by Callie Rose
I let out a soft breath of relief, and she stirs slightly, blinking awake with that mom sixth sense she’s had since I was a little kid.
“Hey, Low,” she murmurs, squinting through the darkness at me. “You okay, sweetie?”
“Yeah.” The word is a little choked, but for this one second, I am okay. Because she’s okay.
She blinks again. “What are you wearing?”
Oh. I look down at the skimpy black dress the guys brought me. It’s still twisted slightly on my body, still riding up too high on my hips.
“It’s a… Halloween costume. I went to a party tonight.”
“Ah.” The word is half sigh as her eyes drift closed again. “I hope you had fun.”
“Yeah,” I lie. “I did.”
Her breathing evens out, and I step carefully across the room, tugging the covers up tighter around her before pressing a kiss to her forehead.
“I love you, Mom.”
“Love… you more… Low.”
When I return to my own bedroom, I turn on all the lights. Then I quickly strip off the dress and toss it in the laundry basket before stepping into the shower. I turn on the water as hot as I can tolerate and stand under it, not even bothering to use soap, just baptizing myself in the spray of scalding water.
When my skin is pink and almost numb again, I finally get out and put on a soft pair of pajamas before crawling into bed.
But I don’t sleep.
17
I spend most of Sunday in bed. I feel hungover, even though I didn’t drink anything last night. My body is exhausted, wrung out, and sore, like I ran a marathon or something, and the shakes return for a while.
My mom insists on taking my temperature, and even though I don’t have one, she hovers anyway, which is how I know I look like shit. I think she worries a little bit every time I get sick that it could be the cancer returning, but she usually hides it pretty well. I tell her I just need sleep though. And it’s true. I do.
I just wish I could get it.
All last night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling, the lights still on around me. I don’t feel ready to face darkness yet, and every time I close my eyes, images flash behind my eyelids that make me feel like I’m going to throw up.
I don’t know where Lincoln is. Or River, Dax, or Chase. I’m assuming the other three left at some point last night, but I’m trying not to think about any of them. It fucks with my emotions too much. I’ve always felt sort of drawn to them, even when they were assholes to me. But now, I feel connected to them in a way I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to undo.
We can’t undo what we did. We can’t unsee what we saw. That bond will always exist between us now, tied up by the secret we’re all keeping.
I hate it.
My homework sits untouched in my backpack, I barely drink, and I don’t eat all day. Mom runs to the store and returns with ginger ale and saltines, but I can’t even stomach those.
As shitty as I feel physically, guilt wracks me for that too. My stomach is in knots, my heart thuds painfully in my chest, and my skin feels alternately chilled and flushed—but I feel all those things because I’m alive. I’m not the one who died last night. I survived.
And I ran. We all did.
On Monday morning, I’m a little delirious from lack of sleep—I did doze off a few times overnight, but every time I did, disjointed dreams assaulted me until my eyes flew open again.
Mom doesn’t want me to go to school, but I insist I can handle it. I need… something normal. I need to verify the world outside still exists, that some things have continued as usual even if nothing about me feels the same.
Lincoln is downstairs waiting for me, and even though I don’t want to ride with him, I don’t have the energy to fight about it. We drive in silence, and I don’t fiddle with the radio dials like I used to. Tension fills the space between us, expanding inside the confines of the car until I swear I can feel it pressing against me like a physical force.
He glances over at me once, and it looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. His hands just tighten on the steering wheel, the muscles in his forearms standing out like ropes.
As soon as we walk inside the large, white front doors of Linwood Academy, I wish I’d followed my mom’s advice and stayed home. I’m not sure who finally did report it to the cops, but Iris’s body was found, and everyone is talking about it.
No one seems to know much, but I hear from several people that she was hit by a drunk driver, so that must be what the cops are assuming.
The cheerleading squad huddles together in the hallway, the younger members sobbing and the older members—people like Savannah—consoling them with quietly shell-shocked expressions. Savannah and Iris had the weirdest on-again, off-again friendship I ever saw, but the redhead has dark circles under her eyes and is more subdued than I’ve ever seen her.
Trent looks… sick.
He looks exactly how I feel—like he wishes he could turn himself inside out somehow, tear the world down and rebuild it into something that makes sense again.
I sit through my first period Poli Sci class, staring at the whiteboard without really seeing it as a fresh wave of doubt cascades through my mind.
Could we have done more? Could we have saved her somehow?
Maybe she wasn’t really dead yet. The man in black seemed satisfied when he checked the body, but maybe he was wrong. Maybe if we’d just called for help right away—
The thoughts churn in my head as acid rises up my throat, and by the time the bell rings, I snatch up my backpack and run to the bathroom, barely making it into a stall before vomit rises up my throat.
There’s hardly anything to barf up—I haven’t really eaten in a day and a half—but that doesn’t stop my body from trying. A cold sweat covers my skin as I heave and shake, and when I finally press up to stand, my knees are wobbly. But I feel a little better somehow. The emptiness helps.
I get through my next two classes in a blur and plead period pain in gym class, sitting off on the sidelines as the other kids run laps around the indoor track. At lunch, I don’t even bother heading to the cafeteria. My body feels weak and lethargic, but even the thought of eating makes my stomach twinge again.
Instead, I head outside and make my way under the bleachers, ducking low to settle into my favorite spot. The late October air is chilly, and I didn’t even bother with a jacket, but I don’t really care right now. I close my eyes, breathing deep and trying to settle my heart, to keep each beat from hurting so much.
It’s not really working, so I slip off my backpack and dig into the bottom of one of the side pockets, pulling out the little plastic baggie I have stored there. I roll a joint and light it, and the first drag hits me hard. My system is so wrung out and empty it feels like I have no defenses or barriers anymore.
Resting the joint in the crook of the scaffolding beside me, I reach into my bag again for my phone. My fingers shake, and for some reason, tears burn my eyes again as I tap out a text message.
ME: Hey Dummy. I miss you. Just wanted to tell you that
She’s probably in class right now, so I don’t expect an answer. But a moment later, her response pops up.
HUNTER: Fuuuuck I miss you too. How’s Fox Hill?
I start to type a half dozen different responses and delete them all. Finally, I write the closest thing to the truth I can say.
ME: I think I hate it here
HUNTER: Noooo! why? I thought ur mom’s new job was great?
ME: It is. I’m glad for her. I just… miss Bayard. And you.
HUNTER: Yah :( Same girl
HUNTER: But hey! It’s only one year and then college! We should apply to some of the same schools. Just so we have the option. We can be roomies lolol
Her response draws a half-smile to my lips, although it slips away quickly. I pick up the joint and take another hit as I type out a response, wishing I could tell her what’s really going on with me, half-tempted to just ignore Linc
oln’s warnings and threats and spill my guts about everything.
ME: Yeah I like that idea
One of the metal bars of the bleachers clangs softly, and my gaze pops up, prepared to find one of the school admins glaring down at me.
But it’s just Dax and Chase.
They look different, and I’m not sure if it’s a change in their actual appearance or just a change in the way I see them.
As if I can see more of them now, somehow—can see through the layers of bullshit they wear on the outside, down to what’s beneath.
Neither of them are smiling, and Dax’s gaze lands on my phone as his eyes narrow.
“I’m not fucking texting the cops, if that’s what you’re wondering,” I say dully.
I glance down at the screen to see that Hunter has replied to my previous message, but I tell her I have to get to class and that I love her and miss her and will text her again later. Then I hold it out toward Dax for a second to show him before slipping it back into my bag.
He grunts and shrugs. “I never said you were. Who’s Hunter?”
“My best friend back home.”
“You miss him?”
“Her. And yes.”
His features relax slightly at my correction, and I have a sudden memory of his lips brushing over the bare skin of my shoulder. Of his body curving around mine, strong and protective and masculine. I clear my throat and run a hand through my hair, looking away.
Chase ducks beneath the bleachers, crawling forward to sit across from me. He takes the joint without asking and sucks a deep drag from it as his twin joins us.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, passing the joint silently around our tiny circle.
The weed helps—I refuse to let myself think it might be Chase and Dax’s presence that’s calming me down—and by the time I stub out the butt, I feel like I might actually be able to keep some food down. I even feel a little hungry.
“What do you want?” I ask, my gaze flicking between the twins. If experience with the kings of Linwood has taught me anything, it’s that they always want something.
“Are you okay?” Chase asks instead of answering my question. His angular features are serious, his brows slightly drawn together. “You were in rough shape the other night.”
I don’t want to think or talk about Saturday night, don’t want to acknowledge that I kissed him, don’t want to have them tell me again to keep my mouth shut.
“Yeah.”
He and Dax share a look, their too-similar faces communicating something without words. Then Chase reaches across the small space between us to rest a hand on my knee. “You don’t have to lie to us, Harlow. We were there.”
The warm weight of his palm feels good. My body tortures me with lies about what that touch means, about what any of this means—tries to convince me these two boys could be good for me. That they might save me somehow.
But that can’t be true.
They can’t be my destruction and my salvation at the same time.
I pull away from his touch, putting as much steel in my voice as I can. “Then I don’t know why you’re asking. Like you said, you were there. Of course I’m not fucking okay.”
A flash of pain flits through his eyes, and he reaches for me again, but I stand quickly, hunching over so I don’t hit my head. Then I grab my backpack and duck out from under the bleachers, walking quickly back toward the school.
I didn’t ask for this. Any of it. Not this crushing secret. Not the bond I can’t seem to shake or ignore that pulls me toward these four dangerous, overwhelming boys.
The cafeteria is closing by the time I make it inside, so I just grab a bag of gummy bears from the vending machine. I can only eat a few, but the sugar helps boost my energy for a bit. I make it through the rest of the day on autopilot, trudging from one class to the next until the final bell rings.
Of course, my day isn’t over yet. I still have fucking detention. As I’m headed toward the large room on the second floor, I pass by Savannah and a few of the other cheerleaders. They move toward me as a group as I walk by, and Savannah gives me a shove. “Have fun in detention, you skank.”
Her voice is a furious hiss, and she still looks like a wreck—her eyes are bloodshot, and her normally perfect hair is lanky and flat, like she hasn’t washed it in a couple days.
I’m torn between wanting to shove her back and wanting to… I don’t know, hug her or something. But I know she wouldn’t accept sympathy from me, and we don’t really have that kind of relationship anyway. So I ignore her and keep walking.
The teacher’s assistant checks me into detention, and without even looking, I know exactly where River is sitting. I can feel his gaze on me from the back of the classroom, but this time, I ignore it, picking a seat right up at the front.
It doesn’t stop him from watching me though.
18
When we get out of detention, River follows me out of the school, where I find Lincoln waiting. I honestly forgot to consider how I would get home after detention when Lincoln offered to drive me this morning, but I can’t be totally pleased that he waited.
It’s a nice gesture, yes.
But it’s also something else.
Controlling.
He and River keep me between them as we walk to the parking lot. Then River dips his chin in a nod before splitting off to meet up with Dax and Chase, who are still here too for some reason, lounging by Dax’s car. As soon as my seatbelt is buckled and Lincoln starts the engine, I cut an angry look toward him.
“I’m not a fucking flight risk, you know. And I already told you I won’t tell anybody. Why don’t you believe me?”
“Maybe it’s because I’d need several more hands if I wanted to count on my fingers how many times you’ve lied to me,” he responds with a low snort.
“Maybe that was self-preservation, asshole.”
“And maybe this is too,” he shoots back with a sharp look in my direction.
I bite my tongue on my response to that. I already know it’s self-preservation on his part, and I could throw some choice insults his way for that. But he’s trying to protect his friends too; I have to grudgingly respect that.
But apparently, he wasn’t kidding about not believing me.
For the next week, I feel like I’m under constant surveillance. Lincoln drives me to and from school, and inside the halls of Linwood, the guys keep a rotating security detail on me. They either sit with me at lunch, or if I manage to sneak off under the bleachers, Dax and Chase find me and stay with me until the bell rings. I wish I could enjoy their company, wish I could believe for a second that they were actually hanging out with me because they liked me as a person, but I can’t.
They just don’t want to leave me on my own. They’re watching me to make sure I don’t crack, that the strain doesn’t get to me. That I don’t say the wrong thing to the wrong person. In detention, River loiters outside the room to wait for me and only chooses his seat after I’ve picked mine—always the one right next to me.
I don’t quite get why that’s necessary. I mean, is he planning to slap my phone out of my hand if I try texting under the desk? It’s not like the four of them can actually monitor me every second. My mom already knows something’s going on with me, although she thinks it’s just lingering effects of my “stomach bug”. But if Lincoln barged into my room and refused to leave or wouldn’t let me shower alone, you can be damn sure she’d notice.
So their near-constant watch over me at school seems both pointless and annoying, and it irritates me that none of them have figured out the giant flaw in their plan.
“Are you just doing this to torture me?” I blurt to Lincoln on the way home from school on Friday. This week felt like it took a year, every day dragging on at a snail’s pace. I’m still having nightmares several times a night about shadowy figures and screeching brakes, faceless men and Iris crying. They leave me on edge and exhausted, ill-equipped to handle this sudden relentless attention from
the kings of Linwood.
He shoots a glance at me out of the corner of his eye, cocking an eyebrow. “Is that seriously what you think?”
“You tell me.”
He makes an annoyed noise. “No.”
“Then why? Why don’t you trust me? Why don’t you like me?”
I’ve wanted to ask him that question ever since the first damn day I met him, when a switch flipped behind his eyes, and I watched hatred spread across his face like dripping paint.
He doesn’t reply as he pulls up the long driveway toward the imposing mansion, and I roll my eyes, leaning back against the headrest. I don’t know why I thought he might answer.
But when he pulls the car into the garage and tugs the keys from the ignition, he surprises me by turning to face me.
“We usually go through about a maid a year.”
I raise my eyebrows in surprise. That wasn’t at all what I expected him to say, and I don’t quite get how it relates to me. Plus, I didn’t realize the turnover rate here was quite so high—although I sure as shit hope my mom and I aren’t here much longer than that. Maybe that’s just how everyone else felt too.
“When you and your mom first got here, I figured you were like all of them,” he continues. Then he rakes a hand through his hair. “My dad has—well, he usually hires a certain type of woman. And you and your mom seemed like that type. Only it was two of you, and that made it worse.”
The garage is dim, but his amber eyes still gleam, and for the first time, I can see that the anger in them isn’t all directed at me.
“What type is that?” I ask, a suspicious edge to my voice. He may be coming clean with me, but I still have a feeling I’m about to be insulted.
He holds my gaze steadily. “Young. Hot. Interested.”
“Interested in what? Having sex with your dad?” I can’t quite keep the disgust out of my voice, but my obvious distaste actually makes Lincoln’s lips tilt up a little. “Why would you think that?”
“It’s happened before.” His voice takes on a hard edge. “And the first time I met you, I could see it all happening again. There the two of you were—your mom’s young, you’re fucking gorgeous, and all I could see was a trap. My dad’s a damn idiot, and he can’t keep it in his pants, and that’s an easy thing to take advantage of.”
