by L V Chase
As his fingertips press against the front of my lab table, Klay walks in. Klay drops down into his chair without saying anything. Ethan tries to nod to him in acknowledgment, but Klay ignores him.
Ethan’s smile falters, but it springs back up as he looks at me. “Sadie, would you consider coming to ’s country club with me tomorrow afternoon? I know you would enjoy it. It’s our little Eden.”
I nip the inside of my cheek. “Um. Of course. Absolutely.”
Klay’s and Ethan’s eyes meet. Klay’s whole body is tense, a malfunctioning bottle rocket about to turn into shrapnel. As class starts, Klay remains pissed. Which would be perfectly fine if we weren’t dissecting owl pellets, and he wasn’t holding a dissecting needle. I carefully angle the tweezers against the pellet as he picks around the fur and feathers to get to the small bones.
“Owl’s stomachs are too weak to handle several parts of its prey, so they regurgitate what the stomach can’t handle,” Mr. Miller lectures. “Find as many bones as you can, and set them down on the proper place on the worksheets.”
“Should we talk about yesterday?” I whisper to Klay.
He yanks the tweezers from my hand, plucking out a small bone and setting it on the worksheet.
“If you want to walk outside and start talking about what I asked you, we can talk about it,” he says. “Otherwise, stop. Unlike Ethan, I don’t want to hear your melodrama.”
I clench my hand as if the tweezers are still in it. I glare at Klay’s head as he focuses on the bones in front of him. He acts like he’s figured me out, but I’m not going to be his victim. I’m not Bell Jar, and he’s going to learn that.
“Let’s go,” I say, standing up.
I walk to the front of the room, grabbing a frog-shaped hall pass that hangs near the door. I show it to Mr. Miller.
“Bathroom. Girl stuff.”
Mr. Miller wave me away, barely glancing at me. I walk out, rotating the hall pass in my hands. I turn the corner and lean against the lockers lining the hallway, waiting for Klay.
I try to recite what I’m going to say, but my thoughts are crashing waves, hitting against the coast and turning me upside down every time. I don’t know who I’ve been for the last two years, but I know I don’t want to be spineless. I don’t want to be a martyr for Klay’s rage. I don’t want him to ever touch me again.
But I also hope he touches me again. I hope he makes me spineless with his hands.
When he rounds the corner, I straighten up, though my knees nearly lock.
“Talk, Bell Jar,” he says, his arms thrusting up.
I cross my arms over my chest, bracing for impact, but he stops a couple of feet in front of me.
“Go ahead,” he says. “Tell me what happened between you and Ethan.”
“He helped my grandmother,” I say, rushing the words out before my contrary emotions betray me. “His father caught on to the fact that the hospital was robbing my grandmother with false billing claims. They tried to rip her off, and he’s going to get them to settle. She’ll be able to pay her medical bills now. That’s it. Why do you care?”
“Why wouldn’t you contact me first?” he asks.
He’s still tense with anger, but his voice almost sounds distressed.
“You know my father is a surgeon. You’re not dumb. Even before you found out that my father owned the hospitals, you must have guessed that my father had connections there. I could have helped you, far more than Ethan could have.”
“What?” I take a step back, my face scrunched up. “Why would I go to you for help? You don’t like me. You’ve made that clear. You hate me.”
His fist lunges so quickly, I barely have time to step back, but it slams into the locker to the left of us. I flinch as the sound reverberates down the hallway.
“You know what?” He takes a step back, rubbing the underside of his fist. “You’re right. I don’t like you. I just think you’re fucking crazy and falling all over an idiot because he threw some money at you. That slutty ad was right after all. You’d give it up everything for money.”
He walks away. A bright shade of white catches my eye on his dark jeans. It’s a paint splotch near the ankle.
We wear garbage bags like ponchos, and they crinkle as we move around each other. The white sheet of paper lies near our feet.
“Our goal is to make a Jackson Pollock replica that doesn’t look like a child’s finger painting,” I say.
“Those are oddly harsh directions for Mrs. Lyle to give you,” he says. His features slowly fade in and out of focus, but there’s no mistaking Klay’s voice. “Isn’t she the one who has two kids that come to class with her on Fridays?”
“Yes. She’s not the one who said that. I’m saying that. Because I’m tired of her pretending that any of my pieces have any artistic merit. This should be the easiest piece for me to do. It’s just throwing paint on the canvas. And you’ll be here to help me. Your job is to stop me if I’m putting on too much yellow, or I’m about to knock over a can of paint, or I start licking paint off my fingers.”
“I have several concerns about that list,” he says. “But I will fully support you and your distaste for yellow.”
“It’s a gross color.”
He grins at me. “I just love how intensely you hate it. I can’t wait to hear the story behind that.”
“I’m just a little hatred generator,” I mutter, dipping my paintbrush into the small can of white paint.
He bends down next to me, one hand pressing on the small of my back as he dips his paintbrush into the can of red paint.
“That’s a lie,” he says. “I know you’re a lot more than that.”
I smirk at him. “It sounds like you’re saying I’m a liar, too.”
“Is it too late to say that we’re both liars?” he asks. “And call it compatibility?”
“You can call it whatever you want,” I say. “I’ll just call you a canvas.”
“A canvas? Is that an insult I don’t—”
I flick the paintbrush at him. It spatters down at the bottom of his pants. He looks down at the paint. When he looks back up at me, I see the mischief in his eyes. Before I can run, he flicks his paintbrush at me. It spatters on my cheek and neck.
“Now, that’s not fair,” I say, already slapping the brush against his cheek. He grabs my arm, pulling me close. When he rubs his cheek against mine, spreading the white paint onto my cheek, my whole body starts to burn with anticipation.
This is art. This is a masterpiece.
I blink, still standing in the hallway. My heart is beating frantically from the memory. It can’t be possible. My fantasy life is leaking into my memories.
Dr. Murray once told me that I had a habit of compensating for feelings of isolation with scenarios that will never happen. She meant I was using fantasies to move through unpleasant situations, but maybe I’m expanding my defense mechanism to the point of turning my enemy into someone who cared about me.
The daydream is sweet, but the habit is dangerous. I’m supposed to take it easy, recover, figure out my life. Try not to act crazy. I can’t afford to get involved with anything dangerous right now.
18
Klay
“Klay,” my father says, pushing my door open.
I shove my towel and body wash into the duffle bag. He strides into my room, settling on the edge of my bed. I move my duffle bag from the bed to the top of my dresser. I check the time on my phone. No matter what time it flashed at me, I know I don’t have time for this.
“It is abundantly clear that your priorities are confused,” my father says.
I cram a change of clothes into the bag. “My priorities aren’t confused. They’re perfectly clear. You just don’t like them.”
“You know why I don’t like them,” he says.
“And you know that if it wasn’t for that, I’d tell you to fuck off,” I snarl. “But you’re still welcome to leave. You don’t need to wait for me to say anything.”
&n
bsp; I toss my water bottle into my bag. My father considers me carefully, his fist clenched at his side.
“You need to overtake the Maxwell boy,” he says. “Significantly faster than you’re doing. You should have had this locked down by now. You have all of the advantages.”
“I’m working on it.”
“You’re dragging your feet because of your feelings for her.” He stands up, checking his watch as if I’m the one wasting his time. “This isn’t just about her, and it’s not just about losing. If anyone else finds out that you had an advantage during this Hunt, and I helped you get it, our whole family is doomed. You may think that I—the man who raised you and gave you everything—isn’t worth caring about, but you should think twice about your mother and your brothers. Show a little spine and care about them.”
My intention isn’t to lose, but it isn’t to win, either. A stalemate will make this bullshit worth it to keep her safe while also keeping my family out of the crosshairs.
My father steps closer to me. He stares at me, waiting for me to respond. I move around him, grabbing my car keys and slipping them into my pocket. I walk past him again and zip my duffle bag shut.
My father puts his hand on top of my bag. “Remember, if you lose, Shaw or Maxwell’s son will win. That isn’t particularly good news for Sadie. I would think that’s the worst-case scenario for you and her.”
“Don’t fucking act like you care about her,” I say, pulling the bag out from under his hand. “You’d throw her off a bridge and pour yourself a glass of champagne if it kept the money rolling in.”
His fist slams into my cheek. I stumble back. All of the childhood fear I used to feel over his violence is burned away by my rage. I swing back at him, my fist hitting against the edge of his jaw. He grabs onto me, trying to shove me against the dresser, but I grapple for control, get the upper hand, and ram him into the wall.
As I glare at him, his taunting face right in front of me, I hear the blender downstairs start whirring. It must be my mother, making herself some food.
“How do you think your mother would fair if anything happened to me?” he asks. “Do you know what the Society would do?”
“She’d do just fine, maybe even better,” I say, my upper lip curled into a snarl. I let him go and pick up my duffle bag. “I’m going to the country club. Ethan invited Sadie there. I’m going to make sure she’s safe.”
“And you’re going to overtake Ethan,” my father says, but I’m already walking away. There’s no love between us, but our survival is dependent on each other. From what I’ve seen, that’s the definition of family.
All seven deadly sins run rampant at Marshall Country Club. Greed is hoarded in the club, obvious from all the flamboyant, expensive cars in the parking lot with their vanity plates. Sloth rests in the guests who have caddies driving golf carts to cross the street. Wrath boils in the guests who scream at attendants for not offering daycare. Lust writhes in the older men as their barely legal girlfriends rub up against them. Gluttony consumes the guests as they shovel food into their mouths at Lionel’s Bar.
Pride demands attention, like Ethan’s insistence on keeping up his pretentious way of talking.
Envy festers in me as I see Sadie leaning toward him, her body evoking whole new sins in my head.
I take a few steps back, keeping an eye on them. Ethan seems to be telling her some courtroom story, but I focus on Sadie. She’s leaning against the table, her hands clasped together, while her ass sways to the beat of the pop song playing through the restaurant’s speakers.
I remember my hand moving down those curves, learning the landscape of her body and mapping it out in my brain so I wouldn’t forget. And I haven’t forgotten.
I remember how her face lit up when she saw me. I remember how when she was afraid or anxious, she’d reach back to take my hand. I remember how her sweat would get stuck at the small of her back because her ass created too much of an incline, and the glory of having my hand on that ass just below.
Ethan puts his hand on Sadie’s shoulder as he continues to blather. She glances at it, but she doesn’t try to remove it. She laughs at something he says.
I never considered that memorizing everything about her might be more of a curse than a blessing.
It’s not just this country club that’s soaked in the seven deadly sins. They’re brawling inside me. Lust and wrath are especially agitated.
I can’t cause a scene here. I turn around, walking out before my sins drag me straight to Hell.
The duffle bag hanging on my shoulder repeatedly bumps against my knee as I leave Lionel’s Bar and walk across the club’s property. I keep my pace up, heading toward the indoor pool. When I step into the fitness building, chlorine stings my nose. It’s a welcome odor. It reminds me of years I spent getting my rage out, at least until Sadie brought the soothing balm of her presence, and I no longer needed to anesthetize my emotions.
I heave open the doors to the pool. Heat floods out of the room. I step in, letting the warmth course through my body like a fever. I close the doors and strip off my clothes until I’m only in my swimming trunks.
I drop down into the water and start my laps. I soak in the rhythmic sound of my arms cutting through the water, the steady churning of bubbles when I breath. The calming effect is fleeting. Every time I turn my head to take a breath, I remember Ethan’s charm trickling into Sadie, and how she accepted it as nourishment instead of poison.
I’d been so fucking certain she wouldn’t fall for their bullshit, but I’d underestimated how her confusion and vulnerability could be used as a weapon against her. I hadn’t considered how her grandmother’s issues could become a cattle prod, leading her straight to the slaughter.
I should have been smarter for her.
I start swimming faster, air barely reaching into my lungs, before I duck my head back under the water. As I turn my head to get a gulp of air, a certain blue shade outside of the pool brings me to a stop. I tread water, recognizing that the shade of blue belongs to a certain blouse, and that blouse clings to the curves of Sadie’s breasts and hips.
She’s standing at the edge of the pool, looking down at me. I take her in for several seconds, the tactical, nearly surgical side of my brain freezing over at the sight of her. Her eyes sweep over my bare chest twice. My cock stirs at the temptation.
“Hi,” she says. The way her voice echoes in the room thaws all of the cogs in my brain. I force a smirk on my face, returning to my role as her tormenter.
“Bell Jar,” I say. “Did you come to swim? Sane people bring swimming clothes.”
“I saw you at the restaurant, and I followed you,” she admits, ignoring my jab. “You move pretty fast. When you’re walking, and when you’re swimming.”
I casually swim closer to her, keeping a couple of feet of water between us. “Did you follow because you were hoping to pounce on me when no one’s watching? That’s crazy, even for you, Bell Jar.”
“Are you ever going to stop calling me that?” she asks.
“Do you have another name?” I ask.
“It’s Sadie Blair. You know that,” she says. “We have homeroom together.”
I run my hand over my hair, pressing the water out. She watches me, avoiding looking too closely at my body now. As much as I prefer this over seeing her with Ethan, I can’t have her following me around. I can’t have her seeing me as someone worth her time.
“You must be a masochist,” I say. “Following me here. Did I miss the BDSM offer in your hooker ad? Or is that for personal pleasure?”
Her cheeks turn red. “I’m not…I’m not a hooker. I didn’t make that ad.”
“Don’t look down on hookers, Bell Jar,” I say. “At least hookers get paid. Masochists just get what they deserve.”
Sadie rubs her arms, glancing toward the doors. Good. Leave, Sadie. Run.
She sits down, cross-legged, near the pool’s edge. My hand slices under the water, anger rising in me like a sinking ship flo
oding with water.
“You can stop whatever you’re doing,” she says, propping her head on her palm. “I’m not afraid of you. I’m not going to let you ruin my senior year. Did you turn everyone against me? Is that why no one will talk? Because if that was you, it backfired. It doesn’t work on Ethan. He’s a good guy.”
My hand cuts through the water again, but this time it breaks through the surface.
“He’s a joke,” I sneer. “He tries to talk like he thinks smart people talk. It says something about you that you can’t see through that.”
“He’s not a joke.” Her arms cross over her chest, and she leans forward. “You know what I think? You’re just jealous of him.”
I lurch forward, grabbing onto her. She tries to stop me from dragging her into the pool, but her nails scrape uselessly against the tile. Under any other circumstance, when her body is fully off the edge of the pool, her body weight would be cumbersome, but I swim with my arm around her waist. I pull her deeper toward the center of the pool as she thrashes against me.
“Klay!” she yells.
I let her go when I’m swimming above Marshall Country Club’s logo. She treads water, her body bobbing up and down. She takes several frantic breaths, her chest heaving under her soaked blouse. She’s wearing jeans, but I’m certain her legs are strong enough to deal with their extra weight. If she needs me, I’ll pull her back to the edge.
She gasps again before she slams her palm across the water, spraying me with it.
“What the fuck!” she yells. “Were you trying to drown me?”
“If I wanted to drown you, I would have,” I say. “Did you just swear?”
“For all you know, I swear all the time,” she snaps.
“You don’t,” I say.
The tension in her face softens, her eyebrows furrowing as she tries to decipher what I said, what I meant, or what I could mean. The vulnerability of it is enough to shake my facade.
I could reach forward. I could kiss her in the middle of this pool, and nobody would know. It would be just like old times.
