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Boyd
Long, dark red hair swishes against her back, bright against Fiona’s creamy, freckled skin, as she flounces from the room.
Until tonight, I’ve managed to ignore her existence, downplaying her role in my life as my best—and only—friend’s baby sister, far too young for me to pay any mind in the first place.
But Christ, I’ve seen her now—she’s the kind of train wreck you can’t look away from. The wistful expression as she stared out onto the dance floor, longing for someone to twirl her in their strong arms, had mesmerized me.
I watched her doe eyes soften at the edges as she gazed at the couples, saw how the look on her face melted into something almost sinister, as if she’d do anything she could to get someone to acknowledge her that way.
I should’ve known all the Ivers would be bloodthirsty. It’s not as if that gene falls very far from the tree.
My phone vibrates in my suit pocket as she disappears from the ballroom, the sound of her heels clicking against the tiled floor obscured by the band onstage and the low chatter all around us.
Pulling it out, I glance at the screen and groan internally, my thumb hovering over the “clear” button.
Riley: will you stop by tonight?
Kieran left the table long before his sister did, my date in tow, so I’m stuck here watching their mother, Mona, alternate between picking at a house salad and trying to hide her twitches as she moves with the music.
If anyone paid even a modicum of attention to the woman, they’d see the way the vein beneath her eye pulses, or how when she smiles, half of her facial muscles refuse to play along.
That’s the thing with the people in this town, though; they really only see what they want to.
It’s why the mafia is able to exist so seamlessly, why things like poverty and drug addiction go unchecked, why a thirteen-year-old boy was abandoned so his mother could spend her days bouncing from drug deal to drug deal.
Pulling up the keyboard on my phone, I type out a quick reply.
Me: I’llsee what I can do.
Truth be told, I don’t want to step foot in that house, but the kid rarely texts me unless she needs something.
Just like her mother.
Pocketing my phone, I glance back to the hall leading to the front of the colonial building, contemplating if I should stay still or head out. The desire to get away from the crowd wins out, propelling me forward.
Scooping Fiona’s mask off the table and tucking it under my arm, I get up from the table, tilting my chin toward Mona even though she’s looking at the table and doesn’t seem to notice my presence one way or the other.
Staying on the outskirts of the dance floor, I avoid eye contact with anyone, not really sure where I’m going or what I’m hoping to accomplish as I head in the direction I just saw the redhead go.
Exiting through one of two doorways leading out of the event space, I stop at the bottom of the winding staircase, trying to decide whether or not she’d have gone up there.
No, when she left she’d been agitated, and considering the conversation she’d had with her brother, the most likely place would be outside.
Pushing open one of the large wooden doors, I scan the driveway, ignoring some of the odd looks I get from people standing around, waiting on their rides or gossiping in their little groups.
I hook right, following laughter as it bounces off the white sides of the building; when I round the corner, grass sinking beneath my steps, I spot her plastered against the wall, some guy in a Stonemore Community athletic jacket glued to the front of her body. His arm is propped above her head on the wall, his clean-shaven face angled toward hers.
Something curdles in my gut, knots twisting the muscles until they ache, but I don’t really understand the reaction. I’m not fucking jealous of this little prick, and certainly not because he’s fucking around with Fiona.
It must be that she’s Kieran’s sister—a natural protectiveness evolving from prolonged association. Still, that doesn’t explain the way my cock stiffens behind my dress slacks at the flush on her pretty cheeks, or the way my chest feels tight when he dips his head to kiss her jaw.
My fingers squeeze the material of her golden mask, and I lean against the wall, interested to see how far she’s willing to take things. Reaching into the pocket without my phone, I pull out a pre-rolled joint and light up, hoping the bud calms my nerves before I make my presence known.
The desire to squash the freshman rears its ugly head, violence pumping through my veins the longer I watch them. His fingers edge toward the ends of her hair, tangling gently in the strands, and I roll my eyes at him thinking she needs to be handled like glass.
Like her very namesake doesn’t suggest otherwise.
Taking a drag off the end of my joint, I inhale the substance deep into my chest, blowing a plume of smoke out above my head as he pushes off the wall, holding his hand out for her. She takes it, brushing her hair off her shoulder, and my eyebrows shoot into my hairline.
