“WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU TWO?” Lynn stares at Cass and me quizzically, assessing our weird behaviour.
Neither of us answer. We both keep our gazes firmly trained on our breakfasts, ignoring the half-naked elephant in the room.
I don’t think we’ve looked at each other once since the debacle yesterday. I can’t bring myself to, not after he saw me in barely-there lingerie literally on the brink of an orgasm. It took everything in me to even step foot back in this house; I wouldn’t have if Lynn hadn’t insisted on a family brunch.
Lynn clicks her tongue, unimpressed. “I thought this fighting was done.”
“We’re not fighting,” we grumble simultaneously. Momentarily, I catch his eye from across the kitchen counter before we both look away, matching grimaces twisting our faces.
It’s like I can see yesterday flash through his brain, the image of me a millisecond away from getting fucked into the counter seared in his brain, just like his horrified face when he caught us is seared in mine.
And I thought a raunchy photo was bad.
Lynn surveys us for a moment longer before sighing, seemingly resigning herself to ignorance. She fixes me with a teasing smirk, and, unfortunately, I can guess what she’s going to say before she even opens her mouth. “You have plans today, sweetie? Doing anything fun with Nick?”
A choking sound comes from across the table.
Frowning in confusion, Lynn smacks her youngest son’s back as he splutters, tears forming in his eyes. I honestly can’t tell if he’s crying because of the lack of air in his lungs, or if the mention of me doing fun things with Nick has sent him over the edge.
Once he regains his breath, Cass stands abruptly, grumbles a nondescript excuse before scampering out of the room, leaving his half-eaten breakfast behind.
Grooves in her brow deepening, Lynn slips onto the stool he vacated and folds her arms, pinning me with a no-nonsense stare. “Okay, what did I miss?”
Suddenly, I find the dregs of cereal swirling at the bottom of my bowl fascinating.
“Amelia.”
Sensing I won’t be allowed as easy an escape as Cass, I wince. “Cass walked in on Nick and me yesterday.”
“Okay?”
Something akin to a whine rumbles in my throat, and I think that plus the scarlet flush creeping across my skin explains everything clearly enough. I glance up in time to see Lynn’s dark eyes widen as realization hits. “Oh,” she coughs. “Oh.” Her hand flies to her mouth as she holds in a laugh, lips pursing as she tries not to smile.
“It’s not funny!” I protest weakly, very much wishing the ground would open up and swallow me whole.
“No, sweetie, of course, it’s not,” Lynn coos—a big fat lie. “God, no wonder the poor boy looks traumatized.”
While she giggles at my expense, I contemplate how hard I would need to slam my head agains the counter to remove the memory of yesterday and this conversation. When she adopts a motherly, stern expression, I groan preemptively. “You’re being safe?”
“Oh my God.” Forehead hitting the counter—too lightly, unfortunately—the cool marble soothes my flushed skin. “I do not need the safe sex talk.”
“Who’s having sex?” A magnet for perfect-timing and embarrassing situations, James strolls into the room. A wicked smile breaks out as his gaze lands on me. “Ah yes,’ he drawls, a sing-song quality to his voice, “our little counter-hopper.”
A half-eaten slice of toast leaves Cass’ plate and sails through the air in a perfect arc toward my eldest brother’s annoying face. Chuckling evilly, he snatches it mid-air, winking as he takes a bite. “Hope you cleaned up after yourself.”
I’m mere centimeters away from scratching that smug look right off when Lynn quickly catches the back of my t-shirt and yanks me backward. She forces me back in my seat and strides towards James, and it’s my turn to smirk when she slaps him upside the head, chastising sternly, “Stop embarrassing her.”
“What?” James exclaims innocently, rubbing the back of his head. “Cass said they were making pancakes. Messy job.” He snickers as he dodges another attack from Lynn, sauntering towards me.
When he ruffles my hair, I smack his hand away. “Touch me and I’ll murder you.”
James’ gaze drops, fixating on the tops of my thighs where my pajama shorts have risen up to reveal a litter of developing bruises. I wince and squeal as he pokes them and whistles loudly. “Not the only thing being murdered, apparently.”
‘James Thomas Morgan!’ Lynn screeches. The dish towel in her hand becomes a weapon, chasing him around the kitchen and whacking him with it as he yelps.
Without hesitation, I take advantage of the chaos and dart out of the room, wood creaking beneath my feet as I sprint upstairs, hoping my mortification stays in the kitchen.
Making a pit stop in my room to change into less revealing pajamas, I force myself to Cass’ bedroom, knocking tentatively on his door.
I hear a grunt that I take as permission to enter and push the door open enough to peek my head in. Cass twirls around on his desk chair, head tilted to the ceiling. He waves an inviting hand so I step inside, kicking the door shut behind me. “Why is Mom beating up James?”
“You don’t want to know.” I plop down on his bed, tucking my legs underneath me. In a nerve-easing move, I find the necklace adorning my throat, sliding the emerald charm between my thumb and forefinger.
Ana almost cried when she saw me wearing it yesterday. Hell, I almost cried when he gave it to me, all cute and nervous as he clasped it around my neck and explained the meaning. The way he manages to switch from downright animalistically lustful to sweet and caring in mere milliseconds will honestly never cease to amaze me.
I glance up to find Cass watching me, his eyes also trained on the necklace. I swear I see a hint of a smile on his face before it disappears and he sits up straight. “What’s up, Tiny?”
“About yesterday…” I stammer, only to be interrupted by a raised hand.
“I apologized to him.”
‘I know. He told me.’ I wisely decide not to include that we had celebratory sex before, in between, and after that revelation. “Thank you.”
Cass shrugs, averting his eyes once again. I groan in annoyance. “Come on, Cass. We’re adults. Can we be mature about this?” I don’t like that there’s an awkward energy around us again, so soon after we fixed the last bout of tension.
Cass crinkles his nose, fingers drumming against the arm of his chair. ”Keep that attitude when you walk in on me banging someone.”
Almost banging, I grumble internally. Interrupted right as we got to the good part.
“I did,” I remind him. “Freshman year, Casey Norberg’s birthday party.” A traumatic night. Not for Casey, she got a hell of a birthday present—but for Cass and me. We both cried—him out of embarrassment, me because I saw a part of him no sister should see. Both vomited too, and not entirely because of the alcohol.
It takes Cass a moment to remember the night in question. When he does, he scrubs a hand over his grimace, grunting his acknowledgment. Reluctantly, he tilts his head to smile weakly at me. “At least it wasn’t my kitchen counter.”
I physically feel the blood drain from my face as I choke on air.
A beat passes before Cass guffaws. “Oh my God!” The chair squeaks as he slides further away from me. “In this house or the L.A house?”
I cringe.
“Oh my fucking God! Amelia!”
I open my mouth to explain, swiftly closing it because I’m positive it’s not an explanation he wants to hear. There happened to be a few times when Nick and I were left alone in the house, usually when the boys had baseball practice, and we’d somehow find ourselves naked and writhing in various rooms, on various surfaces. Mostly, the kitchen counter. Something about the cool marble against hot skin…
Cass continues screeching profanities as he stands and paces the room, alternating between looking at me in horror and shaking his head rapidly.
I can’t help it; I start laughing. He’s acting like I told him I murdered someone and hid the body under his bed, complete with his prints all over the murder weapon.
His pacing ceases, his incredulous gaze burning into me, and eventually, I hear him expel a breath that could definitely be construed as a laugh.
Before long, the two of us are breathless, clutching our sides, gasping for air.
Cass swipes a hand under his eyes, shaking his head as he gulps down air. “I’m getting rid of those counters.”
I adopt a devious grin, unable to help myself. “Might want to bin the sofa while you’re at it too.”
The rest of the week is perfect.
Harmonious, even. No one fights, no one walks in on anyone in promiscuous positions, no long-lost parents appear at the front door.
Everything is normal.
Even the trip home was surprisingly enjoyable. Cass, Nick, and I managed to survive a whole car ride without anyone murdering each other. Everyone looked each other in the eye without cringing. It was all very civil, casual, even felt like before at times. They dropped me off a while ago, and both of them made a point out of texting me to let me know they were on their best behavior on the short ride to their house.
The girls aren’t back from New York yet. I’m due at the airport to collect them in less than an hour, leaving me with some time alone in silence for once.
Not for long though.
A commotion from the hallway interrupts my unpacking. Someone’s shouting up a storm, cursing and stomping loud enough to wake the dead. I ignore it, assuming it’s a disgruntled neighbor, maybe someone affiliated with next-door coming down from a high.
But the longer I ignore it, the louder the shouting gets until I swear, it’s right outside my door. When shouting turns to the banging of fists, I jolt in fright.
When the voice doing the shouting becomes recognizable, a shiver assaults my spine.
“Open the fucking door, Amelia!”
Holding my breath, I tiptoe out of my room, careful not to make a sound. My hands rest soundlessly against the door, feeling the vibrations his thumping causes, as I peek through the peephole, jerking back when I’m met with the sight I expected. Sure enough, Dylan stands on the other side of the door, red-faced and furious.
Self-preservation instincts have me stumbling back, cringing when a floorboard creaks under my foot. The banging stops momentarily before it picks up again, harder this time. “Open up or I swear to fuck I’ll break this door down.”
I wouldn’t put it past him.
With trembling hands, I unlock the door, making sure to keep the security chain in place so it can only open a crack. The chain goes taut as Dylan slams a hand against the door, attempting to shove it the whole way open. I push back with all my body weight, praying to everything and anything that the flimsy security measure doesn’t snap. “You need to leave.”
He ignores my command, breathing heavily, nostrils flaring. I recoil as his hot breath smacks me in the face, the stench of alcohol and smoke making my eyes water. He holds up a balled fist, brandishing a crumpled piece of paper. “What the fuck is this?”
I know exactly what it is.
He knows exactly what it is.
We both know it means he shouldn’t be anywhere near me right now.
“A fucking restraining order, Amelia? Really?”
I almost laugh in his face, catching myself at the last moment and forcing my face to remain stoic. He looks confused, genuinely confused. Like he can’t possibly fathom why I wouldn’t want him within fifty feet of me.
“You need to leave,” I repeat as calmly as I can, trying to close the door properly. Growling, he slams against it again, so hard the wood groans beneath his fist, and tries to elbow his way in. I jump back abruptly as he snakes a hand through the gap and swipes at me.
As hard as I can, I throw myself against the door, managing to catch the tips of his fingers when he’s not quick enough to remove them. He retracts his hand, swearing, and I cry out in relief when the door clicks shut and I swiftly lock it.
Panic fills me as I back up, the banging resuming. I reach for my phone, swearing when I remember I left it in my room. I don’t move. I’m scared if I take my eyes off the door, it’ll cave in and I’ll come back out to find him stalking around the living room. He’s still swearing, still banging, spitting threat and after threat.
All of a sudden, another yelling voice briefly joins the party before silence descends over the hallway. I strain my ears, trying to determine any sound. When I hear nothing, I creep over to peer through the peephole again.
My brows shoot up in shock when I’m met with the sight of Pitbull—my neighbor, not the rapper, I laugh to myself weakly—slamming Dylan against the wall, his forearm pressed to his throat and a terrifying scowl on his face as he mutters something I can’t hear.
Whatever he says must scare Dylan because he slinks away with his tail between his legs, sparing one last glare in my direction before disappearing from sight.
Breath leaves my lungs in a heaving sigh of relief, my head falling forward and colliding with the door. I screech and jolt when someone knocks softly.
“You okay in there?”
Cautiously, I open the door. Pitbull leans against the opposite wall, keeping a healthy distance between us. He looks different than usual, mostly because his hair’s grown out a little, the smattering of light brown curls surprisingly me and accentuating the deep blue eyes looking right through me.
“I’m so sorry about that,” I whisper, my knuckles turning white as I clutch the door. “Thank you.”
“No worries.” He dismisses me with a wave of his hand. “Been wanting to do that for a while. The guy’s a prick.”
“You know him?”
Pitbull nods. “From work. He’s one of my uh… regulars.”
The revelation shocks me a little. In the year I was with Dylan, I never saw him use drugs. God, I really didn’t know him at all.
Smiling weakly, I nod my understanding. “Well, thank you anyways…” I trail off, mentally scolding myself for almost calling him Pitbull.
“Atlas,” he fills in the blank for me.
“Amelia.”
He nods in acknowledgement of my greeting as he pushes off the wall. “I’ll see you around, Amelia.”
A tight knot of panic constricts my lungs as he turns away and starts down the hall. “Wait!” He stops in his tracks, glancing over his shoulder at me, brows raised. “Can you, uh,” I pause awkwardly, squeezing the door, “walk me to my car? In case he’s hanging around?”
Without a second of hesitation, he hums his agreement and relief floods me. Asking him to give me two seconds, I rush back inside, grabbing my phone and my keys before shoving my feet into shoes.
I briefly consider texting Cass and Nick but I decide against it. It’s probably better to tell them in person later. No point getting them freaked out after the fact. I’m okay, he’s gone, and I’ve got a temporary guard-dog.
A pitbull, to be specific.
Chuckling internally at my lame joke, I hurry out the door to my awaiting bodyguard. Atlas walks me to my car, even opens the door for me while his eyes sweep the parking lot. When I’m safely situated inside, he steps back, offering me a small wave and a smile. I mouth another ‘thank you’ as I drive away, noting how he diligently waits until I’m out of the parking lot before heading inside.
God, Luna is going to love this.
I’m thinking up something nice I can do to thank him when I notice a car behind me, driving erratically and a little too close for comfort.
Paranoia invades my senses.
I take a couple of unnecessary turns, fingers clenching the steering wheel. Every turn I make, the mystery car turns with me. I slow down slightly, my blood running cold as I realise I recognize that car. I’ve driven that car. The driver’s side door and my head are very closely acquainted.
Speeding up again, I take turn after turn, essentially going in a panicked circle. I risk running a red light, the reward worth it when he gets cut off by traffic. The breath I’d been holding rushes out of me in a gasp when he makes a right turn while I continue on straight.
With the danger gone, my fear is quickly replaced by pure fucking irritation. What the fuck was he playing at? Was he going to follow me to the airport and jump me? Rear-end me? Dumbass.
In an attempt to relax, I switch on the radio, hoping music will do the trick. A half-laugh, half-sob of disbelief escapes me at the song that fills my car, once again confirming that the universe has it out for me.
She will be loved.
My fingers brush the volume dial when a realization hits me; it doesn’t hurt as much. For the first time, the song doesn’t draw out the aching pain caused by the hole in my heart. It’s there, undeniably, but I don’t feel seconds away from collapsing in a broken heap.
I force my hand back on the wheel.
For the first time since Sam died, I listen to it all the way through, tears brimming in my eyes but not falling. Blinking rapidly to clear my vision, I glance aside and for a split second, I swear I see him in the passenger seat, golden hair mussed by the wind, eyes bright and playful, gazing at me with that half-smirk that used to have my heart pounding.
And then the soft crooning sound of singing is drowned out by the crunching sound of metal as my body is thrown sideways and the world goes dark.
