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As we make it to the black metal gate in front of their house, he keys in a code and a side door clicks open.
As we go inside, closing the door behind us, I take in the huge house. The façade is made of brick and the windows are surrounded by ornate white frames and ledges, with charcoal-gray shutters open on the outside.
Ivy streaks up the front wall of the house and as my gaze follows it up, I stop in my tracks, gasping loudly at the sight of a figure in the window—a woman, standing in an unlit room, staring down at us, her features obscured.
Grey stops as I do, seeing what I see. I can’t see her clearly, but she’s not smiling or waving, but just standing there like some freaking ghost.
His grip on my hand tightens as he begins to walk again, leading me towards the front door.
“God, that was fucking creepy,” I mutter, clutching my flowers tightly. “Was that… your mom?”
“Yes. She’s not known for her social skills. Or at least, not around family. Her life consists of impressing strangers, not those that matter.”
“God.”
As we mount the front step, Grey presses the doorbell and I grab his arm causing him to pivot.
“Promise me you won’t punch anyone? Even if they’re assholes?”
“I’ll try not to.”
55
Indigo
Despite having met the swirling mass of rancor that is Grey’s father, after spotting her watching us in the window like some kind of spectral painting, I kind of thought it would be the mom I’d be more scared of, but she’s been surprisingly chatty, if not a little catty with it.
The father, Landon Everitt, sits opposite me, his wild eyes tunneling into me in a way that is neither socially appropriate nor allows me to take a breath.
His eyes depart from my face for brief moments which allow me to exhale, but only to pick up his glass of red wine, one that apparently Grey had delivered earlier today, or to eat a mouthful of food from his gold-rimmed porcelain plate, or to throw a glance at his son who reaches for my leg beneath the table every few minutes as if trying to tell me he’s still there.
When I get nervous, I usually chatter away inanely, and I was doing for the first forty-five minutes of awkwardness, asking questions, giggling stupidly against my will, complimenting our hosts on their house, their food, their wine, ignoring them giving frigid instructions to the man in the suit serving us food in the large dining room, its furniture ostentatious and borderline gawdy, so incongruous with the understated elegance I saw at Grey’s place.
I glance at the half-full glass of wine they served me earlier, feeling Landon’s eyes still boring into me, sucking the air from the room.
What’s worse is I did that thing where you keep checking if someone is looking at you just to make sure they’re not, so I've caught his eyes at least twenty times in the last half hour. The last time our gazes collided, his was borderline indecent—some unholy mixture of rage and deviance.
The man looks just like Grey—tall, muscular, stupidly handsome with pronounced angles and masculine features, and even the same dimples in his cheeks and strong chin.
The only difference is the eyes. Grey’s are basically swirling spheres of pale smoke, glistening beautifully as if droplets of rainwater are suspended in them.
Landon’s are darker, muddier, like spheres of varnished wood that are charred around the edges, with flares of flame bursting up from beneath the coal. I guess you’d have to see them to really get what I was talking about.
What’s more, while Greyson has his own mercurial glare that’s hard to look away from, it’s usually tempered by glimmers of amusement and moments when his eyes soften as he studies my face. As much of a prick as he can be at times, he has some vague semblance of self-awareness when it comes to his arresting presence and bold eye contact.
In the case of his father, introspection is lacking and he evidently doesn’t give one shit that glaring at a woman in close proximity may make her feel uncomfortable.
Or maybe that’s the entire point...
What’s worse is that Grey is clearly acutely aware of his father’s conduct. When I look up at him, I see him staring at his father between intermittent mouthfuls of food, the tension between them crackling with errant electricity.
My eyes drift to his mom Sandra’s leopard-print top, an outfit I did not expect to see on a street as exclusive as this one, and over her uber-tanned skin and onto pale blue eyes, eyes whose light color I guess Grey inherited from her.
She’s doing that thing where you’re saying one thing, but your eyes are conveying another. They’re like little balls of ice and fixate on me in a way that would make me uneasy if I wasn’t already dealing with the pyroclastic flare of Landon’s glare.
I mean, I knew they were pricks, but this feels just plain creepy, especially during the moments when we’re served more food or drinks by the waiter and only Grey and I say thank you before he disappears out of the room again, to then be called back when Grey’s mom rings a bell with a lack of self-awareness which makes me feel like getting to my feet and helping out the butler guy.
I glance down at my plate, readying myself to stab a fork into an expertly glazed and roasted carrot. The food is delicious and I’m no wine connoisseur like Grey, but I suspect the bottle we’re currently drinking would cover a month of my rent, but there are only fleeting moments when I can really enjoy it, for the second I swallow it down, I’m plunged back into the murky swath of invisible smog blanketing the room.
