Revenge 3

by JJ Knight

  “It’s been a long time,” she says.

  Bracing myself against the doorway, I say, “I thought you were dead.”

  Arielle sweeps her hand through her long, dark hair. She’s got brown eyes that look so much like mine. Those familiar eyes blink back at me. We both got our father’s eyes.

  With her arm raised, the long-sleeved shirt she’s wearing pulls back enough to show the marks on her wrists. I feel like I’m seeing a ghost.

  “You wish I was dead,” she says.

  Amanda jumps up and claps her hands. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out Amanda’s excited about potential drama.

  How did Amanda sit on the secret this long? I’ve been living here for a week, and didn’t have a clue. My mysterious other roommate, Riley, has been away on a business trip. I never imagined that Riley was short for Arielle.

  I never thought I’d see my half-sister again.

  Now I’m living with her.

  Amanda’s talking a mile a minute. “I didn’t know you guys were related when I said you could come here, Jess. But, duh. I mean, I know Riley from home, and so it makes sense that you guys know each other, too, but I never thought.”

  “You didn’t know?” I ask.

  “Oh, Jess.” Amanda’s practically jumping up and down with excitement. “It was so funny. You would die. Riley got home and we went into your room so I could show her your teddy bear and your ghetto laptop with the duct tape on it. Okay, I was making fun of you. Whatever. Get over it. That’s what roommates do. Anyway, we were just talking and she asked what your last name is, and I told her, and she looked like she was going to fall over. So funny.”

  I look over at my half-sister, who’s still sitting quietly on the couch. She’s gained some weight, and she actually looks healthy. She even got her chipped tooth fixed. But I’m sure that even with the new nickname and all the nice clothes, she’s still the same person.

  “We should drink,” Amanda says, her blue eyes wide and sparkling. “Let’s play Truth or Dare. Hey, can you guys adopt me? Like, can I be the third sister? That would be amazing.”

  I hold my hands by my sides and resist the urge to strangle Amanda. She doesn’t know about the history between us. Not yet.

  Amanda walks past me in a cloud of her sweet body spray perfume. I hear her going through the kitchen cupboards, looking for something to drink.

  Now the two of us are alone.

  “Since when did you change your name to Riley?” I ask.

  Her dark eyes flash at me. “I never changed my name,” she says coldly. “It’s a nickname. Riley is short for Arielle. Please don’t call me Arielle. That’s not me anymore.”

  I snort. “Right. Like I believe that.”

  “Believe what you want, little brat.”

  Behind me, Amanda is jabbering away about our lack of booze. She wouldn’t be so excited if she could pick up on hints. Neither of us are in a partying mood.

  “I’m not a little girl anymore,” I say to Riley. “You can’t push me around and manipulate me.” I turn and start to walk to my bedroom.

  She doesn’t say anything. If she was a decent human being, right about now she’d apologize. But she doesn’t.

  I stop and turn back. “Stay out of my room,” I say, my voice as cold as hers. “Never mind. I can’t trust you. I’ll start locking my door from now on.”

  “Jess,” she says.

  I shake my head and go into my bedroom. I thought I wanted an apology, but anything she has to offer would be too little, too late. I don’t want anything from her.

  I shut the door and sit on my bed in the dark.

  I clench and unclench my hands angrily. This is just like her to show up when my life is going well and ruin everything.

  Tonight, with Dylan, was magical. There’s no way I’m going to let Arielle, or Riley as she’s calling herself, wreck it. I’m not even going to think about all her bullshit tonight.

  My roommates are talking now, but I can’t hear their words through my door.

  I turn on some music, and they’re drowned out completely. Forget them.

  In a moment, I’m drifting away on the memories of being in Dylan’s bed this evening.

  His kisses are on my lips, as light as a feather, but still there.

  He’s probably on stage right now, singing. A shiver passes over me as I think of his voice, and his expression when he sings.

  I wonder if he’s thinking about me right now.

  I’m definitely thinking about him.

  Chapter 5

  I wake up to the sound of tapping. At first, I think it’s my bedroom door. I open the door and find the hallway empty.

  The house is quiet. Both of my roommates seem to be asleep in their rooms down the hall.

  The tapping comes again, so I cross the room and pull open the curtains.

  I should have guessed.

  Dylan’s standing on the lawn below my window, a clump of dirt in his hand.

  I push open the window just as he launches the dirt. The clump hits the edge of the window and partially sprays my face with dirt and bits of grass.

  “Nice.” I spit out the dirt and brush myself off.

  “What are you wearing?” he calls up. “You look beautiful.”

  I take a step back from the window, crossing my arms in front of my chest. I’m wearing a camisole shirt and panties, because I was too warm for pajamas when I went to bed.

  Why am I being shy? Dylan has seen me naked. I step closer to the window.

  “How was your gig?” I call down.

  He waves his hands emphatically. “Terrifying. There were guys dressed up like girls, and girls… wait, I don’t think there were any girls.”

  His words are slurring together, and he’s more animated than I’ve seen him before. He’s definitely had a few drinks.

  “Do you want to come up?” I ask.

  “Sure. I’ll get the ladder.”

  He turns around and nearly face-plants on the lawn.

  “Dylan,” I whisper-yell. “You can come in the front door. I’ll go around and let you in.”

  He mumbles about that being a good idea, and disappears along the side of the house.

  I creep carefully through the hallway. The floor has a few squeaks, but not enough to wake my roommates, I hope.

  After I got home, I spent the rest of the evening ignoring them, either in my room or in the tub with the bathroom door locked. The last thing I want is one of them poking her nose into whatever’s happening between me and Dylan.

  When I open the front door, Dylan is posed with his elbow against the door frame. He looks dark and brooding, backlit by the street lamp. This would be another great shot for a music video.

  “Where was this gig?” I ask. “You’ve got body glitter on your cheek.”

  He raises his eyebrows suggestively. “Long story. But I can tell you this glitter wasn’t from a girl.”

  “Get in here, Mr. Glitter. Tell me all about your night.”

  He comes in and follows me down the hall to my bedroom. We’re in my room already when I realize I could have taken him somewhere else, like the living room.

  The room is dark. I run over to my bedside lamp and flick it on to its brightest setting.

  “Not much to tell,” he says, sitting on my wooden swivel chair to take off his boots. “Except that I am a total fraud.”

  “Sounds serious.” My bed is the only other option for sitting, so I take a seat in the middle. I cross my legs and pull one of my pillows onto my lap for modesty.

  His dark brown eyes look black tonight. Bottomless. When he looks at me, I feel myself drifting. Falling. Losing myself.

  “I’m an impostor,” he says.

  “Is this about your name change?”

  He stands, swivels the chair so the back is facing me, and sits again, straddling the chair’s wooden back. He’s wearing jeans and the same short-sleeved shirt as when I left his place. My mouth waters, seeing him posed so casually on the chai
r. He’s so sexy, everything he does looks like a magazine ad.

  He crosses his bare forearms across the chair’s back and rests his chin on his arm.

  “I can’t write,” he says. “Q wants me to write ten songs so he can choose the best, and I can’t even finish one.”

  “What have you got so far?”

  He exhales, blowing his breath up his forehead to move some dark hairs that have fallen forward. Seeing his hair move makes me want to run my fingers through his dark locks. I wish he was sitting on the bed with me, instead of on the chair. I wish he was smiling.

  He mutters, “What have I got?” He reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out a folded-up sheet of paper. He tosses the square onto the bed in front of me.

  I unfold the square, nervous and excited about seeing what he’s working on.

  What I find is a swirl of dark ink. Nothing but scrawled words, crossed out. I can’t even make out one word, let alone a single line of lyrics.

  “This doesn’t look good,” I say. “What’s your usual process for writing songs? Do you figure out the melody, and then the words, or vice versa?”

  “I don’t know,” he says, looking bewildered. “When I was at the cabin, it all came rushing out of me so fast, I could barely write it down.”

  “Can’t you use those songs? The ones you already wrote?”

  His eyes pull away from mine and travel down. I feel his attention on my lips, my neck, and then my chest. I’m wearing only a thin camisole, with no bra. I swear my nipples are hardening, just from Dylan looking at them.

  He gets a devious look, grinning like he knows what he does to my body. He knows the effect he has on me.

  “Forget the songs,” he says, his voice low and husky. “Maybe I need to spend more time finding my inspiration.”

  I keep my hands folded on my lap, over the pillow that’s resting there. I’m afraid that if I move, even the smallest gesture, he’ll pounce. He’ll fly off that chair and toss the pillow across the room, then he’ll take me again. The idea makes my skin prickle.

  The research I’ve done about recording labels comes flooding into my brain.

  “Dylan, wouldn’t you do the songwriting after you sign a development deal? They could hook you up with some other people, like a co-writer.”

  His dark eyes move up and lock on mine again. There’s a renewed fire there, in the gleam of his eyes.

  “I don’t want a co-writer,” he says. “I don’t want a co-anything. I’m a lone wolf.”

  “Lone wolf? Is that where you got your last name? And don’t wolves live in packs?”

  His upper lip curls in a wolfish grin. “Smarty pants,” he says.

  “Top of my class.” I grin, feeling proud. “Don’t worry about the songwriting. Just sign the deal and then take your time.”

  “That’s not the plan.”

  “I don’t know the plan. And before you try to pump me for more information, I don’t work for Q. I don’t know who the hell that is.”

  He swivels the chair away from the light cast by my lamp. His eyes are in shadow and his eyebrows arch up, making him look dangerous.

  “Sure you don’t,” he growls. “I may be drunk, but I’m not blind. There’s no way someone as sweet as you would want to be with a guy like me.”

  My jaw drops open. Is Dylan joking, or is he really clueless about how hot he is?

  I stammer, “You’re really cute. And you’re talented.”

  He swivels away, until he’s in profile to me, looking down.

  “You’re paid to say those things.”

  “I really like you,” I say softly, my voice almost a whisper.

  “I wish I could believe you.” He swivels further, so his back is to me.

  Seeing him turn his back on me shifts my mood. I don’t feel like arguing with Dylan over how much I like him. If the way I gave my body to him earlier tonight didn’t convince him of how I feel, I don’t know what else I can do.

  He’s really quiet. I wonder what he’s thinking about, but I’m too proud to ask.

  There’s a squeak in the hallway, outside my door. I shoot the closed door an angry look. That had better be the house shifting in the night, or one of my roommates is going to get a butt-kicking for eavesdropping.

  I breathe quietly, straining to hear more sounds.

  Minutes pass, and there’s no other noise.

  “Dylan, I’m sorry about your writer’s block,” I say to his back. “We can talk about everything tomorrow. After all the drinks are out of your system.”

  He doesn’t move. Not even a twitch.

  My eyes roam across his back, taking in the shape of his muscles at rest. His rib cage expands, widening with every inhale and falling with every slow exhale.

  “Are you sleeping?” I whisper.

  He keeps breathing.

  “You’d better not be planning to scare me,” I say softly. “If I get up right now, you’d better not jump up and grab me, or I’ll scream. I’ll scream and I’ll punch you. Remember, I do owe you one black eye.”

  I set aside the pillow and scooch down to the end of my bed.

  By the deep, raspy sound of his breath, he’s sleeping. But I can’t let my guard down or he’ll scare the crap out of me.

  I get on my feet and tiptoe over to him. I give his shoulder a gentle shake. He mumbles something incoherently and keeps on sleeping.

  I turn the chair around and look down at his face. I lick my thumb and wipe the glitter off his cheek. His thick, dark eyelashes flutter, but his eyes don’t open.

  “Hey. You can’t sleep on a chair. You’ll get a crick in your neck.”

  He keeps on sleeping, adjusting his head so his cheek rests on his forearm, which is still across the back of the chair.

  “You must be really tired,” I say.

  I lean down and kiss him on the cheek, and then on the mouth.

  His lips react to mine and push back, but he’s definitely asleep.

  I try to get him out of the chair, but it’s awkward. Suddenly my life has become a slapstick comedy movie. I try putting my hands under his arms and lifting him, but he’s too big. Those muscles of his must be dense.

  I peel one of his arms off the back of the chair, but he swats me away sleepily and pulls it right back again.

  After a few minutes of battling him, I feel annoyed.

  “Fine, sleep on a chair,” I say. “Mr. Stubborn.”

  I climb back into my bed and snuggle down under the covers.

  This isn’t so bad, actually. With him asleep like this, I can stare at him all I want, without getting embarrassed.

  I reach for the lamp to turn it off, but change my mind. I don’t want the room to be dark. I’d rather enjoy the view.

  I wonder what he’ll do when he does wake up.

  Chapter 6

  The sun is up. The room isn’t bright, so it’s probably around seven.

  I’m completely still, not even moving enough to lift my head and check the actual time on my alarm clock.

  Dylan is on the bed, behind me. I can feel his presence, and hear him breathing.

  I sweep one hand back, under the sheets. My fingers contact something. His butt or his hip. He’s on the other side of the blankets, on top of the covers.

  I roll over slowly to face him. He’s on his side facing me, his arm folded under the pillow. His eyes are closed, his breathing soft. I can see movement under his eyelids—his eyes darting back and forth in the REM stage of sleep.

  Even though I’m warm under the covers, a shiver passes over my arms and up to my ears.

  Dylan Wolf is sleeping in my bed with me.

  Well, technically, he’s on top of my bed.

  Close enough.

  He’s wearing his jeans and shirt, but he’s taken off his belt. I spot his belt near the foot of the bed, draped over the back of the wooden chair. His shirt is riding up, showing about an inch of skin on his side, above the waist of his jeans.

  I reach over for that inch-wid
e sliver of skin and run my finger along it. He doesn’t move. I nudge the fabric up, baring him to the bottom of his rib cage. His stomach is cute in this relaxed state. He’s still incredibly fit and toned, but in this relaxed state, his navel actually sinks in a bit, like mine.

  My fingertips drag down to his navel and circle around, then travel up his mid-line. He doesn’t have much hair on his tanned abdomen, but there’s a fine line along the center.

  I sweep my finger down, circle around his navel and run my finger down further. My body reacts to touching and looking at him—just looking at this bit of skin below his navel. My pulse quickens, and a feeling between my legs makes me aware of myself.

  He’s really here. In my bed.

  My fingertips trace his midline down, stopping at the button of his jeans.

  I glance up at Dylan’s face. His eyes are still closed, but the movements behind his eyelids have slowed. He’s still and calm.

  Slowly, I shift my other arm out from under the covers, careful not to disturb him. This bed isn’t nearly as large at the one at his place, but it’s a double. There’s room for two, even though the bed isn’t long. Dylan’s feet extend past the foot of the mattress.

  I trace the center line of his abdomen with one hand, my other hand resting on his side. His skin is hot and welcoming. I slip my hands up under his shirt, bringing one palm up along his chest and the other up his back.

  “Mmm,” he moans.

  “Are you awake?” I whisper.

  “No.” His eyes are still closed, but he’s smiling. “I’m still sleeping. Take my shirt off.”

  He rolls onto his back and lifts his arms up while he curls forward in a sit-up. I tug at the shirt and pull it off over his head. He still doesn’t open his eyes. He settles back down in the previous position, on his side facing me.

  I put both of my hands on his warm chest. He’s very calm, only moving to breathe. I move my hands down, over his nipples. They harden at my touch.

  My breath catches in my throat. I bite my lower lip, surprised at the sensation in my body. My nerves are tingling, especially between my thighs. The skin on my back prickles with heat.

  I run both hands up his hard chest muscles and to his neck. The tiny specks of his beard on his neck feel good against my palms. Grounding me. This is real. I can feel his pulse, strong and steady in the arteries along his neck.