did stuff like that. But I will say I didn’t thinkthiswas how my life would go.” I’m not sure eighteen-year-old, super-depressed me would’ve liked to hear that a group of guys would eventually mark her with a tattoo to prove ownership.
Then again…back then, I was into a lot of questionable fan-fiction and starved for affection and a sense of belonging. There’s a good possibility that Iwould’vebeen thrilled to hear about it. Or at least I would’ve wanted to know how things played out.
I still have no idea how any of this is going to play out, honestly. I have no idea what I’m doing, what they want, or how long their little obsession with me is going to last.
Or if it will last at all. Will I be the Christmas puppy who gets cast aside once the excitement and holidays are over? Or maybe when they finallydorealize that I’m not a pet, they’ll get bored of me?
“Do you want to go toThe Denwith me?” Arlo’s words serve to catch me off guard, and I look up at him, blinking as my eyes narrow in confusion. TheDen?My mind clutters with images of a fox’s den or a wolf den, and I have no idea where in the world he’s talking about us going.
“You want to go…where?” I ask, wondering if maybe I heard him wrong and he said something other thanden.
“The Den?” Arlo says again, looking confused himself. “Cyril said he saw you at their new member orientation the other day. Which, in my opinion, isn’t worth it for anyone that has a brain. But a lot of people who go to kink clubs don’t so…” He rolls his shoulders in a shrug and watches me from under thick lashes. “Do you want to go?”
“Oh.”TheDen. Right. Ihadgone to a new member thing there. But admittedly, it seems like such a long time ago now that I’d completely forgotten all about it until Arlo brought it up again.
Do Iwantto go?
My thumb and forefinger roll my napkin between them as I think about the offer. It doesn’thaveto mean sex, of course. Though it’s not like I’m opposed to fucking Arlo. But it seems a little bit dangerous. A little bit like I’m pushing it when I’m still not sure how far I can trust these men or what they want from me in the long run.
I should probably say no, at least until I’ve gone there myself and I know how to handle things. Or at least so that I can mark out any exits for an escape, should the situation call for it.
