Just the two of us.
Now, he orders. Let me see your stomach.
But it’s not his voice. I drop my head, breathing hard. It’s not his voice I hear at all. My clit throbs, my nipples harden to pebbles, and I rub my thighs together, aching. “Goddammit,” I murmur.
I push off the bed and yank my school skirt out of my closet. I pull it on, followed by a bra and a white blouse, before diving into my bathroom to straighten my hair and put on a little makeup.
I stare at myself in the mirror as I spread the lip gloss.
He’ll feel good. He’ll feel good when he stands behind me, his naked torso against my back. His eyes will peer over my head as his strong, muscular arms slip around my waist, and he’ll take in the view of my body in the mirror, my shirt off for him. I can’t wait for him to touch me. He’s dying for it.
I dab some toothpaste onto a toothbrush and brush my teeth, imagining his hands gliding over my thighs and between my legs, and then I swish some mouthwash, locking on my gaze in the mirror.
You want him. You’ll look so good together, and at night, under the sheets, he’ll feel good, Clay. You’ll love it. His golden skin and narrow waist. His broad shoulders and big eyes that make him look so innocent until he smiles and you can see the danger. Everyone wants him.
But as I rinse out my mouth and look up at him and try to see him on top of me, I see a taunting little dare looking up at me instead. Her amused eyes locked on mine as she lies on the weight bench.
A body smaller and softer than Callum’s and lips I can feel between my teeth, because sometimes I want to bite her until she bleeds.
God, she pisses me off.
I open my mouth, letting the mouthwash fall out as I lean on the counter. My belly suddenly pooling with heat down low, and my mouth waters, nearly tasting her.
Liv. I breathe out, staring into the sink. Attention-seeking, rebel-without-a-clue, bitchy annoyance. I grip the edge of the counter.
I should just leave her alone. She’s none of my business.
But confident people don’t need to be loud, and it’s not my responsibility to make her disdain for everyone around her easy. I won’t stop pushing back until she runs from this place.
Shutting off the light, I grab my phone off the bed and fix the stuffed octopus propped up against my headboard. I have dozens tucked away in my closet and under my bed, but I only keep one out in the open.
I saw one in an aquarium in Orlando when I was about six—so beautiful and graceful—but I don’t think I was obsessed until my father joked that they were actually aliens. My mother laughed about it, but as I grew up, I discovered there is a significant portion of the human population who really believe it. After that, I was hooked. The ability to do what no other creature can. Being that different from everything else around it. The allure of its secrets.
I don’t know—they just called to me.
I slip on my flats, take my school jacket and backpack, and leave the room. Stepping into the hallway, I look right, seeing my parents’ door closed at the end of the hall, but then I glance at the room right before it and make my way over.
Henry’s name decorates the dark wood, spelled out in an arch in my little brother’s favorite shade of blue. Sometimes I’ll open the door. His smell still lingers. But I never go in. I like thinking he was the last to walk on the carpet or open the drawers of his dresser, even though I know my mom is in there frequently.
I’m just glad she’s kept everything the same.
I touch his name, inhale and push down whatever is bubbling up in my chest, and head downstairs.
Detouring into the kitchen, I snatch a bottle of water from the fridge and the container of chicken salad Bernie, our housekeeper, fixed for me, sticking them both into my backpack.
Putting on my blazer and heading through the foyer, I take my keys off the entryway table and move to the door, but I glance out the window panel on the side and see my father’s car in the driveway. Morning dew glistens over the hood of his slate gray Audi.
I stop. I thought he was in Miami.
I drop my bag and twist around, a smile pulling at my lips. He’s home so little anymore, business taking him to D.C., San Francisco, and Houston, but mostly, Miami. It seems like he’s there more than home the last few months.
One of the double doors to his office is cracked, and I squeeze the handle, peering my head inside.
“Hey,” I say.
He sits behind his desk, light brown hair disheveled, tie loosened, and one leg of his wrinkling gray pants and shiny black shoe propped up on his desk. A stream of cigarette smoke snakes into the air above his head as he blows out a puff.
He pulls his foot off his desk, smiling, “Morning.”
I saunter in, doing a playful little walk with my hands behind my back like I’m up to something, and swing around his desk, sitting on the arm of his chair and pull out a fresh cigarette from the marble box near his computer.
“When did you get in?” I ask as his arm goes around my waist, holding me steady.
For most trips, he flies, but Miami is close enough to drive.
“Just a couple of hours ago,” he tells me, taking another drag. “Is your mom up?”
“I don’t think so.”
He watches me as I take his lighter off his desk. “Early start today?”
It’s actually not as early as I usually leave. I think he just doesn’t know my schedule anymore. Or what time school starts, or that we have service on Tuesday mornings before first period, or really anything else about me.
That’s okay, though.
I light the cigarette before leaning back into his shoulder. “Tuesday morning Mass,” I tell him, rolling my eyes.
He chuckles. “It wasn’t my idea to send you to a Catholic school.”
“Noted.”
I take another puff, inhale, and then blow out smoke.
My dad shakes his head. “I’m a terrible father.”
I laugh, holding up my cigarette. “Years down the road, I’ll cringe when I think of the debutante ball, and I probably won’t even remember my friends’ names,” I tell him, “but I’ll smile when I remember sneaking cigarettes with my dad.”
His mouth tilts up in a half-smile, and the both of us take another drag at the same time, enjoying the morning silence for another moment.
“How are your classes?” he asks.
“Easy peasy.”
“And your classmates? Is everything…happy?”
I turn away, watching the end of the cigarette burn orange. What’s he going to do if I say no?
Parents ask these questions, because they want to appear to care, but they don’t want a problem. Not really.
“I should get going,” I tell him instead, hopping off the chair and snuffing out the cigarette in the crystal ashtray.
I slip around his desk and hear the wheels of his chair move.
“You already got into Wake Forest,” he calls after me. “Slack off a little. Enjoy your senior year.”
But I can’t. The biggest events of high school are just ahead of me. The fun is just starting.
“I’ll be leaving again tomorrow morning,” he informs me.
I stop at the door and turn my head. “Miami again?”
“Yes.” He nods. “But I’ll be back Monday afternoon.”