SIT YOUR ASS down.
I startle, opening my eyes as the shadows of raindrops dance across my ceiling.
Shit. My bedroom comes into view, still dim from the sunless sky filtering through the windows, and the quick vibrations of my phone on my bedstand going off steadily.
Do something for me? I hear her say.
I squeeze my eyes shut, rolling over and burying my face in my pillow. Damn her.
The fabric cools my hot skin as sweat dampens my back. Her taunting voice—her whisper against my cheek—still rings in my ears.
I wasn’t dreaming about her. God, please tell me I wasn’t dreaming about her.
But I’m throbbing.
I search my brain, trying to remember anything before I woke, but all I feel is a cloud in my head. And the strain in my body. Pools of heat swirl in my stomach, the warmth between my thighs sensitive, I’m restless and relaxed at the same time. It’s not unpleasant.
Reaching down between my legs, I touch myself through my shorts and underwear, instantly feeling the slickness.
I yank my hand away and sit up. Jesus Christ. That self-absorbed, shallow bitch… What the hell?
No. Absolutely not.
I’m over this. I’ve been over this for years now. She’s straight. I knew that years ago when I first met her, had a crush, and couldn’t stop thinking about her.
And she’s cruel. I know that plain as day now. I can’t even begin to contemplate what the hell my subconscious is thinking, but hate-fucking Clay Collins would be even less fun than bathing in lava.
You’d think with a local suicide that was probably the result of bullying, Clay Collins would back off. Alli Carpenter is dead. A queer girl who’d had enough.
Is that what Clay wants? What is her problem?
Picking up my phone, I check my social media, seeing I picked up a few new followers on Twitter.
I run across a trending tweet by Rev. John J. Williamson condemning a young, new senator who happens to be homosexual. I shake my head, appeased by the comments on the thread condemning him instead. These guys are always the ones caught in motel rooms with fifteen-year-old boys.
Prick. I retweet, punching out the caption I hope your daughters grow up and have wives , and hit Send , and then I check texts.
One from Becks. Call me.
I don’t talk on the phone. I text.
Another from Jonasy, Trace’s ex, who thinks maintaining a relationship with the family will get her back into his bed. A new vintage shop opened in Little Cuba. Come with me!
Nope. When did she ever get the impression that I like vintage clothes? I might love wearing Macon’s old motorcycle jacket with holes in the lining from when he was fifteen, but I’m pretty sure old does not equal quaint.
I toss the phone onto the bed and hop up, stretching and then pulling my hair free of my low ponytail, shaking out my hair.
“No!” I hear a bellow outside my door and twist my head to the sound. “Give it back now!”
I groan, closing my eyes and let my head fall back. Trace and Dallas. Twenty and twenty-one respectively, they were the youngest boys in the family, but still older than me. You wouldn’t really know it, though, based on their behavior.
“It’s too fucking early!” Dallas shouts back.
Then I hear squeaks against the hardwood floor, heavy footsteps, and then…a thud shakes the house, the shelves on my wall rattle, and my copy containing all of Henrik Ibsen’s plays plummets to the ground. Another thud, and then almost a thunder that vibrates under my feet.
Jesus. I need air.
Whipping my door open, I find Dallas and Trace on the floor of the hallway, wrestling. Dallas is soaking wet and wearing a towel that’s only a prayer from coming off his body, and Trace is just in jeans, laughing his ass off as they go at it.
“Enough!” I yell.
For God’s sake. I grit my teeth, barreling past them and stepping over their bodies.
But hands grab my legs, and I barely have time to let out a scream before I’m falling backward and into waiting arms.
“Trace!” I yell, not even having to look to see who the culprit is. Dallas isn’t the playful one, so I know it’s not him.
Fingers dig into my stomach, and I hold back my laugh, kicking and squirming.
“Stop!” I growl as my brother tickles. “I’m not in the mood.”
“You got sleep,” Trace fires back. “I didn’t get sleep.”
Dallas pushes us off, clutches his towel closed, and disappears back into the bathroom, slamming the door.
“Come on.” I fight Trace’s hold, the scruff on his cheek stabbing my ear. “Coffee first. Please.”
He’s got this thing about moody people. People like Macon and Dallas. People like me. He purposely pokes the bear and doesn’t know when to stop.
We fight, and I kick, hitting the wall instead of him, the plaster cracking and a nice, round dent appearing where there wasn’t one before.
I used to feel bad, but the walls are covered in dents and holes from years of six Jaeger kids. Macon, the oldest and head of the house, won’t know the difference.
“Let me go!” I bark and elbow him in the gut.
His hold relaxes, and I scramble out of his arms, crawling and climbing to my feet, escaping.
But I hear his voice behind me. “Your turn to wash the bedding!”
I stop and turn my head, his short, black hair sticking up all over the place, and his green eyes showing no hint that he’d had a sleepless night like he claims.
“I’m not touching your sheets,” I tell him. “Put them in the washer yourself.”
He bats his eyelashes, and I let out a quiet sigh. If I don’t do his sheets, they won’t get done. And why do I care? No idea.
“Don’t make me touch your sheets,” I plead.
But he just blinks up at me. “Coffee first,” he says. “Coffee will help you feel better about it.”
Whatever. I storm off, knowing I’ll do it and knowing that he knows I’ll do it.
I’m allowed to pout for a little while, though. If our parents were here, I might not feel obligated to give in to him, but Trace wasn’t much older than me when we were orphaned. He thinks a woman will fill that void that not having a mom has left in him.
I step into the kitchen, the chipped blue and pink stucco walls shining with the light coming from the rusted old chandelier over the kitchen table. The shutters over the sink spread open, the white grate keeping out intruders, but letting in the smell and sound of the rain.
Macon leans against the stove, grease stains on his gray T-shirt and the leather peeling on the front of his steel-toe boots. He dries his hands and tightens the thin, leather strap, identical to mine, around his wrist.
I walk for the Moka Pot. “Morning.”
“It’s almost noon.” I hear him sip his coffee. “You’d never know I have five siblings with all the shit you all make me do around here by myself.”
I hood my eyes, bracing myself as I pull the coffee beans out of the cabinet.
It’s not noon. It’s barely ten, and it’s Saturday. “Coffee first, please,” I say.
He’s in a mood, probably been up since five a.m. and had time to self-talk himself into a nice little tizzy that we were the most ungrateful lot. Macon needs sex. Lots of it.
I pick up the pot but feel it’s already full. Ugh, thank you. He brewed another pot.
I pour myself a cup and walk to the table, taking a seat opposite him. “I was at school late,” I tell him, taking my first sip. “I guess the last few months of senior year aren’t for relaxing after all.”
“No, not for relaxing,” Macon says, “any more than it’s necessary to apply to Dartmouth when you’re already going to Florida State.”
I shoot my eyes up.
He reaches over the table, to the stack of bills waiting to be paid in the napkin holder, and plucks out a white envelope, tossing it to me.
I grab it, flipping it over to see the Dartmouth return address in the corner. The envelope is ripped open, and I can feel the letter inside.
“Congratulations,” he tells me before I have a chance to read the letter.
I dart my gaze up to him again as I dig inside the envelope. “You opened my mail?”
But I don’t wait for a response. Unfolding the piece of paper, I don’t know if he’s screwing with me, or if I really got in. My heart pounds as I start reading, taking in one word after the other, holding my breath for the shoe to drop.
It doesn’t. I read the first couple of sentences over and over, reality slowly coming into view.
He’s not lying. I got in. I exhale, smiling as I feel like I’m floating all of a sudden.
I got in. I got into an Ivy League school with a great theater department.
I’m going to Dartmouth.
I squeeze the paper, kind of wishing I could hug someone right now. But I’m the only person in this house happy about this.
“But what do I know, right?” Macon continues. “I’m just a poor, dumb redneck who’ll never be more than this. I should be lucky to learn from you.”
My smile slowly falls, and I look up, meeting his brown eyes. We’re the only two kids—the first and the last—who got our mom’s eyes, but that’s all we have in common. I respect my oldest brother greatly. He takes care of things. He’s reliable, honest, and strong.
I don’t really like him much, though. He doesn’t want me to go to Dartmouth. He doesn’t talk to me other than to parent me.
“You’re the one who pushed me,” I tell him, setting the letter down. “You wanted me to get out of here. ‘Be someone’, you said. ‘Be remembered’. That’s what you said.” I can’t help the scowl spreading across my face. “Dartmouth is ten times the school Florida State is, and you’re still not happy.”
It takes me less than three seconds to get angry at my family, but Macon just cocks his head, playing with me. “And what are you studying at Dartmouth?”
I shake my head. I’m not giving up the theater. It’s my life, not his. “You want me close so you can reel me in.”
“And you want to fly out of arm’s reach where I can’t.”
He thinks theater is stupid. He thinks I’ll wind up a middle-aged failure and realize too late that I can’t go back and make the conservative decisions he thinks I should make.
I’ll be a failure if I stay.
“Eighteen won’t make you an adult, Liv.” He stares at me. “You still need raising. I was twenty-three and I still needed raising.”
I fall silent, tired of going around and around with him about this. His situation was completely different. No one—no matter what age—would be ready to lose both their parents within two months of each other, and also get saddled with raising and supporting five younger siblings.
Over the years, I became in awe of Macon, slowly realizing as I matured what it must have been like for him. He was a Marine, off seeing the world and living his life only for himself. He had freedom and opportunities.
One day, our dad had a heart attack that left him weakened until he finally passed one night. Two months later, my mom followed.
Macon had a choice. He could let us be split up and sent off to foster care, or he could be discharged and return home to pay more bills than he was capable of, feed bellies that were constantly hungry, and be chained to people who would continue to be dependent on him long after they’d turned eighteen.
His life was over, but he didn’t hesitate. He came home.
Wailing hits my ear, and I let out a breath, bringing my mug back to my lips as the crying gets louder and louder.
Here comes exhibit A of what dependency looks like.
“You gotta take this kid,” Army whines, coming into the kitchen and swinging his son over my shoulder and into my lap.
I shoot back, setting down my coffee, the scorching liquid sloshing onto my hand before I grab the kid and hang on to him.
I glare at my second oldest brother as he passes me and heads to the fridge, no shirt, and his jeans hanging looser around his waist, because his five-month-old son still doesn’t sleep through the night, and my brother forgets to eat just like he forgot to wear a condom.
“Army, come on,” I bite out, hefting Dexter up and holding him close. “I’ve got chores and practice.”
Army’s brown hair, a couple shades lighter than mine, is matted on one side of his head, and bags darken the skin under his eyes. “I just need a shower,” he assures. “Please? I’m dying. Damn kid cries all the time.”
I meet Macon’s gaze, both of us finding silent agreement in this one area. Army is twenty-eight, three years younger than Macon, and one of the most irresponsible people alive. We told Army that woman was no good, and now he’s raising a kid alone.
Correction: Not alone. We’re helping him.
Which is why Macon will never be free. Who else will help my brothers pay for their weddings, support their kids, bail them out of jail, have a couch to crash on when their wives kick them out, or keep up the ancestral home?
A drop of water hits the kitchen table, and I look up at the leaky ceiling and move my coffee cup under the leak.
Macon has buried himself here to a point where there’s more than just the six of us to worry about. Everyone in this community depends on Tryst Six.
“Besides,” Army says, ruffling my hair as he moves behind me, “you’ve got the touch with him.”
“I’ve got a vagina, you mean.”
Iron sweeps through, pouring some coffee, and I quickly stuff the envelope back into the bill pile, because I’m not in the mood to talk about it anymore, and I don’t want them to notice it.
“Put it out,” Army yells at him. “Not in the house.”
Iron nods, takes one final puff, and blows out the smoke, running the cigarette under the faucet. He tosses the wet butt into the trash.
Army walks toward the living room. “Two minutes.”
“Arm—”
“Two minutes!” he yells back at me. “Ten, tops!”
And he disappears. I grit my teeth.
Iron follows him without a word, and I bounce Dexter up and down in my arms as I find my gaze traveling to Macon again, grease caked under his fingernails as he fists his mug.
It doesn’t escape my notice that he’s right. We’re all just getting up and starting our day. He’s filthy, because he woke up hours ago. Probably already went to Mariette’s to receive the deliveries of crawfish for the restaurant, got Trace’s truck loaded for him to service lawns today, helped Mrs. Torres repair the pothole in front of her house that the city won’t address, and fixed a motorcycle he’s planning to flip.
“You should’ve gone to college, you know?” My words are quiet. Gentle. “You’re the real brains in the family.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I’m afraid to look up.
“The hardest choices were never choices to begin with,” he finally says. “That’s life.”
Still sucks, though. Why can’t he just admit that it sucks? He has to want to be somewhere else. He has to know what wanting to leave feels like. He’s not happy. Why does he pretend that he can’t relate to me and to wanting something more?
“You’re not paying forty thousand a year to learn how to playact.” He pushes off the stove and I hear him empty his mug into the sink. “When you graduate in four years, you can do whatever the hell you want. Just get a degree you can use first.”
And then a newspaper drops on the table in front of me, open to page fourteen and folded in half. “It’s time for you to step up and help this family,” he commands.
I lean over the kid in my arms, and read the headline.
Blue Rock Resort Breaking Ground
Blue Rock is Seminole land farther south. They’re building a resort?
I scan the article, only reading a few paragraphs before I know enough not to have to finish the rest. Words like “eminent domain” and “job creation” jump out, confirming what everyone feared three years ago when the protests and lobbying started. As with everything, though, those with the most money win the long game, and those without lose the war.
We have nothing to do with Blue Rock, but if they can get Blue Rock, they can get Sanoa Bay. We’re not a reservation, just a community of ancestral landowners who are lucky enough to be sitting off one of the few and most gorgeous reefs on the Florida coast.
They’ll be coming for us next, and it’ll be a piece of cake compared to Blue Rock.
I stare at the paper. “They can’t do this.”
“If the government determines that the land we’re on is worth more revenue to the state in their hands instead…” Macon tells me what I already know. “If it means creating jobs that get the important people re-elected, then yes, they can. They will.”
• • •
Light sprinkles hit my shoulders and legs, and I lick the water off my lips as I jog around the empty track. Normally, I hate running in the rain. My earbuds aren’t waterproof, and music is the only motivation I have to stay in shape—that and the fact that more exercise means I can eat more guac—but today, I don’t mind it. I need to think. I need silence.
Digging in my heels, I pick up the pace, an energy filling my legs that I’m not used to.
I have six months. Six months until I leave for Dartmouth and three months until I leave Marymount for good. I can figure this out. Macon doesn’t have a plan B to keep our land, because he also doesn’t have access to the developers on a daily basis.
I do. The developer—Garrett Ames—and the law firm—Jefferson Collins—in charge of the resort enterprise, are kicking eight, possibly nine families off their land in Blue Rock.
Collins and Ames.
I’m within arm’s reach of their daughter and son every day right at this school. And I’m sick of these people never paying for what they take.
I’m tired of their kids doing the same.
I squeeze the copper key in my fist as I charge down the rust-colored clay track, the green field at the center glistening with rain as the wheels in my head spin and spin.
It’s a key to Fox Hill.
It’s a key to a private party.
It’s a key to a lot of private parties, I’m sure, and not all of them hosted by Garrett Ames’s idiot, teenage son who doesn’t have the good sense to sin with people who don’t have a motive to hurt him.
Think, Liv. Think. How do I use this?
The sharp key cuts into my palm, but I just squeeze it tighter, seeing them in my mind. Seeing them lose and seeing us win.
Seeing Clay watch me walk away from her.
The rain picks up again, a little harder, and I feel drops pour down my legs and inside my white tank top, my black sports bra underneath seeping through my wet shirt.
There are usually a few cars in Marymount’s parking lot on Saturday. Maintenance crews come to fix things when the students aren’t here, teachers show up to get work done undisturbed, or the team sports need the extra time to practice. But the whole place is abandoned today, the heavy clouds promising more shitty weather to come.
I have no idea why I’m here. I’m not hip on showing up to this place when I have to, let alone when I don’t.
Sticking the key back into my pocket, I dig out the other key, the one to Dallas’s old Mustang that the jerk let me take today, and fall to a walk as I head off the track and into the parking lot. He should just let me have the car. It sits on the street, collecting rust most days, but he’s still under the impression he’ll eventually have enough money to restore it.
“Clay, I’m not practicing in this!” someone yells.
I dart my eyes up, seeing Clay, Krisjen, and Amy in the parking lot. I pause mid-step. Great.
I keep walking for my car, noticing Amy holding a raincoat over her head and scowling. Clay pulls lacrosse gear out of the back of her baby blue, 1972 Ford Bronco convertible, seemingly unconcerned with the rain drenching her black leggings and sports bra.
She doesn’t deserve that car.
“Let’s go to the indoor center,” Krisjen whines. “Please?”
“No, I wanna get dirty.” Clay closes the tailgate and drops her stick to the ground, raindrops bouncing off the pavement around her bare feet.
“Clay, come on,” Amy snips. “It’s cold. And it’s Saturday. I want to go shopping. I snagged my mom’s black card.”
I walk past them, not looking away when Clay sees me and holds my eyes.
The knot in my stomach is there, as it always is when I anticipate bullshit from her, but so is the skip in my heartbeat when I look at her.
I head to my car a couple spaces down, pulling my shirt over my head and wringing it out.
“I love you,” Amy says, “but I’m just going to slip and break my ass out there.”
“Get back here,” Clay demands.
“And don’t pull the captain card either,” Amy tells her, already walking away, “I’ll see you tonight.”
She walks off, and I see Krisjen follow her, giving Clay a shrug. “She’s got her mom’s black card.”
Like limitless shopping is too much of a temptation to resist, and the fact that it’s fraud is completely lost on them.
“You leave me alone out here and you owe me,” Clay yells, “and owing me favors is painful.”
“Meet you at your house at seven,” Krisjen calls out, jumping into Amy’s car.
I hear the engine start and the tires screech as Amy peels out of the flooded parking lot. I slide the key into the lock on the door, slowly turning it as Clay’s eyes set fire to my back.
“Leaving?”
Chills cascade down my arms.
“Pity,” she says. “You need the practice, too.”
Just get in the car , I tell myself . People like her hate to be ignored.
“But it’s always the shit talkers who don’t bring it anyway.” I hear a shuffle, and her alarm chirps, signaling she’s locked her car. “I scored two goals the last game. Not you.”
I open my door, almost smiling at her effort. She scored two goals, because half the opposing team was down with strep throat and they were playing their backup goalie.
And I ran my ass down the field and intercepted both those balls before shooting them over to her so she could score. In four seasons, she’s never known a win without me.
I stare at her back as she goes, the car key cutting into my palm so deep I think it draws blood. Reaching inside the car, I grab my stick, slam the door, and follow her. She’s gonna get a taste of what it’s like without me on her side.
I match her step for step, the entire way back to the track, and I know she knows I’m behind her, because she shoves her gear bag onto a bench with a little extra oomph, psyching herself up without even looking back.
“We play the whole field,” she tells me, pulling her cleats out of her bag. “Whoever scores three goals first, wins.”
“Lucky for you there’s no one to pass to.”
“You’ll see how well I can pass when I shoot the ball into the net.”
The corner of my mouth curls.
She props her foot onto the bench and slips one shoe on after the other, turning her head.
Let’s see it, then. I push my hair over the top of my head again and start walking onto the field.
“No gear?” she shouts.
“Scared?”
She can protect her precious little face all she wants, but I hope she doesn’t. I’d love to see blood coming out of her fucking nose.
We head straight for center field, both of us turning toward each other, ready to face off as she drops the ball between us.
“Whistle after three,” I tell her, leaning down. “One.”
She leans down with me, our eyes locked. “Two.”
“Thr—”
But she charges, cutting me off and throwing her shoulder into me. I growl, crashing to my ass as she scoops up the ball and runs.
I should’ve known… I watch her ponytail swing as she flies down the field toward the goal, and I slam the ground with my fist, growling as I jump to my feet.
God, I hate her.
I bolt, charging after her, but she reaches the end of the field and launches the ball into the net. She doesn’t celebrate as she grabs the ball back out of the goal and tosses it to me. I catch it, the rain spilling in my eyes as I barely notice her clothes sticking to her body.
“Again!” she demands.
Yeah, you got that right. Digging in my heels, I take up position back at the center, but I don’t wait for her to be ready. I fling the ball down the field, but before she has a chance to move, I slam my body into her and rush past.
“Ugh!” she screams.
I run, picking up the ball and racing down the field, but in a moment, I feel her stick tapping harder and harder into my legs. “Move your ass!” she yells. “Come on. Come on.”
I tighten my fists around the damn stick, debating whether knocking her head off with my pole is worth the jail time.
I toss the ball, it lands in the net, and lightning flashes across the sky as her lips brush my ear. “I love how you move your ass for me.”
I whip around, shoving her off, but she just laughs, digging the ball out of the net. She runs backward, her eyes gleaming. “Come on, baby. Do it.”
I shake my head, but I do it. She rushes toward the other goal, and I race after her, but about mid-way down the field, a thought hits me.
This is what she wants. She doesn’t need to win. She just wants me to sweat. I’m ten times the player she is, and she’s enjoying this. She’s got me on a leash.
Fuck her.
I jam my stick between her legs mid-stride. She stumbles, but before she falls, she grabs onto me and pulls me with her. Shit!
She cries out, I grunt, and our sticks fall to the wayside as I crash on top of her, my skull damn-near hitting hers.
“Bitch!” she blurts out. She tries to shove me off, but I’m sick of her shit. I grapple for her wrists, pinning them to the ground and glare down at her.
“How desperate for attention you are,” I spit out. “How shallow and small. I think you like engaging me. You like spending any time you can with me, don’t you?”
She tips her chin up, closing her mouth but still breathing heavy through her nose, her jaw clenched. A lock of hair, darkened by rain, snakes under her left eye and across her nose.
I release her arms, but I don’t move. “Come on.” I hover over her, gazing down. “Hit me. Then I can hit you back and numb you like you want me to. Bullies are always in so much more pain than they inflict.”
Her wrists remain pinned to the grass, her stubborn, little chin unmoving and her eyes unwavering.
But I feel her, all the same. My legs around her body, my thighs hugging her… The cool, soft flesh of her wet legs presses against my calves.
All of a sudden, my smile falls, and I have no ambition to move. An amazing little buzz vibrates under my skin as I become aware of her body underneath mine.
Rain hits my skin like darts, but all I feel is the heat of her through our clothes.
She isn’t moving away. Why isn’t she trying to get away?
I leave her eyes, trailing my own down her neck, down her chest, her chilled nipples pressing against her bra, and down her stomach, feeling and seeing it shake in the inch between us, betraying the stone in her expression.
I shift my eyes back up to hers, a quiet laugh escaping my chest. She’s scared of me. She’s actually scared of me.
But why?
“Get off,” she spits out.
I just laugh again, lowering my face to hers a little more. “Scared I’ll like the position we’re in and make a move?” I tease. “Or are you scared you want me to make a move?”
She digs in her eyebrows, fucking quiet for once.
“Come on, it’s just like being with a man, Clay,” I mock, unable to hide my enjoyment as I lower my voice to a whisper. “You just open your legs.”
I let my gaze fall to her lips, the wheels in my head starting to turn.
She’s making no move to leave. I’m not holding her down.
“You just open your legs,” I say again.
We lie in the field, in full view of anyone who decides to come by, but she doesn’t seem worried about that.
It’s pouring rain. We’re alone.
Just the two of us.
And for a moment, I feel my heart stop. I’m just joking, but what if she does let her legs fall open? What will I do?
An invisible cord pulls at my hips, urging me to close the distance between us, but I won’t. Even if the world falls off its axis and turns upside down, I’ll never want her.
“You make me want to puke,” she says quietly. “Dirty dyke.”
“I bet your daddy likes it dirty,” I retort. “In his fuckpad in Miami?”
Her face falls just a hair but enough, and I know I’ve touched a nerve. She’s probably wondering how the hell I know about that? And does anyone else know?
I go on. “When he’s not here trying to take away my family’s land and kick the rest of Sanoa Bay off its ancestral home, that is,” I explain. “I bet Callum Ames likes it dirty, too. When his family’s not busy bragging about its long history of shipping every Seminole out of Florida.”
I reach into my pocket, pulling out the copper key with the triangular head that opens a door at Fox Hill. I hold it between us, because while it represents a prime example of how those “with” victimize those “without” and how there are still men in this world who see women as something to be used, I’m not above using it to my advantage either.
“When your men are not all busy, patting each other on the back for making St. Carmen clean and white,” I continue. “When they’re hidden away in places, far from where their frilly, frigid wives and girlfriends who drink white wine and like, decorate and shit…”
She stares at the key, a ton of questions probably racing through her mind, but her pride won’t let her give in to ask me.
“Things you’ll never have to know about,” I tell her, “because you and your mother are dumb and boring and you can’t understand the world beyond your own low level of perception.” I stare down at her. “Everyone likes it dirty, Clay. Everyone likes it, period.” I get in her face, and I feel my breath bounce off her lips. “Especially Callum Ames.”
Her expression is unreadable, unchanging, but her chest moves up and down harder but not faster. Like she’s feeling things but not angry.
“He’s going to cheat on you,” I point out. “Because women like you are displayed. A statue will never be good for anything else.”
Water pools in her eyes, the blue looking like jewels, and I falter.
What the hell am I doing? This is the kind of shit she would say. I’m sinking to her level. This kind of behavior makes my world smaller, and I’m never cruel.
I catch sight of her wrists, still by her head, on the grass. The tattoo I saw the other day peeks out between her fingers.
An inch . That’s what it looks like. Five lines, two of them smaller, looking like the quarter inch marks on a ruler. She hides the tattoo well enough that most people won’t notice it, but not so well that she never sees it. It’s important only to her.
What does it mean?
But then, she closes her fist, hiding it again.
I meet her eyes. What few tears she might’ve had there are now gone, and so is my fight. I don’t give a shit what’s underneath her layers. We all have problems and don’t treat people like dogs, and I’m not giving Clay Collins the power to change me. I won’t let her make me cruel.
Maybe I was an asshole just now, but she’ll always be one.
I climb to my feet, grabbing my stick off the ground and wipe the water off my face. Without a word, I head off the field.
Heading past the bleachers, I pull out my key ring again, unlocking the women’s locker room door. Staying late and coming in on weekends and vacations to sew costumes and build sets has its perks.
I stalk through the room, open another door, and step into the school hallway, my shoes squeaking against the terracotta tile. I pass the courtyard, rain hitting the palms and flower beds and splashing off the stone benches. I veer left toward the theater and just then, I hear the locker room door swing open again, down the hall right behind me.
Jesus Christ. She hasn’t had enough, I guess.
Diving into the theater, I climb up on the stage and head behind the curtain, down to the dressing rooms. I pull open the wardrobe in the hallway, seeing discontinued sets of school sweats and T-shirts sitting folded on the shelves. The theater director keeps the never-been-used, out-of-date overstock here for rehearsals when someone gets covered in fake blood, rain, or whatever else the production calls for.
Clay’s footfalls hit the steps, and I grab my sizes and turn, leaving the cabinet open as I brush past her.
“What’s the key for?” she asks.
I head back up to the stage, ignoring her, and pull off my shorts and tank top. Clothes drop to the table next to me, and I hear her start to strip her wet stuff.
“You wouldn’t have shown me it if it wasn’t important,” she continues.
“Your dress is ready,” I say, ignoring her question. “Unless you want me to fuck it up in all the ways your mother will hate. But it’ll cost you.”
She arches an eyebrow, tossing her wet leggings.
Will I really redesign her dress? If she pays, sure. I kind of like the idea of her wearing something I made, because she wouldn’t if she didn’t like it. Plus, she’ll remember me every time she sees pictures of herself in it. For the next fifty years.
“What was that key?” she asks again, pulling on some dark gray sweats, matching mine. Marymount runs down the left leg in big yellow letters.
I don’t answer her.
I pick up my sweats and lift my leg to put them on, but she lashes out and pushes me. I chuckle, stumbling back and drop the pants.
Darting out my hands, I shove her back. She stumbles but rights herself, squaring her shoulders.
I swipe my pants off the ground, not backing down. Clay doesn’t lay her hands on me unless we’re on the field. She might use the opportunity from time to time to be rough at practice, and the fact that she’s upped her game off the field means she’s desperate to get under my skin.
Because time is running out.
“What is that key for?” she demands again.
I shake out the pants again, dusting off any dirt from the floor. “It’s to a party.”
“When?”
“It’s kind of a pop-up.” My eyes go to the ceiling, trying to act casual.
“And you need a key to get in?”
“I guess so.”
She snatches the sweats out of my hands, approaching me in her pants and sports bra. “And who will be at this party? Anyone I know?”
I laugh under my breath. What would she do if I told her right now? She’d believe it. Clay isn’t stupid.
I narrow my eyes. I don’t want to tell her yet, though .
“Megan Martelle?” she asks, inching in. “Is that who you’re partying with?”
She’s especially obsessed with our coach’s assistant. Why?
When I say nothing, she backs away, a gleam in her eyes as she holds mine and digs in her duffel bag. Pulling out her phone, she starts tapping away. “Olivia Jaeger has a key to earn her A,” she recites as she types. “To Martelle’s apartment, so Teach can tongue her cunt all day…”
I take a step toward her. My enjoyment is gone.
She looks up, cocking her head. “That’s only a hundred characters,” she muses. “Still so much space.”
A tweet has two-hundred-eighty. I tense. She’s not going to tweet that. She wouldn’t.
“What rhymes with strap-on?” she inquires, an innocent pinch between her brows.
I lunge for the phone, ready to show her exactly how well she’d fare on my side of the tracks.
“Just because I don’t fucking punch you doesn’t mean I wasn’t taught how,” I growl. “Knock it off.”
But she slips back, holding her phone. “Drop your bra,” she tells me instead.
I lift my chin. What the hell is wrong with her?
“Drop your bra!” she bellows.
I startle, wincing. “Drop your phone.”
I’ll drop my bra for her, but no pictures.
She sets it down but grabs a Sharpie off the table, instead. Walking slowly, she stops in front of me, and I keep my eyes locked on hers as I reach behind me, unhook my black sports bra, and let it fall to the floor.
I hold back my flinch at the goddamn amusement written all over her face.
Let her make fun of me. Let her say what she’s going to say. She doesn’t want to send that tweet. Not really. This is what she wants. Me humiliated.
She doesn’t do anything for several moments, almost as if she’s trying to decide what to do at all, but then…
She lowers her gaze.
She stares at me, unblinking, and everything is hot under the scrutiny of her eyes. Her lips fall apart, and I don’t think she breathes.
Chills spread over my skin.
“I didn’t…” she trails off, and then clears her throat. “I didn’t realize your hips were wide enough to birth a full-grown linebacker.” She uncaps the marker. “Your skirt hides it well.”
Fuck you.
She sinks to her knees, watching me the whole time. “Should I let you keep your panties on?”
“Do you want me to take them off?”
Dare me. I stare at her, willing her to have the fucking guts.
But she draws in a deep breath, instead. “Your brother…” she says. “He was looking at me the other morning when he dropped you off, wasn’t he?”
I clench my jaw.
“I didn’t mind it. You want to take a picture of me for him?” She tsks. “Those Jaeger men… Definitely not the kind you marry, but that’s kind of what’s so hot about them.”
What the hell is she talking about?
“Something hot about being used for something that feels so good?”
I study her, waiting for the fucking point.
“But Iron isn’t in charge of the family. It’s Macon, right?” She peers up at me. “Your oldest brother?”
I almost laugh. Messing with Macon will take a hell of a lot more than she has.
Her eyes fall down my legs and back up over my panties and up my breasts. “What would you do if I came out of his room one morning?” she nearly whispers. “Would you be angry? Would you warn him against me?”
Her wet hair clings to her shoulders, her soft lips and glowing skin so much more beautiful without makeup.
And an image of her sneaking out of my brother’s room in a towel, after being in his bed, hits me, and I look away.
“Or would you wish I was in your room, instead?” she murmurs.
My chest caves a little, a picture of her nestled in my sheets coming unbidden to my thoughts.
I glare back. “I’d wish you well,” I say calmly. “I have brothers to spare, and it looks like you need one.”
Anger blazes in her eyes, her chest rising and falling in heavy breaths all of a sudden.
Take what you want from me, and do it in the next three months, bitch.
She yanks my panties down my legs, and I stumble with the force, feeling her strip them from my feet in moments.
I gasp, my hands going to cover myself, but I stop, begging her to remind me that I hate her and this school and need to get out of here. Let her push me until I’m running for the state line.
“Oh, exquisite,” she coos.
Tears well in my chest. I can feel them rising to my eyes as the Sharpie digs into my skin. I look anywhere but at her.
“Just a few suggestions,” she says, writing on me, “because poor or not, these things can be fixed.”
She starts circling areas of my stomach, my inner thighs, and making notes on my calves and toes.
Nudging me around, she pushes me until I’m damn-near prostrating over the table, but I take it, even as the bile rises up my throat and I’m dying to just kick her teeth in.
She won’t get in trouble. She never did, so I stopped telling anyone, especially my brothers, because they would only get arrested for retaliating for me.
No. I will deal with this. When I know I can’t get expelled.
She writes under my ass. “Some squats will take care of this.”
Rising, she lifts each arm, shaking it to see if there’s fat, and then circles the offending bits in marker, so I can take note.
She marks the area under my belly button and my bikini line, and circles whatever muffin-top she imagines is at my hips. She writes words I refuse to look down and read and inspects me with her hands, trailing and squeezing, accompanied by laughs here and there.
“I just can’t get over the state of you,” she gripes. “Jesus, you’re an athlete. There’s no excuse.”
A golf ball swells in my throat, stretching it so painfully I can barely hold back the tears.
But even as the hurt grows and grows, so do the bricks inside me.
Keep going, Clay. Please keep going.
She rises, caps her marker, and looks me dead in the eye, an inch between us. “You should thank me,” she whispers. “Surviving me will give you all the tools you need when you leave me.”
I look at her through the water in my own eyes, faltering. Leave her?
“Just like your mother left you,” she says.
Excuse me? If she thinks she knows shit about my mother…
But she just shakes her head. “Trysta, right? Trysta Jaeger and her six kids that she left when she hung herself in her fucking bathroom.”
I exhale hard, grinding my teeth together. I am nothing like my mother. I’m not abandoning Clay. I’ll fucking run from her.
She backs away, tossing the marker onto the table and grabs her bag, T-shirt, and phone. “Tell Lavinia I’ll be in to pick up the dress on Tuesday.”
And she spins around, heads offstage, and disappears.
I wait until I hear the heavy back door slam shut, and then I let out a breath.
A couple of tears spill to the floor as I glance down at my body. But immediately look away before I can take in everything she did to me.
I pick up the sweats and pull them on as quickly as I can, followed by the T-shirt. I look around, finding my shoes, but…
I don’t see my underwear.
Where the hell are my underwear?
I swing around left and again right, lifting up my wet clothes, but I don’t see them anywhere.
My shoulders slump. She took them. What is she going to do with them?
Goddammit. I wipe my tears before any more can fall, take my stuff, and leave the theater, shoes in hand.
It’s still raining outside, but I don’t run to my car. My energy is gone. I walk.
She knows where to hit, doesn’t she? She could do or say anything. She could have my brothers arrested with the slightest accusation.
She could have Martelle fired.
She could probably get Dartmouth to rescind my acceptance letter if she knew about it. All it would take is putting me in the path of scandal or arrest, and Dartmouth would wash their hands of me.
She didn’t go for those kills, though. Putting herself in my house, at my table, in one of my brothers’ beds… Home wouldn’t even be safe for me anymore.
I drive through town, speeding because I’m anxious, but I don’t want to go home.
Looking over, I see the dress shop ahead, the Closed sign hanging on the door. Without thinking, I swing right and pull into a parking space.
Leaving my shoes in the car, I grab my keys out of my backpack on the passenger seat and climb out of the car. I run to the shop, unlocking the door and diving inside.
Miss Lavinia must’ve decided to stay closed today with the weather, but I know she has calls forwarded in case someone has an emergency.
I twist the lock again, leaving the lights off as I trail to the workroom.
She offered to take me on as an apprentice last year, maybe run the shop together someday. While I guess I’m good at sewing, and I kind of enjoy designing, I only learned it as part of being as useful as I can be at the theater. It’s not what I want to do forever.
I’m thankful for this job, though. At least it’s not a drive-thru.
I step inside the large room, keeping the lights off, but light streams through the windows, rain pummeling the panes. There’s a couch I want to crash on below the bulletin boards on the left wall, but I spot a dress laying on the table, pins stuck in the hem. Clay had wanted the length shortened.
Walking over, I pick up the dress, looking down at the Collins’ heirloom that I knew Clay’s grandmother and mother had both worn. I’d seen the pictures.
Once in a while, after Lavinia is gone for the night, I try on some of the dresses I’ve altered. Sometimes I wonder if I’d have turned out more girly, if my mother had stuck around. By the time makeup and clothes started to interest me, she was gone and we were even poorer than when my parents were alive. A lot of what I owned before I could start making my own money was whatever no longer fit Trace.
I fist the neckline in both hands, bringing it to my nose and smell the fabric.
Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to be up on that riser as just a girl, excited for something special to happen to me, with my mom arguing with me about what to do with my hair.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to not be me. To live a life where every single step didn’t have to be so hard.
I tighten my fists around the dress, breathing hard and shallow as my gaze grows hotter on the fabric. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be Clay.
And before I can stop myself, I stretch my arms wide, hard and fast, the ancient silk screaming as it tears in two.
