I’ve been trying to piece together what we saw at the restaurant for the last four days. Why the hell would Gio be there talking to him? When I asked him about the jewellery store, he seemed a little closed off about it and when I told him that the guy was pretty much unrecognisable other than his posture, he didn’t encourage me to go any further.
Gio has already lost so much in his life; his wife and his close friend. I can understand why he wouldn’t want to get directly involved in the investigation, but it’s his brother, his family.
I know he’s always wanted to be a more prominent member of the business, but I thought the role he had now was good for him. It’s given him the creative freedom he wouldn’t get in other jobs. He seemed comfortable with it. It just doesn’t make sense to me that he would try and mess this up and lie to me. Especially with how consoling our family has been with everything that went down.
I’ve thought about calling him, but what could I say? He doesn’t know that I’m investigating and if he is working with Gerard, it’s better if I don’t know. That could put us all in a terrible position.
I tried rationalising it with Evan, but he was no help. He’s such a pessimist sometimes. Or he redirects the ideas I come up with and turns them into something completely different. Even now as we work on the project in the on-campus coffee shop that Kennedy works at, I can literally hear the gears turning in his brain.
Letting him in on this investigation seemed like a good idea. We’re both smart, intelligent and have experience as well as inside-access to pretty much anything. I just didn’t know how much touching would be involved.
First, the whole bust at the jewellery store where he was breathing down my neck, then the whole ‘I’m just going to brush past you while you’re semi-naked and touch your waist’ debacle, the ankle situation, and the screaming in the woods and then we had to pretend to date each other. That last one was only for a few minutes, but it was still torture. Exciting and weirdly arousing torture.
The thought of being in a relationship with Branson is repulsive, but there is no way I could ignore the way he slipped his hands into my hair so naturally.
Another thing that’s driving me insane? Evan taps his pencil on his laptop while bouncing his knee up and down. He does it while we study most of the time, but today it’s driving me up the wall.
“God, can you stop doing that?” I finally ask, frustrated.
“Doing what?” He doesn’t even look up from his computer, tap, tap, tapping his pencil. I just stare at him until he looks up. “Oh, that?”
“Can’t.” He looks back down at his computer, still tapping.
I groan. “What the hell does that mean?” I ask. “Can’t,” I scoff, mocking his tone.
“I mean, I can. I just don’t want to. It helps me concentrate,” he replies, shrugging. He stops bouncing his knee but continues hitting his pencil on the table in a practised motion.
“Tell you what helps me concentrate?” I ask. He looks up at me now, his shoulders relaxing as if he wants me to continue. “Less of the tapping and more weed.”
He rolls his eyes. “Weed does nothing for concentration, you idiot.”
“It does for me,” I retort. “You’re telling me you’ve never completed two weeks’ worth of homework in one night when you’re high as fuck? It usually ends up as a mess, but it works.” I watch as his eyes try to dart away from mine, and he doesn’t say no. Sometimes I swear I can see right through him. “I’ve got a good plug. Obviously, I’m not going to pressure you, but if I’m going to smoke and you don’t want to be around me, that’s cool.”
He thinks on it for a second as he keeps his eyes on the table. When he’s made his decision, he looks up at me, sighing loudly. “Fuck it. Let’s do it. It’s four-twenty somewhere, right?”
I beam, laughing as I say, “That’s the spirit, Branson.”
* * *
Less than an hour later, we’re sitting on the grey sticky concrete outside my apartment complex and Evan is coughing his lungs up.
We’ve each had maybe three good hits and I feel chilled out like I always do. Evan, on the other hand, looks like he’s been eating spicy noodles, as well as smoking every day for the past two years. I’ve occasionally seen him smoke cigarettes, so I don’t know why he’s reacting so badly to this.
Our legs are outstretched in front of us, our heads leaning against the wall as we blow clouds of smoke into the air. When I make a good circle, I giggle a little, thinking about how strange it is that I’m smoking with Evan. I look over to him and he’s leaning forwards a little, clutching his chest as he barks out another cough.
“Oh my God!” I exclaim, laughing, a knowing grin creeping up my face. He turns to me now as his coughing fit dies down. “Branson, have you never smoked weed before?”
He leans back against the wall, tilting his head up and I get a very good look at his throat. It’s long and thick and wholly masculine, constricting as he swallows. “Of course, I have. I just haven’t felt like this… Fuck,” he breathes, rubbing at his eyes. He turns to me now, his eyes heavy and red. “Scarlett, I think I’m having a heart attack.”
He shakes his head, scooting further toward me so our thighs are touching. He grabs the hand in my lap, his huge hand basically swallowing mine as he drags it to his chest, placing it right over his heart before dropping his hand.
“Can you feel my heart right now?” he asks.
“You have a heart?” I gasp dramatically.
“Can you feel my heart for one fucking second or I’m going to die,” he demands. I look for the joke in his face or his voice, but it never arrives. He remains dead serious.
“You’re not going to die,” I whisper. He doesn’t say anything as his eyes suddenly become sad, a little child-like, like he’s begging me to do this one thing for him. I brought him into this mess, so it’s out of my pure morality that I lay my palm flat against his heart.
His heart might actually fall out of his chest. With every beat, it feels like my hand lifts up a few inches as I keep my eyes focused on the dark blue button down he’s wearing.
“Oh my god,” I whisper. The words barely pass through my mouth before I clamp my mouth shut, not needing to freak him out anymore.
“What is it?” Evan asks, worried. He places his large hand over mine, seamlessly linking his fingers into mine as if it doesn’t set every part of my body on fire. He presses my hand – our hands – deeper into his chest and I feel like I’m breathing as fast as him. “Can you tell if something is wrong? Because it feels like something’s wrong.”
“Can you breathe for just one fucking second,” I seethe. Honestly, I can’t tell which one of us needs to breathe more right now because everything about Evan’s hand on mine feels so natural. So safe. Just good. Then he does the strangest thing. He licks his lips, looks down at our hands and looks back up at me and he nods. I watch him force himself to breathe. Our eyes connect and I whisper, “Your heart is beating really fast, Ev.”
“I know. I’ve been trying to tell you,” he says back, defensively. I don’t know why we’re whispering now, but it feels right. His expression changes, the lines in his forehead softening as he realises something. Shit. I realise it too. “You just called me ‘Ev.’”
“No, I didn’t.” I totally did. It’s the weed. It has to be.
“Whatever,” I say, rolling my eyes. If I’m going to deny it, I have to play the part, so I add, “Your name has too many syllables.”
“It has two,” he says back, his voice sounding both shocked and humorous.
“Yeah. Two too many,” is the best response I can come up with.
I notice our hands are still connected, my hand pressing against his chest that still hasn’t stopped racing. He doesn’t make a move to stop the contact and neither do I. I feel like he needs this more than I do. His dark green eyes still haven’t left mine as he lets out a forced breath.
“That’s why my heart is racing. It’s because of you.”
I let out a short laugh. “Really? What could I possibly be doing that’s making your heart speed up?”
He shrugs. “I dunno. Just existing.”
I must be panting like a dog now because I swear I can’t breathe normally. It shouldn’t feel like this: electric. He squeezes my hand, his eyes not leaving mine. The motion is so simple and noncommittal, but it sends a strange pang of something through me. What the hell is he doing and why am I letting him? “Scar?”
Oh, fuck. Not that nickname. Anything but that nickname right now. It’s still so new coming from him and now this? Come on, Branson. You’re making things really fucking difficult.
“I’m scared.” I catch the exact moment the vulnerability takes over. I’ve always known Evan’s not an evil person. He’s just hard to deal with and annoying. He’s stuck up and he can be rude when he doesn’t mean to, but he’s not evil. How could he be with the way he’s looking at me now? All I see is a scared boy with great big green eyes, searching for a harbour.
“Don’t be,” I say as comfortingly as I can.
“Oh wow. You’re being really helpful right now,” he argues sarcastically. I knew that it wouldn’t last very long.
“And you’re being really fucking dramatic,” I say.
“No need to shout,” he whispers seriously.
Maybe I am shouting. Why am I shouting though? Maybe it’s the unnecessary proximity. Maybe it’s the way he lasted five minutes without being an asshole. Maybe it’s the fact that he used my nickname, and I accidentally used his. Maybe it’s everything going on with my family and our little moment escaping. Maybe it’s just everything.
Breaking my hand away from his, I stand up, brushing myself off as I say, “Get up. We need to go.”
* * *
Evan is in no state to do anything other than eat junk food and sleep. I’m still pissed at him, but I’m enough of a decent human that I walk him to his house only a few blocks away from my apartment. He sulks most of the way and I follow suit, not bothering to have a conversation with him like that.
When we get to his house, Wren and Miles are in the living room, snuggled together watching the end of Tangled. Sometimes I question the Gods and how they managed to put two people so perfect for each other in the same place. Wren’s in one of Miles’ hockey jerseys and leggings, lying on top of him like a koala while he’s shirtless like always.
As Evan stumbles in, I shut the door behind us, blocking out some of the cold. He kicks off his shoes at the door, rounding the sofa to walk into the kitchen.
“Scarlett gave me some dodgy weed, so I’m going to sit in my room and contemplate life,” Evan complains from the kitchen.
“I did not,” I argue back. I take a seat across from Wren and Miles, laughing as I roll my eyes. Wren climbs off her boyfriend, nodding at me as she sits to the side of him instead, placing her feet in his lap. He immediately wraps his hands around her ankles, massaging them without a word. “Evan just couldn’t handle it. I had the same amount as him and I feel fine.”
Evan moves into the living room now, a water bottle in his hand as he stands behind them on the sofa. “That’s because you’re an insane person.”
“Wait. Did you guys say weed? I want weed,” Miles pipes up, his gaze flicking between us. Wren turns to him, shaking her head.
“Baby, you’re a mess on your own. You do not need help,” she says, patting him on the chest as he sulks back into the couch.
“Don’t get any from this one,” Evan says, pointing his water bottle towards me. I flip him the double bird. “You’re a menace to society, Scarlett.”
“Oh, please,” I say, waving a hand to dismiss him. “Society loves me.”
“Yeah, right. Society loves that your family’s business is the only thing keeping it afloat,” he argues. The second the words leave his mouth, I’m sure he realises the stupid mistake he just made. It takes a few seconds for Wren and Miles to pick up on what he said before throwing him a puzzled look and I do the same. But because I’m me, I also have the biggest grin on my face.
“That’s not the insult you thought it was, tough guy,” I say, laughing.
“You’re right. Actually, no. You’re not right. You’re never right. About anything,” he rambles. I think I have officially broken Evan Branson because I swear he’s blushing right now. The way his cheeks turn a slight shade of pink is sort of…cute. Weird and new, but it’s cute. He taps the side of his head twice. Three times. “It’s the weed.”
He finally ends whatever the hell that was with an awkward thumbs up and walks backwards up the stairs, mumbling something about how that’s him done speaking for the rest of the day. I’m feeling victorious.
I turn back to Wren and she’s smiling like a fool. “You ready to go, Wrenny?” I ask. She nods before turning to Miles and whispering something absolutely filthy. The movie is paused so it’s not hard to make out some of the words she’s saying. I stand up. “I heard the words ‘dick’ and ‘mouth’ and I’m disgusted. Well, slightly impressed, but disgusted,” I chide.
When we’re linking arms, walking down the block towards our apartment, Wren says, “You know, I was so afraid of talking about sex out loud before I started writing books and well, before you started giving us very explicit rundowns on how your dates ended.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve not been getting any of that recently,” I murmur.
“Why not? Is it because of everything going on with your dad?” Wren asks, looking up at me with those green-brown eyes as we continue walking.
How do you begin to explain the situation you’re in to your best friend who has the sweetest relationship with their dad? The easy answer is you don’t.
I shake my head. “I’m just having less me-time with the whole project thing,” I say.
That is partly true. Working on this project as well as the regular dose of homework is exhausting. I’ve always prided myself on having a good, strong, and healthy social life. Without it, I feel like I’m drowning.
“You work too hard at school. It’s concerning,” Wren mumbles. I elbow her in the side, and she giggles. “We should go out tomorrow. Just us girls and maybe you can text Max. He was very cuddly with you the other night. And he’s British, so more brownie points for that.”
When your best friend of twenty years looks up at you like that, grinning, cheeks red and flushed, you can’t say no. Even if it’s the last thing you want to do with everything going on. Even if you’ve hardly slept in four days and you’re still a little high from smoking.
