I RACE DOWN the field, sweat dripping down my back as the lights shine overhead. The crowd in the stands cheers or yells unintelligible orders like they’d be doing any better if they were out here.
Skidding to a halt, I whip around, find Clay, and pound my stick on the grass twice. “Here!” I shout.
She meets my eyes, both of us panting, and tosses the ball over to Ruby Ingram instead. I squeeze my fist around the stick, grit my teeth, and watch for all of two seconds before fucking Ruby loses the ball, and the other team speeds back down the field toward our goal with their prize.
Goddammit, Clay.
I dart off after the ball, shooting a glare at her before running past. What the hell is her problem? She wants to win, doesn’t she? Does she think this makes me look bad? No. It’s on her.
The attacker passes the ball, but I race up, scoop it up, and whip around, shooting it over to Amy. She runs, everyone changes directions, and I barrel after her, digging in my heels and on guard as I watch the ball go to Krisjen, who hesitates too long.
“Krisjen!” I bark. Her nervous eyes jerk to me and she flips her stick, only too happy to be rid of the damn thing. I catch it, run and swerve, and shoot. The ball hits the net, the goalie unable to react fast enough.
“Yeahhhhhhhh!” I hear my brothers roar from the stands in between whistles.
But I’m not happy. I walk up to Clay, slamming my shoulder into hers as others run around us. “Stop fucking up,” I growl as I pass.
“What?” she taunts. “I just love watching you haul ass, is all.”
Yeah, right . Her ponytail bounces as she runs ahead, and I almost wish Coomer would bench me. It’s amazing how fast Clay can deplete my motivation.
Krisjen passes the ball to her, and she catches it, running toward me. I back up, holding my stick, ready to catch, but she shoots it over my head. Mercedes Peron goes for it, but an Eagle player knocks her into the ground. The ball rolls away.
I shoot daggers at Clay. I’m going to kill her. She’s sabotaging this on purpose. Trying to prove no one needs me.
But just then, Clay pulls off her eyewear, wipes the sweat off her forehead, and looks anything but pleased with herself.
“Collins!” Coach shouts, but Clay refuses to make eye contact.
Mercedes holds out her hands, questioning Clay. “I thought you were passing it to Jaeger.”
“Just shut up,” Clay bites out.
The midfielders engage and Amy takes the ball, looking for Clay, but I rush over just as she shoots it, grabbing it with my stick and knocking Clay to the ground. I don’t even look down to see her reaction, and I don’t care if I get in trouble. I’m not letting her screw this up.
Racing down the field, I pass it to Amy who passes it to Lena Marcus who shoots and scores. I smile, backing up and ready for the ball to come back into play.
But when I look back, Clay is on the sidelines, Coomer giving her a good tongue-lashing. Clay stands there, her defiant little chin stern as always, and Megan stands near them, looking at me and biting back her smile.
I’m not smiling anymore, though. Clay isn’t looking at the coach. She’s looking at me, her breathing calm and even like she doesn’t give a shit.
Why is she doing this? What does she want?
I don’t have time to ponder too long, because plays start up again and it’s pedal to the metal for the last twenty minutes of the game. Clay re-enters, avoiding me again and ignoring the coach, running the ball to the goal herself and securing our win at eleven over five.
I don’t feel like celebrating, though. I just want to get out of here and away. Grabbing my shit, I walk for the parking lot, not staying for the coach’s little talk after the game and see Trace jogging up to me right before he lifts me into his arms. “O-liv-i-a!” he screams. “Ma bitch! Four goals!”
And despite my anger, I laugh as he swings me around.
He sets me down, and Iron brings me in for a hug. “Congratulations, kiddo.”
“Thanks.”
Dallas and Army walk up behind them, parents and everyone else on the bleachers slowly spilling into the parking lot to head home.
I look around. “Where’s Macon?”
He said he’d come to this one.
But by the look in Army’s eyes, I already know the answer. “Had to stay and get shit done, kid.”
Yeah. I look away. I know.
“Come on.” Trace nudges me, trying to cheer me up. “Mariette’s. I’m starving.”
“Me too,” Iron adds, taking my gear bag from me.
They pull me along, some of the girls leaving with their parents who came to watch, too, and others celebrating in the parking lot.
We pile into the truck, Iron tosses my bag into the bed, and Dallas starts the engine. I peer out the window as he shifts it into gear, seeing Clay leaning against the bus and scrolling through her phone.
It’s not unusual until I notice our other teammates laughing with friends and getting hugs from proud parents. Don’t Clay’s parents usually come to the games? Thinking back, I guess I can’t remember.
Maybe I should be less mad Macon never shows and just be grateful someone does.
“So, your birthday’s soon,” Army says from the front seat.
“Huh?”
He turns his head, looking at me. “The twenty-ninth. It’s in a little over a week.”
I wiggle my eyebrows. “What are you getting me?”
A car? Please say it’s a car.
“A stripper,” he replies.
Trace and Iron laugh, but I’m not impressed, because he’s most likely not joking. “I have taste you can’t afford.”
“What are you talking about?” he replies. “Flamingo Flo’s has top-notch ladies.”
“Flamingo Flo’s employs hillbilly meth-heads,” I shoot back.
Army snorts, and everyone laughs again, knowing that’s all too true, and I sit back, shaking my head.
But my smile fades a little. They’re just joking, but they wouldn’t be against it, either. Would they suggest getting me a stripper if I were into guys? No, they only feel the need to protect me from men, as if my relationships with women are less of a threat. As if they’re not real.
They would never let a man give me a lap dance.
I stare out the window, the music blasting and Trace digging into the cooler between us and cracking a beer.
I’ll miss them, but… I’m dying to leave here. To feel like I belong somewhere. To maybe meet someone.
I don’t have anything here.
There’s no one like me.
• • •
“Up!” Army shouts.
Everyone lifts their glasses into the air, clinking as the cheap tiki torches around the patio of Mariette’s burn in the evening air, and I smile, absolutely taking the shot of Patrón Army lets me have, since Macon’s not around.
“This could be it!” We all shout back in unison. “Salud!”
“Salud!” Army follows.
We shoot the tequila, my brothers laughing at me when I immediately chase it with a sip of Coke.
As long as they’re around, I can typically have a drink or two, but the quick plummet from “I feel fantastic and love everyone” to “Oh my God, what have I done?”, and wasting a whole day recovering from a hangover, was a lesson I only needed to learn once. Ever since, I drink sparingly and almost never hard liquor.
But it’s a special occasion tonight. I just scored four goals, I got into Dartmouth, my birthday is coming up, and the lawyer got Iron off with community service if he promises to also attend counseling.
As if a therapist is going to help my brother not slam a waiter’s head into a table for getting smart with him. I wish I could say Iron risks his freedom for something more substantial, like money or power, but honestly, I’d think less of him if he were that shallow. The anger, I understand.
And he only uses it on others. Never his family.
We sit outside, the sea breeze beyond the swamp blowing through the cypresses and tupelos, the scent of the moss stinging my nostrils, but quickly calmed by the sand and salt following it.
Everyone slams their glasses down on the wooden table, the wind cooling my scalp and making the umbrellas flap overhead.
I dig into my ice cream sundae as Aracely drops two platters of crawfish onto the table and sits. She dated Iron, then Dallas, and now Army uses her to help with Dex, even though she’s not his mother. We all know she’s just in between brothers temporarily, so she just kind of sticks around as an honorary member of the family to help out. And to be a pain in my ass. Like the sister I never wanted.
Army fills his beer from the pitcher, and Dallas and Trace dig into the seafood, pinching off the tails, sucking the heads, and grab the meat with their teeth. In no time, the newspaper covering the table is littered with decapitated crawdads, and I laugh as Army shows his son how to peel a shell.
I stare at Dex, my smile faltering. I’m going to miss a lot when I do leave, won’t I? His first steps and first words. And after I’m gone, who will be next? Trace, maybe? He’s searching for his niche away from our older brothers.
Dallas, most definitely. All he’s waiting for is someone to go first and give him permission to seek out the things Macon tells us we’re selfish for wanting.
Army will marry someone to give Dex a mom, and Iron may end up in prison regardless of whether or not I stay.
But I look around the table at all the faces, the big smiles and bright eyes and how they look like they have everything they need, right here, right now, because we have each other.
It’s not enough for me. It’s never been enough. But I don’t want it to change either. When I come back home, I want to know they’re here. All of them. On our land. Safe and sound.
The key sits in the bag on the back of my chair, weighing heavy on my mind.
I wish Macon was here. Not at home, avoiding us, too consumed with his responsibilities to enjoy his family.
I don’t remember my father well. There are images. Feelings. That’s it. I was too young, but when I think about what I do remember, it’s almost as if he was another brother. He never disciplined me, yelled at me, or lost his temper. Iron and Dallas took the lead on that when I made a mess or failed a test or sassed back.
My father, I only saw at the end of the day. When he was tired. Relaxed. Happy to be home from work. I would sit with him on the recliner, eating popcorn and watching Ironman . It was like spending time with Trace, my friends, or a grandpa you only spent minimal hours with once a month.
Macon had joined the military by the time I was old enough to remember anything. Significantly older than me, he was the one I feared when I should’ve feared my father. Here was this soldier I didn’t know walking through our front door once a year, always lurking around the perimeter of a room, there but never quite present. He didn’t smile as easily as Army, or crack jokes like Trace. I never felt safe enough to wrap myself around his leg, torturing him until he gave me a brownie like I did with Dallas, and he was never around to protect me like Iron.
And while I knew he was my parents’ first and was raised in our house, I started to wonder more as I grew older if he’d ever really lived with any of these people. I wasn’t the only one he seemed cold to.
He reminded me of our mother. There was a cloud following them both, and you can still see it in his eyes, even now. There’s something that wasn’t as easy for them as it was for the rest of us.
And when I was eleven and he hit me, it devastated me more than losing both of my parents within eight weeks of each other that previous year. I cried and cried, not because the spanking hurt, but because I felt hated.
Because he hated me.
At least that’s what I thought until later that night when I found him sitting at the kitchen bar, his head in his hands as he quietly cried in the dark.
He never apologized, but he never did it again. And over time I came to understand that my oldest brother was only twenty-three that night, and twenty-three is still so young. That he was suddenly in charge of three minors to feed and clothe, a mountain of debt, and the prospect that life would never be more than this for him. That even when we grew up, Iron would always be a problem, and Army and Trace would be bringing babies into the world they couldn’t support on their own. Macon would be the one everyone turned to, because he was the “adult.” He always took care of us. You always felt lonely in a room with him, but you were never alone, and if we took anything into this world, it was that.
We didn’t know if he loved us, but he would always stay.
I could rely on him like I never could my mother, and I craved his approval and respect like I never did with my father. I look around the table again, wishing he was here. What is he doing now? What does he do when he’s alone?
“Fuckin’ Saints think they own this place already,” I hear someone say.
I blink, snapping out of my thoughts as I set my sundae aside. I look up, following my brothers’ gazes.
Milo Price and Callum Ames eye us as they head up the sidewalk to the entrance of the restaurant, followed by Becks and Krisjen. Becks waves at me, offering a contrite smile that says she tried to talk them out of it. I don’t wave back, but Aracely looks between us, and I can just tell this is all my fault. Somehow.
“They never will,” Trace replies. “They will never own this place.”
I yank over one of the trays and start in on what crawfish is left, wishing they were just here to eat, but I know they’re not. Why else would they cross the tracks to dine at a mosquito-infested, converted garage with rolls of paper towels instead of napkins on the tables and peeling linoleum floors?
Sanoa Bay is an unincorporated neighborhood of St. Carmen, but it may as well be the moon. They’re Saints. We’re Swamp. We share a zip code. That’s it.
Aracely starts mumbling under her breath, and then she hikes up the volume, barking something in Spanish. I flick my gaze to Army and see he’s already eyeing me. Like Macon, he speaks Spanish and understands her. Unfortunately, by the time Iron was born, our parents got tired and stopped raising their children bilingual.
But Army’s face tells me she’s talking about me. Like I didn’t already know that.
“Just don’t,” I tell her.
She shrugs. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Yeah, every time you’re not talking to me, you’re speaking Spanish,” I snap back. “They’re not my friends, okay?”
I didn’t invite them. Just because we go to the same school…
“You’re with them more than you’re home,” she counters.
A bitter laugh catches in my throat, and I straighten up, looking around the table for support. “I’m at school. Or work. Or practice.”
Iron sighs, trying to keep the peace. “It’s okay.”
But he says it to me as if I’m the asshole losing my temper here. She started it.
“I mean, what does she want from me?” I bark back at him. “Macon sent me to Marymount, I didn’t want to go. I’m not one of them.”
She spits something back in Spanish again and I can make out enough to hear, “Are you one of us ?”
Gritting my teeth, I shove my chair and storm from the table as a couple of my brothers groan and Iron grumbles something to his ex.
Stepping into the restaurant, I ignore the looks my direction and head for the bathroom, but think twice, needing fresh air instead. Heading right, I push through the double doors, seeing staff look up from their work, but I’m out the back door before Mariette has a chance to ask me what I’m doing in her kitchen.
Letting the door slam shut, I draw in a deep breath of thick air and fall back against the wall, the music of the locusts and frogs filling the night in the thicket beyond. Trees stretch high past the dirt road, and I can see the faint touch of moonlight on the water that still looks green despite how dark it is.
I stare ahead, lost in thought again.
My family thinks they’re strong, but we’re as brittle as a pie crust. With the knowledge that we’re together, it gives us confidence, but leaving will diminish that just enough for Dallas to leave next. And then Trace and Army, and Iron, and what will all of Macon’s sacrifices be for?
I hate that he’s asking me to stay, but I know why he feels owed. If I leave, I’ll find success, but it’ll be at the expense of my home. And I love my family.
Tears fill my eyes, and for the first time in my life, I realize what Macon must’ve felt when he left the Marines.
And I know exactly what would’ve happened to us if he hadn’t. Where would I have been without him?
“Lost?” someone says.
I turn my head, seeing Megan approach. Her blonde hair blurs, and I wipe my eyes, standing up straight and clearing my throat.
“No.” I force a laugh. “You?”
“Not at all.” She holds up a brown, plastic grocery bag, one of Mariette’s pie boxes inside.
Scratch what I said about the Saints crossing the tracks for no reason. The key lime pie here is the draw, they just always get it to-go.
She stops in front of me, and I avoid her gaze until I blink away the rest of the tears.
“Don’t cry,” she whispers.
“I don’t cry.”
I put a smile on my face and finally raise my eyes, running my hand through my hair. A cool sweat dampens my back, and I slide my hands into my jean shorts pockets, watching her eyes drop for a moment to my cleavage that disappears down my loose tank top.
My skin pricks.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, sounding genuinely concerned.
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
I’m so confused, I don’t know where to begin.
“Then, what’s good?” she teases.
A laugh escapes me, and I lean against the wall of the restaurant again, relaxing.
Coming in close, she touches my face with her free hand and my heart skips, closing my eyes and liking it more than I want to. I’m a little vulnerable right now, and I’m kind of tempted to forget that she’s an authority figure. Even if she is only a year or so older than me.
“So busy collecting stones.” She tsks. “You’re missing the diamonds.”
Tears well again, and I know she’s right. I have so many people who love me, and I’m whining.
“I just want to share joy with someone,” my breathing shakes as tears spill through my closed eyes. “I don’t want to be alone in everything I do. Fuck…”
School. Home. Work. The theater. There’s always opposition, and I’m rarely the one in control.
“No one is on my side,” I whisper, meeting her eyes.
It only lasts the span of a breath, but she holds my gaze and I stop breathing, her blonde hair and blue eyes the only thing I see before she’s on me. Her mouth melts into mine, and I only hesitate a moment before I slide my arms around her.
God…
I grip her slim waist, pressing my body into hers, and her groan vibrates down my throat as I squeeze my eyes shut and taste the heat on her breath. Intoxicated.
Or would you wish I was in your room instead? A voice carries me away.
Taking her face in one hand, I spin her around and back her into the wall, her long, silky hair draping down her back, across to tickle my other hand.
I thread her hair through my fingers, feeling its soft silkiness, and nibble her mouth as a moan escapes me.
“Liv,” she begs, her mouth trailing across my cheek and down my neck as she grinds into me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping her hair at her scalp, the urge to go too hard overcoming me. God, I can’t fucking stop. I take her throat in my hand and force her head back, sucking and biting her lips and relishing the feel of her body in my hands.
I’ll show her what she gets for treating me like her fucking servant. For sabotaging all our team’s hard work, and for never being kind to me.
And for letting that punk-ass frat boy touch her. What the hell does she see in him? He has an alarming array of pastel-colored Polo shirts, because he needs to let everyone know he’s a white-as-fuck, roofie-jungle-juice-making Chad.
I kiss her hard, my blood boiling down my arms.
She whimpers, and I’m not sure if it’s pleasure or pain. “Liv.”
“Don’t talk.” I pull away and take her hand. “Get in the car.”
I nod toward Dallas’s Mustang and advance on her as she backs up toward it. Her steps are slow, as if she’s unsure, but her chest rises and falls, and I know she wants it.
I don’t look at her face.
The door opens, I climb in the seat after her, and close the door, pulling her into my arms.
“We’ll be seen,” she murmurs against my lips.
I press my forehead to hers, running my thumb over her bottom lip and almost smelling that perfume that made me want to bury my nose in her skin the first time I saw her. “Sanoa is where secrets go to breathe,” I tell her.
No one cares what we do here. Here, you can have me all you want.
“You won’t tell anyone?” she asks.
Megan’s worried about losing her job for fucking around with a student.
The girl in my head is worried about her boyfriend discovering what really makes her come.
“I won’t tell anyone,” I say.
And I pull her in, slipping my tongue into her mouth and my hand up her skirt.
She moans, the pulse in her neck throbbing against my fingers as she squirms.
“I’ve wanted you for so long,” she tells me.
I pause, the spell starting to break. “Don’t say that.” I tip her chin down and force her eyes to me. “Say you hate me. Tell me to stop.”
“But I…”
“Say it.” I nudge her back against the door and hover over her. “Call me swamp trash and tell me to stop.”
I dive into her neck as she stutters and tries to find the words that will please me, but she’s confused.
“Say it.” I grab the back of her neck, squeezing my eyes shut and rubbing her through her panties.
“Stop,” she gasps. “I hate you, you fucking trash. I hate you.”
I find her clit through the fabric, rubbing circles and hearing her moan again as she opens her legs wider.
“Yeah?” I lick her mouth. “But you’re so wet. You don’t want this?”
And I slip my finger inside, caressing her bare skin.
She gasps.
“Or this?” I taunt, sliding another one in.
“Stop.” She kisses me back, breathing hard. “Ah, stop. No.”
Mmm, no.
And all the while I’m trembling as she grabs for me and holds me close and wants me in our secret place where no one can see us, because I want it to be real, too. I want Clay Collins in this fucking car and to love me so much she can’t stand it.
Just so I won’t be alone anymore.
That’s how pathetic I am. Fantasizing over a straight girl who believes I deserve nothing good in this world, because I think hate-fucking her would make me feel powerful. Because I don’t love her and I don’t like her, but I feel something about her, and whatever it is, it’s strong, and I need it. I want to throw her down and put my teeth on her and feel hers on me, but at the end, make her come and kiss her mouth and let her finally know that there was one nice memory of me.
Oh, yeah. There was one.
I start to shake, and I can’t catch my breath. I growl, pulling off Martelle and sit back in the seat, not sure if I’m angry for using her, or disgusted that I tried to make her play the role of someone who will never deserve me.
There’s no love here, but that didn’t matter, did it? The hate turned me on. Jesus, I’m fucked up.
“Olivia?” I hear the leather seat grind under her weight as she sits up.
She reaches for me, but I pull away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done this. This was wrong.”
I don’t know why it’s wrong. It feels good. Clay probably let that jackass fuck her, and I know she doesn’t love him, so why do I feel guilty?
Megan moves in closer. “Are you okay?”
But I swing open the door and climb out. “It’s not your fault,” I tell her, but I can’t get away from her fast enough. “I’ll see you at school.”
And I leave the door open for her, quickly escaping back into Mariette’s. The embarrassment settles over me of what she must think, but there’s nothing I can do about it. She won’t talk. I’m a student—and still technically a minor. I’m safe.
I slip into the employee restroom on the opposite wall to wash my hands and splash some water on my face, yanking two paper towels out of the dispenser.
I hold my eyes in the mirror as a tornado whirls around me that I can’t seem to stop. Have some damn control. You’re better than this.
It’s just the pressure. The play and college and Clay… Lots at once.
And Callum. I’m just tired of taking it.
I swing open the door and walk through the kitchen, into the restaurant and around the divider. I stop at Callum’s table, Becks and Krisjen sitting in the booth opposite of him and Milo. There’s a round of sodas in front of everyone, and a basket of fries in the middle.
“You’re not welcome here,” I remind them calmly. “Not in the Bay.”
They know this.
Callum looks up, a gleam in his eyes as he cocks his head. “We just want to eat,” he tells me. “I hear your Cuban sandwich is the best around.”
“Mariette?” I call out, pulling my blade out of my back pocket and leaving it sheathed at my side. “This table wants their order to go .”
Callum’s eyes drop to the switchblade, trying to hold back his smile. “I would think you’d like to see more business in your neighborhood.” He sighs. “I would think my understudy would be more grateful.”
Oh, yes . I’m grateful for the scraps. Thanks for reminding me that nothing good comes unless by the good graces of the rich and beautiful.
“If it were up to me, you’d have the part,” he taunts. “If it were up to me.”
And his meaning isn’t lost. It’s not up to him. It’s up to me and whether I use that key.
I slide the switch, the blade unsheathing, and I watch him watch the knife, ready.
“You know those clapping games little girls play?” I ask him. “They seem silly and frivolous, but actually they teach motor coordination and dexterity.”
The girls at the table stiffen as Milo watches in amusement, safely shielded by Callum.
I hear the screen door behind me swing open and shut, bouncing against the doorframe a couple of times.
I hold up the knife and lay my hand down on the table. “But I always liked the boys’ game instead,” I tell him. “You ever play stabberscotch?”
A couple of shadows fall over me, and Trace’s body spray wafts through my nostrils.
“Thirty seconds.” I balance the tip of the knife on my palm and then flip it, catching it. “If I don’t cut myself, you take your fucking slugs and get out of here.” I look at Krisjen, the nice one. “And that means you too.”
She keeps her mouth shut, simply looking to Callum to see what he’s going to do.
“And Becks can stay,” I add. She’s the only one I really like.
But then Callum asks, “Why should I make a deal to stay when you know I don’t have to leave?”
“As if you’ll have to leave anyway, right?” I fire back. “I’m a loser. I’ll lose.”
He laughs, but it’s a short, nervous one, and he doesn’t meet my eyes.
I smirk. “Scared?”
His gaze flickers to my brothers behind me, who stay quiet to see how this will play out, and is caught between a rock and hard place. Lose and he has to leave. Or they’ll make him leave.
And he’s smart enough to know that I never play games, so I wouldn’t play one unless I knew I could win.
So he does the only thing he can. “Not at all,” he finally replies. “I’ll take the bet.”
Flattening my left hand on the table, I spread my fingers wide and dig the point of the blade into first position, on the outside of my thumb.
But just then, I feel something, and that perfume hits me before I even see her. Her hand slides underneath mine, and I still as Clay covers my back, her breath on my ear.
“Scared?” she whispers.
I almost shove her off, but fine. I forge ahead. “Start the timer,” I tell Krisjen.
She brings up the app on her phone, hits the blue button, and I start, Clay’s hand underneath mine, thinking her presence will make my little heart patter so badly I’ll screw up. I’ll take that bet.
One-two, one-three, one-four, one-five, one-six, one-six, one-five, one-four…
I move the knife back and forth, between my fingers, faster and faster, my brothers clapping behind me to help me keep time.
“Faster,” Callum orders.
I move faster.
One-two, one-three, one-four, one-five, one-six, one-six, one-five, one-four… Moving through Clay’s and my fingers and back again, the heat from her hand moving through mine and up my arm to my chest.
I dig faster and faster, and harder, but after a moment, all I feel is her eyes on my neck, and I swear she moves in closer, inhaling through her nose.
Smelling me.
And that’s when I recognize the other scent on her. Vodka.
“Don’t stop,” she pants.
My eyelids flutter as her heart pounds against my arm.
The boys clap. Callum, Milo, Becks, and Krisjen watch the knife.
And even though Clay and I aren’t alone, it feels like it. They don’t hear her words.
“I dread the anticipation of pain more than the pain, don’t you?” she says in a low voice. “Most people don’t know when it’s coming. It’s worse when you know it’s coming.”
She speaks so softly. It’s not like her. What is she doing?
“Especially when you know it’s there every day,” she tells me.
I blink long and hard, heat flooding my body as the adrenaline rushes, because if I take my eyes off what I’m doing, I’m going to get hurt, but shit looks blurry now. Goddammit.
The girl is tail. That’s it. She’s a gutter human being and good for nothing else.
Her eyes linger on me, and I watch the timer, dropping to ten seconds left. One-two, one-three, one-four, one-five, one-six, one-six, one-five, one-four…
Her warm breath hits my neck. “Your skin looks like it’s on fire,” she whispers, and I swear I can feel her tongue.
Fuck. I groan, my stomach shaking, because she says it like she’s in pain.
“Olivia,” she pleads.
And my clit throbs, my hand trembles, and the knife slips, slicing right into the side of my middle finger.
Shit! Pain shoots through my hand, I drop the knife, and pull away, gritting my teeth.
Goddammit, Clay.
Laughter erupts at the table, and I turn back, seeing her slide onto Callum’s lap, a self-satisfied smile on her stupid face.
I suck the blood off my finger, looking for any on hers, but it doesn’t look like she was cut at all.
“She does have that effect on me, too,” Callum says, pulling Clay back into his body by her throat and kissing her cheek.
I glare down at her. “You did that on purpose.”
She leans forward, out of his hold, but his hands remain on her, roaming her back like she’s his.
Clay plucks a fry out of the basket, Krisjen’s all smiles as she relishes her bestie’s suave skill with the dyke.
“So what do we get now that we won?” Clay asks me, eating the fry.
“You get to stay,” Trace replies behind me.
“We could stay anyway.”
I pick up my blade, sheathing it and sticking it into my pocket.
“You know,” Clay continues, “I will actually be sorry when my father levels this place. Just think…” She looks over her shoulder at Callum. “We’re sitting right about the ninth hole, right? You’ve seen the blueprints?”
He nods, and Dallas steps forward, but I hold up my arm, keeping him back.
“Such a waste of good key lime pie,” Milo offers.
“Well, the new community needs restaurants,” Clay tells her. “We’ll give Mariette a job.”
And then she pins me with a look, and no matter what we do, they know they’ll win. Not today, but eventually.
“A key lime pie!” Callum calls out to the server. “To go!”
They all start to get up, but I stop them. “Cancel that!” I tell Mariette. And I look at Clay. “Night Tide. You can cross the tracks.”
This isn’t her against me. It’s Saints versus Swamp. Let’s have some fun before everything is gone.
Clay hesitates. “The administration doesn’t allow that. We have to stay in St. Carmen.”
Night Tide is a senior tradition. A scavenger hunt around town. All night. There’s usually unsanctioned drinking and a secret scavenger hunt that is also not allowed by the administration.
I give her a loaded look. “We won’t tell.”
Callum listens close as Clay ponders, her friends letting her make the call.
“All of us,” she says.
I nod.
“All night.”
I nod again.
“And we can go anywhere.”
“You can try,” I say.
I won’t lose again.
“Deal,” she says.
They rise from their seats, Callum dropping some money on the table as they filter past us, toward the door.
But Clay stops at my side, speaking low and close again. “And you owe me a new dress,” she says.
She leaves, and I smile to myself. Yeah, good luck with that.
“What are you doing?” Dallas yanks me around. “Macon won’t agree to that.”
I ignore him and leave the restaurant, passing Army, Iron, and Aracely without a word. I make the short trek down the road to my house, walking past the open workshop. Macon works on a motorcycle while a few of the local boys watch him with beers in their hands.
Safe in my room, I lock the door, plug my phone into the charger, and fall to my bed, keeping the room dark.
I stare above me, the streetlight outside glowing across the ceiling as some Kansas song vibrates through the walls from the garage. My white Christmas lights decorate my wrought-iron headboard and border the window frame, reminding me of spotlights in the dark of a stage.
I’m an actress, inside and out. For years, I played my part well, as if everything was according to script and I knew what was coming. No surprises.
But tonight, the snake inside uncoiled, and it felt good. My venom wasn’t like hers, so I never thought it was deadly. I’d given Clay too much power the last four years.
I smile in the dark. I’m poison. I can be poison, too.
I take my pillow underneath my head and hug it to my chest, squeezing the fabric in my fists and burying my nose in it.
My desire for her earlier was nothing. Just confusion.
Maybe I’m still attracted to her like I was years ago, before I realized how hideous she was.
Or maybe I just hate her so much that I want her to see my power. A kiss that turns into a bite. A fight that turns into a fuck.
Any way I slice it, it isn’t good. I’ve never been a violent person, and I don’t want to hurt people.
I just…I don’t know. She’s changing me. I want to affect her.
Curling on my side, I hold the pillow, letting go of the worry and planning for tomorrow.
For Clay. For the key.
And for the reality that I don’t want revenge or a fight. I want to have some fun.
I’m going to have fun on Night Tide.
“Liv?”
I stir, the fog in my brain lifting.
“Liv!” Two loud pounds hit my door, and I squeeze the pillow in my arms.
Sleep weighs heavy as I blink my eyes open, seeing a faint light stream through the windows.
Shit. I just laid down.
Didn’t I?
Turning over, I look at the clock, seeing it’s six fifty in the morning.
I shoot up, rubbing my eyes. Oh, my God. I slept in my clothes.
I clear my throat. “I’m up!”
“Can you make me a lunch to take to work?” Army asks. “Please? I’m swamped.”
Dex cries right outside the door, and I know he’s talking about the baby.
I nod, even though he can’t see me. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
Damn, it feels like I didn’t sleep at all. I don’t remember dozing off.
I straighten my arms, still wrapped around the pillow, and toss it off me.
The night before comes back, and I remember the deal I made with Clay.
I’m a little scared, but I’m a little excited too. And my head is clearer now. She not my enemy. She’s not that important. It’ll be an intense night, but I’ll make sure the Saints aren’t the only ones having fun.
My phone buzzes, and I grab it, climbing out of bed. I open my door, seeing Army walk with his kid down the hall. I close it again, stretching my arms above my head and feel the muscles and kinks crack in my back. I don’t think I moved all night.
My phone buzzes again, and I hold it up, swiping the screen. My toolbar is filled with notifications.
I narrow my eyes. What the hell did I miss while I slept? Damn.
I pick one and click on it, my chest immediately caving as my stomach rolls and vomit rises up my throat.
“What?” I choke out.
Clay.
No.
