by Opal Carew
But every Texan knows better. Innocent beauty outside, poison in the middle. That’s oleander.
That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the heady scent though even if the slight trickle of a breeze does nothing to the stifling Texas heat. Sweat slicks my body. My camisole sticks to my chest and my shorts stick to my ass cheeks. Jesus, sweat even dots the skin on my legs and feet. I need a drink. Badly. Maybe even another shower. Sometimes in Texas in the summer months you end up taking like three showers a day.
My water glass is empty so I take it and tiptoe out of my room and go down the stairs to the kitchen. Dad and Dinah are in bed. I’m thankful. Their big topic of conversation the last few weeks, an argument whispered furiously behind closed doors, has been about Seth and Theo. About how, the day after that family dinner, they were both covered in cuts and bruises.
And neither will talk about it.
Dad thinks they’re just boys being boys.
Dinah, though… she wants more of an answer than that.
I assume that Theo and Seth got into a fight over Seth making me cry. I hadn’t told Theo anything about what had happened—I certainly hadn’t told him how I felt. Partly because, well, that was a secret. Something I don’t even understand yet, let alone have the words to explain.
And partly because… the last couple of weeks, things with Theo have gotten weird. If I didn’t know how much he cares about football, I would maybe wonder if he was on drugs. I can’t put my finger on it, but where I’ve always seen my brother as just that… my brother… things with him have started to get a little bit uncomfortable.
Shrugging that off, I head downstairs in search of a drink.
It’s dark in the kitchen, but I don’t turn the light on. I don’t need the light to find my way. I fill my glass with cold filtered water from the refrigerator and take it to the patio doors. Opening them, I step outside. Although the temperature is no different outside than it is inside, at least the breeze provides a tiny bit of relief, drying the dampness on my forehead.
Sipping my water, I stare out into the dark backyard and shiver a little. Sometimes when I come out here at night I feel as if someone is watching me. My gaze moves over to the garage, to Seth’s room above it. A place I’ve avoided like hell for the last three weeks.
The idea of Seth watching me doesn’t make me uncomfortable though. No, it makes me kind of… warm. I feel my cheeks flush.
Draining the rest of the water, I turn to go back into the kitchen to refill my glass before heading back upstairs. I step inside, slide the door shut, and nearly drop my glass to the floor. Seth is at the kitchen table, sitting in the shadows.
“Sweet Jesus, you scared the crap out of me.”
He doesn’t say anything but just lowers his head into his hands on the table.
It doesn’t seem to matter what I’ve told myself over the last three weeks, how much I’ve thought about the fact that this attraction is all in my head. Just seeing him makes me feel awake, alive. My belly flips over, and nerves zing through me like electricity.
It’s too much. I want to retreat.
Something tells me to stay right where I am. Something is wrong.
I take a shaky step forward and that’s when I see the blood and bruises on his face and the red stains on his hands and white t-shirt. This is a million times worse than the fight marks he had a few weeks away, the shadows of bruises that are still visible under these fresh lacerations.
He’s very badly hurt. And from the look of his knuckles, someone else is, too.
“Seth. What happened?” Instinct takes over and I shoot across the room to inspect his face. “Are you okay?” I assess the damage: a split lip, black eye, some long marks in his chiseled cheekbone. Hurrying to the kitchen sink, I wet a cloth with warm water.
When I return to him, he hasn’t moved. He just watches me with that stoic look of his, and my belly clenches.
Normally he looks everywhere but at me.
Not important right now. Trying to be gentle, I press the cloth to his lip. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“You shouldn’t be walking around like that.” His voice is low and gravelly, a little bit of his Southie accent gets in there, and it’s a punch to my gut.
“Like what?” I glance down at my pajama set, the one I always wear at night. I notice though that the fabric does stick to my sweaty boobs. I make an unobvious grab for the shirt and try to fix it.
He looks away from me. “Go put some damn clothes on.”
“Sure. Soon as you tell me what the hell happened to you.” I continue to dab at the congealing blood on his face. “Were you fighting with Theo again?”
As quick as a viper, Seth grabs my wrists. The cloth falls from his hand as he stands and pushes me up against the wall. My heart starts to hammer in my throat, and I swallow thickly. I can barely breathe with the way he looks at me.
Predatory.
Hungry.
That little episode in the garage taught me not to push him. Not that I think he’ll hurt me—not physically, at least. But words are weapons far greater than fists.
Still, I’m scared. Scared of something I can’t quite define.
The violence pouring off of him is palpable.
The muscles along his jawline tighten, as if he’s grinding his teeth. Maybe he is. I have to fight an urge to smooth away that tension with the tips of my fingers. He glares at me, and then licks his lips. The heat from his hands around my wrists rushes down my arms and over my body. I can’t handle it much longer.
I’ve always thought the romantic crap about connections between people is bullshit, but I can almost hear the silent click between us. Feel the absolute relief that comes from having the person who completes you within range. It’s powerful and intense and tears of frustration of never being able to realize it prick the corners of my eyes.
His gaze falters, his eyes becoming shuttered again. The arrogant young man returns. He must see the beginning of my tears because he drops my wrists and takes a distancing step away. His breath comes hard and I can see the sweat on his upper lip.
“I shouldn’t have done that.” His voice is a bit unsteady. “I apologize.”
Seth, apologize? I rub at my wrists. It’s not that it hurts, because it doesn’t, not in the true sense of the word, but I try to scrub away the tingles from where he touched me. I want to rub my skin over my lips to transfer that touch.
“You’re right,” I say, although my throat is dry and it’s uncomfortable to speak. “Theo could’ve come in, then he’d give us both some shit.”
I’m referring to what I assume happened between them before, but his reaction is intense, and I know in that instance that they have something that goes beyond boys being boys.
His nostrils flare with anger. I never want that anger directed at me. It’s fierce and I take a step away, my back hitting the wall again in the process. “Theo will never hurt you, understand?”
I blink at him, because Theo has never hurt me. We’ve had our spats like siblings do time to time. He has said unkind things to me once or twice, but never has he physically hurt me. We’ve never even play fought before.
Like I said, he’s just been… weird… lately.
“I don’t understand.”
“If you knew.” He looks at me again.
“I did it for you, but if you could see inside me, and see why.” He holds up his bloodied hands. “You’d run. You’d run faster than you’ve ever run.”
I stare at him, not knowing what to do or say. My hands vibrate. My heart still pounds hard. I can’t seem to get it to stop.
He’s trying to scare me again. But I know, I know, that while he has the power to shatter my heart into shards of glass, physically?
Never. He’ll never hurt me. Which makes it safer, if immensely stupid, to crave him so badly.
He growls low, and I realize that my feelings have been playing out over my face.
“Run, Allie.” He says those two words sl
owly. Slow and clear.
I nearly gasp from the intensity of it. Tears finally do spring in my eyes and I turn and run up to my room. I quietly press the door shut and lean back against it to catch my breath, rubbing a hand between my breasts. My heart thumps painfully against my ribs.
What the fuck was that? My mind reels. I still don’t understand why Seth is covered in blood. He didn’t answer my question about Theo.
Or did he? He was so angry at the mention of my brother’s name.
I push away from the door and sit on my bed. Jesus. I can’t think beyond the pounding of my heart and the way my body vibrates. I shouldn’t feel this way, but I do. I liked the way Seth grabbed me. I liked how he looked at me. I liked how he confessed to wanting me. Even now I wish he hadn’t stopped. I wish he had slammed me up against the wall and taken me as his own. I know I’m going to Hell for wishing it.
I want to be like Camilla. I want to go after what I want. There’s no shame in it.
I stand, moving to door, getting ready to go back downstairs, back to Seth with a bravery I hadn’t known existed.
The unmistakable sounds of tires crunching over gravel stops me in my tracks. It’s the middle of the night. Who the hell would be pulling into our driveway?
Scarlet and royal-blue flashing lights cut through the glass of my window to stripe my bedroom wall. I’m at the window in the next breath, to see two police officers are exiting their squad car.
My stomach drops, twists. I know, I just know this is about Seth, about the blood that’s painted over his face.
I can barely breathe.
There comes two hard knocks on the front door. I’m frozen in place, unable to answer it. From down the hall, I hear the door to Dad and Dinah’s room open, and the thumping of someone running down the stairs. Loud voices fill the house, a cacophony of noise that fills my head with chaos. I can’t make out the words but I get the gist behind them. Dinah is downstairs now and I can hear her crying, her hysterical shrieks overlaid by my dad’s stern tone.
“Not my boy!” Her words are a scream. “I just got him back!”
Her cries shatter the ice that’s holding me hostage. Darting out of my room, I race down the stairs just in time to see an officer putting handcuffs on Seth. The boy I’ve never thought of as blood but who I care for nonetheless doesn’t fight, just goes quietly when he is escorted out of the house.
Pushing past Dinah and Dad, I try to make a dash outside.
“Seth!” My own voice is a shriek. I don’t understand all of these feelings. I don’t understand anything.
My dad grabs my arm and holds me back. Dinah sobs hard now, and my dad puts an arm around her, the glue holding us all together, even as tears stream down his own face. I wonder briefly where Theo is, but there’s no time for that. He lets me go to rub his hands over his own face and pull his phone from his robe pocket. I think I hear the words hospital, emergency room, and surgery, but I’m too full of everything to be sure.
Vibrating with tension that I can barely restrain, I stand in our doorway and watch as the officer puts Seth in the back of the cruiser. I want him to look at me. I need it. I want to mouth words of encouragement to him that it will be all right, but he doesn’t look my way. Deliberately, I know.
He stares straight ahead as the car drives away.
That is the last time I see Seth Thorne.
Chapter 4
Seth
I stare straight ahead as the cop car drives away from the house where I’d had such hope. My face is set in stoic lines, but inside I’m about as sick as I can be.
I can’t look any of them in the eye. Can’t look at Sam, who opened his home to me, even though he didn’t want to. Can’t look at my mom, can’t bear to see the anguish I’ve caused.
I especially can’t stand to look at Allegra. That girl would have been far better off if I’d never come into her life at all.
And I sure as hell can’t look at Theo, though it’s not for the same reasons. No, I can’t look at Theo, because he’s probably in the hospital. I put him there.
“You’re in some serious trouble this time, Seth.” Officer Martinez looks at me in the rearview mirror, his dark eyes catching glints of passing headlights, hiding the judgment I know must surely be there.
I know Martinez. He’s busted a few parties I’ve been to. He even gave me and Tristan a ride home one night when we were both too drunk and disorderly to be out on the streets.
I could hate him, but this isn’t his fault. It’s absolutely mine. I did it. I almost killed Theo Flynn.
I had my reasons. Oh, fuck, did I have my reasons. Still…
I’d meant to just teach Theo a lesson. Just scare him, make sure he understood that he would never do any of the things that I could read in his eyes.
But rage had taken over. I’d been worried about Theo, but I’m no better. I’m an animal, just like him. Only I’m wilder than even I knew.
The drive to the station seems to go on forever, marked only by the number of streetlamps that we pass under. Nerves skitter under my skin, shrieking that I’m trapped. There’s no way to quiet them, because they’re right.
I’ve gone too far this time. There’s no hope for me. I can’t even rely on my so-called family to get me out of this mess.
Once they see what Theo looks like, no way will they bail me out. Not even my mother. No, she’ll just finally see me for the monster I am.
And this time… this time it’s not a case of whether or not they press assault charges. I tried to kill Theo. And if Tristan hadn’t finally pulled me off of him, I just might have.
I wanted to. I craved his blood on my hands.
When we arrive at the station, Officer Martinez and his partner, whose name I can never remember, walk me in through the back door into the booking area. Everything is cast in flat fluorescent light, and it hurts my eyes. Martinez doesn’t say much, just instructs me to stand in front of the gray screen so they can photograph me. As I face the camera for my mug shot, I feel…
I feel as lost and alone as I did when Dad kicked me out of his house. I’m legally an adult, but I feel like a frightened little boy.
I stand through detailed photos of my hands and the injuries on my face and the blood on my shirt. After having my fingerprints done, I’m asked to strip out of my clothes, and then I’m examined in ways I’d never even thought about. To see if I’m hiding anything, I guess. Whatever the reason, it only reinforces my sudden, terrifying vulnerability.
Examination over, I’m issued something that resembles blue pajamas. I guess I’ll get my orange jumpsuit once I’m in prison.
There’s no doubt in my mind that that’s where I’m going.
“You get a phone call.” Martinez pauses just outside the holding cell.
The words are devastating.
“Nah. I’m good.” My voice is quiet as I sit on the empty bench. “I need to catch up on my beauty sleep.”
He shakes his head. “I think the gravity of your situation is lost on you, Thorne.”
“No.” I speak softly but steadily, and get Martinez’s attention. “I get it. I really do. I just don’t have anyone to call.”
“I’m assuming you don’t have a lawyer.”
I shake my head, welcoming the cold numbness that’s starting to spread inside of me, freezing out everything else.
“I’ll get you a court-appointed one.” His voice is sombre. I don’t look at him as he leaves.
Thankfully there’s only one other guy in the cell, so I can stretch out on the bench without causing a fight. At least, I assume that’s what would happen if I tried to do that with a full cell.
But really, I don’t know. I’m a shit and I fully admit it. But this is my first time in prison.
I glance over at the guy on the other bench. He’s much older than me, probably around forty. He looks battered and bruised, and he stinks so bad my eyes water. It’s a heady mixture of booze, body odor and what I assume are years of neglect. His eyes a
re closed and he’s snoring loud enough to wake the dead.
A minute later the stink of urine hits my nose and I realize he’s pissed himself, right there in his sleep.
It’s right at that moment that I realize the gravity of what I’ve done.
Jesus. Am I really here in this place right now? Leaning forward against my sudden panic, I place my elbows on my knees and put my head in my hands.
What the hell had I been thinking? I’ve totally fucked up my life.
Allegra.
If I think about it hard enough, I can almost smell her sweet scent. It’s calming, and I suck in a deep breath.
She is what I’d been thinking about. Her. Always her. She’s the reason I’m here.
I should have killed him after all.
Chapter 5
ALLEGRA
Present Day
Throwing my entire weight behind it, I punch the bag as hard as I can. Sweat drips down into my eyes and stings as I dance around, then land a roundhouse kick. The impact sings up my thigh, connecting with my core. It hurts, but it’s a beautiful pain.
It means I’m strong.
I love working on the bag. I’m not the best kickboxer in the gym, far from it, but I know I can protect myself out on the street if need be, no matter how small I am. In actuality, I rarely think about my size. My trainer Tristan always tells me that when it comes to strength, to fitness, size has nothing to do with it. Years of training have made me quick, lean and a little bit mean.
Strong is the new skinny, and all that.
Kickboxing is part of my therapy, though over the years I’ve rounded it out with some spin and strength training too. A few years ago it was strongly suggested, mostly by my dad, that I needed some therapy to deal with my issues. I protested, but he won. And the resultant sessions with my shiny new therapist, Dr. Gill, had had her suggesting that I needed an aggressive outlet for all of my suppressed rage.
