by Callie Rose
I’ve met their folks at Mr. and Mrs. Black’s cocktail parties—if taking their coats and ushering them into the ballroom can be called “meeting”. I didn’t really get a great read on their personalities though, except that they seem sophisticated and a little uptight.
Chase laughs again, the sound filling the cramped, intimate space beneath the bleachers.
“Close with them? Fuck, no. I’m pretty sure they only had kids because it was what all their friends were doing. They just didn’t wanna fall behind, you know?”
“And instead of one kid they didn’t really want, they ended up with two. A minute and ten seconds after I was born, this ugly fucker popped out.”
Dax nudges Chase with his shoulder, and both twins grin.
I have a feeling calling each other “ugly” has been a joke between them since the moment they realized they look almost identical.
“Huh. That kinda sucks,” I murmur, trying to imagine what my life would’ve been like if my mom didn’t want me. I can’t even picture it, honestly. She’s given up so much of herself to take care of me, done more for me than I can ever repay, and she’s never once made me feel like she resents me for it.
“Yeah.” Chase shrugs, not seeming all that broken up about it. He’s probably used to it by now. “But hell, that’s why I’m glad I got a twin. At least I’ve always had somebody.”
He says that casually too, the same way he threw out the fact that he has a thing for me, but I know there’s a lot behind his words.
They may not have had parents who were loving or invested in them, but they’ve always had each other.
I purse my lips, shifting my gaze between them. “Are you guys one of those sets of twins that has like their own language or whatever?”
They share a look, grinning, and I realize they probably don’t need their own language—not a spoken one, anyway. They seem to communicate entire sentences through a single glance.
“Nah.” Dax shakes his head, turning back to me. “What are we, nerds?”
“But we did get matching tattoos last year,” Chase adds.
My mouth drops open with gleeful surprise. “Oh my God, you are nerds!”
Dax arches a brow. “We are extremely cool. And tattoos are badass.”
“Not inherently,” I shoot back, still grinning widely. “Depends what they are. Maybe you got matching tattoos of Disney princesses.”
“You wanna see?”
“Yeah. Show me.”
The high has settled into my system by now, and it’s taking the edge off my anxiety and stress. I even feel a little less cold, although I wince in sympathy when the copper-haired boys unzip their coats.
It occurs to me as they’re tossing their outer layers aside that maybe I should’ve asked where the tattoos were before I demanded to see them, and when their hands move toward the waistbands of their jeans, my breath hitches in my throat.
But each boy just grabs the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head.
My greedy gaze takes in the broad, defined muscles of their chests and arms. They’re both lightly tanned, their golden skin at odds with the gray, drab light that filters down through the bleachers. But I don’t see any tattoos.
I’m about to call their bluff when the two boys turn around, their movements eerily synchronized.
Oh.
There they are.
I saw Dax and Chase shirtless the first time I ever met them, in the pool house the day I kicked River’s phone into the water. But I only saw their chests, and I was actively trying not to stare at any of the boys, so I never caught a glimpse of their ink then. When I saw them with the girl between them in the upstairs bedroom of the Black house during Linc’s party, it was too shadowy in the room to make out much.
So I’ve never seen these tattoos before. If I had, I would’ve remembered them.
Matching dark ink covers the left side of each boy’s upper back, spreading out from his spine to cover his entire shoulder blade and the broad planes of his back muscles. It’s an intricate design, full of whirling patterns and shades of black and gray.
“Wait… is that…?”
I scoot closer to them, squinting slightly and reaching out to run the fingertips of each hand over the two ornate designs. Both boys stiffen slightly beneath my touch, and maybe it’s because my hands are cold, but I don’t think that’s the only reason.
“You caught it already?” Dax’s voice is lower than it was before, slightly raspy. “You’re good. Some people never see it.”
“Yeah, I can see it. I just…”
My voice trails off as I continue to trace the two pieces of ink.
They’re matching designs. Or at least, that’s what they look like at first glance.
But closer examination reveals that they’re actually more like complementary designs. The general shape is the same, but there are little pieces that are missing from one but filled out in the other, lines in one that correlate to shapes in the other tattoo.
They’re beautiful. Each design stands on its own, but when you look at them side-by-side, study them closely, they paint a deeper picture than either one can by itself.
“Holy shit,” I breathe. “That’s fucking amazing. Did you design this?”
Chase’s shoulders shift as he chuckles. “Ha. No way. If Dax designed it, it would’ve looked like a five-year-old’s first attempt at finger painting.”
“Like you could do better, asshole?” Dax punches his twin in the arm before craning his neck to look at me over his shoulder. “We came up with the concept and commissioned an artist to do it for us.” His full lips tilt up in a smile. “Although a Disney princess was our second choice.”
I snort, my hands still moving over the smooth muscles of their backs as I compare the two tattoos. “Well, you’ve still got room on the other side.”
They both laugh at that, and something in my chest unclenches a little more.
Goose bumps rise on their skin from the cold air, but neither of the twins makes a move to pull away from my touch, letting me look my fill.
I’m not really done when I pull away—I could stare at those designs for hours—but I feel some kind of tension building in the air around us, and I’m not sure I’m ready to find out what happens when it breaks.
“Those are… extremely cool,” I admit as they turn around, matching grins of satisfaction on their faces. “And very badass.”
“Told you.” Dax laughs, grabbing his shirt from where he draped it over the scaffolding and slipping it on.
The lunch period ends ten minutes later, and the three of us crawl out from under the metal seating banks and trek back toward the school.
I feel better.
The break helped. The weed helped.
Dax and Chase helped.
Still, as we slip back inside through a side door in the building, the worry that has taken up permanent residence inside my chest starts to expand again like a creeping poison.
I might feel a little better, but nothing is better.
And it won’t be until my mom is out from behind bars.
8
I visit my mom on Saturday morning, and Lincoln insists on driving me. It cuts the travel time down by about half, which leaves more time for studying and trying to hunt down a murderer, so I don’t put up much of a fight.
He reaches across the center console as we drive, gripping my hand in his and squeezing tightly. He’s snuck into my room a few nights over the past week, and I’ve found that I sleep better with him next to me. It doesn’t keep the nightmares away, but the terror fades more quickly when I wake up in his arms.
Mom’s mood has been swinging from upbeat to worried all week, but today is a good day. I feed her optimism, stoking it like I would a small, flickering fire, doing everything I can to keep it alive. Even if it’s feeding on nothing, even if its fuel is something as ephemeral as blind hope, I can’t let it die.
For both our sakes.
I press my hand to the
glass before I leave, lining my fingers up with hers in what’s become a familiar gesture.
“I love you, Mom.”
“Love you too, Low. Be good, okay?”
“Always.”
My stomach is in knots by the time I leave, just like it usually is. It’s impossible for me to step foot in this fucking place without fantasizing about picking up my chair, smashing the glass of the window that divides us—even though I doubt it would actually break—and grabbing my mom by the hand, pulling her to freedom.
We wouldn’t make it ten feet past the front doors, much less to the border or whatever the fuck, but I can’t stop myself from imagining it every single time.
I just want to do something.
We’re quiet on the way back, and when Linc pulls into the motor court and parks in one of the garages along the west wing of the house, he turns to look at me after pulling the key from the ignition.
His amber eyes churn with a mix of emotions, but he doesn’t say anything. He just hooks the back of my neck and draws me toward him, meeting me in the middle for a soft kiss.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
“Yeah.”
It’s a lie, and he knows it—I can see it in his face. But it’s close enough to the truth for him to let it slide. I’m as okay as I can be right now.
We slip out of his car and head toward the side entrance to the house. The entryway is quiet when we walk in, but as we’re heading for the west wing stairs, footsteps sound on the polished floor behind us.
“Ah, Harlow! Linc. I was just looking for you.” Mr. Black smiles broadly at us.
“Yeah? What do you need?” Lincoln asks.
“Oh! Well.” His dad chuckles. “Actually, I was looking for Harlow.” He shifts his gaze to me. “Do you have a minute?”
“Um, sure.”
I glance over at Linc to find that his expression has frozen. He’s watching his dad with something almost like distrust in his eyes, and for a second, nerves twist in my stomach.
When my mom was here, she was always the one to talk with Mr. Black about the details of the household management. I was just her assistant. So I’m not quite sure what he wants with me.
And I shouldn’t be all that surprised by the look on Lincoln’s face. The whole reason he hated me so much when I first got here was because his dad has a history of sleeping with the help, and he thought my mom and I would try to seduce Mr. Black or something.
Ugh. No thanks.
“Hey. Thank you for the ride.”
I rest my hand on Lincoln’s arm, squeezing gently, trying to reassure him through my touch. I have to hope that by now he knows I wouldn’t do anything with his fucking father—which makes me wonder if it’s me or his dad he doesn’t trust.
Lincoln turns his amber gaze toward me, then shocks the fuck out of me by leaning down and pressing a kiss to my lips.
I practically jump in surprise. I mean, I know his dad is aware something’s going on between us—in fact, he was the one who used the word girlfriend—but we’ve always played things cool in the house. Linc sneaks into my bedroom at night, and he’s given me several of the best orgasms of my life, but outside of that little bubble we’ve created for ourselves, we don’t even hold hands under this roof.
My heart takes off at a gallop, and I grab Lincoln’s arm to steady myself as the kiss lingers a half second longer. Then he pulls away, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
“No problem, Low. Anytime. You know that.”
He glances once more at his dad, then heads up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Mr. Black watches him go, a somewhat bemused expression crossing his face. He raises his eyebrows, then shakes his head, as if banishing some private thought. When he shifts his gaze back to me, his beaming smile is back in place.
“Well. Shall we?”
“Yeah, sure,” I repeat, then follow him as he leads me through the massive house to his study.
I watch his back as we walk, trying to anticipate what on earth he could have to say to me. Is he going to kick me out? Have I worn out my welcome already?
Or maybe this is about me and Linc. If he’s figured out we’re sort of dating, maybe he’s more upset about it than he let on before. I am the maid’s daughter, after all. I’m sure there are a lot of fathers in his social circle who wouldn’t approve of their son dating the help. Maybe Samuel Black is one of them… as hypocritical as that would make him, given his history.
My spine stiffens and my muscles tense up as I consider all the possibilities. None of them are good, and by the time we reach his office and he ushers me inside, my shoulders are somewhere around my ears.
He shuts the door behind him and gestures to the couch that takes up the central spot in the room.
“Have a seat, please. Would you like a—” He breaks off with a chuckle. “I was about to offer you a drink. I forgot who I was meeting with. Although I can offer you a seltzer, if you’d like?”
“No. Thanks.” I perch on the edge of the couch, my spine straight and stiff as a metal rod.
“Of course. You don’t mind if I…” He trails off, tilting his head toward the shelves where his glasses and half-full bottles of expensive booze sit.
“No, that’s fine.”
He smiles and nods, walking over to pour himself a drink. I sit in silence as I wait for him, and the seconds seem to tick by at an interminably slow pace. When he finally comes back, he sits on the couch a few feet away from me, leaning back and crossing one ankle over the opposite knee.
“So. You and Lincoln really seem to have hit it off.”
My skin feels like it flushes hot and cold at the same time.
Goddammit. That is what this is about.
Is he going to try to buy me off or something? Offer me some exorbitant payoff to leave his son alone? Then again, why would he do that when he can just kick me out of his house and be rid of me that way?
“We—I—”
I don’t honestly know how to answer what wasn’t really a question.
“I think it’s great,” Mr. Black says firmly.
The streaks of gray at his temples glint in the warm light as he inclines his head. He looks a lot like Lincoln, with the same almost-black hair and similar features, although his eyes are a more basic light brown instead of the almost preternatural amber of Lincoln’s.
I blink. “You do?”
“Of course.” He smiles again. “You’re a lovely girl, Harlow. And you’re smart and strong-willed. I think you’re a good influence on him.”
Um, what? Really?
First of all, if he knew half the insane shit Lincoln and I have gotten into, he’d eat his words so fast he’d get indigestion—not that any of that was my fault.
Second of all, does he really not care that I’m the maid’s daughter? That I’m so much lower on the social strata than his son? Not to mention the fact that my mom’s currently in prison on a felony charge.
Mr. Black is still looking at me with a pleasant expression on his face, obviously waiting for some kind of response from me, so I clear my throat and say, “Well… uh, thank you.”
“Of course.” He takes a sip of his drink and then makes a tsking noise and draws in a deep breath. “But that’s not what I wanted to speak to you about. That’s really between you and Lincoln.”
“What is it then?”
He leans forward a little, his brow creasing as a concerned expression crosses his face. “Harlow, I just wanted to reiterate that you’re welcome to stay here until this whole… unfortunate mess with your mom gets sorted out. I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you, and if having a place to stay takes one stressor off your plate, well then, we’re happy to have you. We’ve got the space, and if you weren’t staying in that guest room, it would be sitting empty. That makes no sense.”
“Thank you.” I tug my bottom lip between my teeth, trying to keep the emotion welling up inside me from spilling over. Now would not be a great time to brea
k down and cry. “It… it means a lot to me, sir. And it means even more to my mom. So, really, thank you.”
“Of course,” he says again, reaching over to pat my knee. He squeezes it gently, then he grimaces. “But the reason I wanted to speak with you is that we will need to hire a new housekeeper while your mom is indisposed. Just temporarily,” he adds quickly, holding up his hands. “When she comes back, she’s welcome to reclaim her old position. We’ve been very happy with her work. And yours.”
“Thank you.”
The words are automatic, as if he and I are playing some kind of call and response game where he says “of course” and I say “thank you”. But my throat closes as I finish speaking, and I have to work hard to keep my face composed.
The fact that he’s even talking about hiring Mom back is a fucking miracle. He’s gone so far above and beyond what an employer owes his employees it’s not even funny. But hearing him talk about this just reminds me how short a time it’s truly been since Mom was arrested, and how long it still might be before she breathes free air again.
He must see the tightening of my expression, because he sighs, setting his glass down on the dark wood end table.
“I’m sorry, Harlow. I know it will be difficult for you to see someone else in what was, to you, your mother’s space. That’s why I wanted to speak to you about it before I hired someone—so it wouldn’t come as a shock to you. But this is a large house, and the upkeep of it can’t wait indefinitely. So for the time being, we need to bring someone new in.”
I force myself to nod, and when I finally get my head to move, it doesn’t stop, bobbling like it’s attached to a spring. “Sure. I understand.”
He draws in a deep breath, his chest expanding against the tailored lines of his suit, then puffs his cheeks out as he releases it. He picks his glass up again, holding it lightly between his fingers. “Good. Thank you, Harlow. I’m truly sorry this is happening. Your mother doesn’t deserve this.”
My stomach twists, and I feel like maybe I should make whatever excuses it takes to end this conversation so I can run upstairs and release the tears that are burning behind my eyes. But instead, I blurt out, “How do you know?”
