by Lexi Ryan
It shouldn’t physically hurt to watch her walk away from me—God knows she’s done it enough—but it’s a punch in the solar plexus every time.
I grab my phone off the end table and power it back on. There’s a text from Chris, but this one’s just to me, not the group.
Chris: Keegan’s a fucking idiot. You okay?
I stare at the screen, trying to think of a casual response and coming up empty. I’m not okay. I’m so fucking tired, I just want to close my eyes and be done with this shit. But I don’t have the courage for sleep. There are too many demons lurking there. Too many questions and never any answers.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, tossing the phone down. Chris will live without a response.
I go to the kitchen to find my doctor-prescribed sleeping pills. They took away the illegal shit I was buying from the hipster from my dorm but were happy to pump me up with all sorts of shit they prescribed themselves—sleeping pills, anxiety meds, antidepressants.
I open the bottle, tap a sleeping pill into my hand, and stare at it. On good nights, I take it and everything goes black until morning. I crawl into bed and am out like the dead, and if I have dreams, I don’t remember them.
On bad nights, I slip into the same familiar nightmares, and sleep pins me down, holding me in my own personal hell until the meds wear off. The dreams are variations on a theme. I’m yelling at Brogan, shoving him against the wall, telling him he’s a fuck-up, threatening to tell Mia the truth. Then I’m at Coach Wright’s house, and he’s sitting in front of the TV with blood on his hands and tears in his eyes. Sometimes, I try to talk to him but I can’t open my mouth. It’s as if my lips are super-glued together. Other times, I open my mouth to scream, and the Sahara desert pours out onto his living room floor and Coach is drowning in it, fighting his way to the top for air. I reach for him, shovel sand away, but everything I do to help pushes him deeper.
Sometimes, it’s the deer that haunts me. Its big, glassy eyes watch as I scrub the garage floor with bleach rags. Then I’m scrubbing at Mia’s tears—a flood of bloodstained water surging up to drown me as I hear the message she left on my voicemail. “Brogan. My br-br-br— We’re at the hospital. So sorry. So, so sorry.”
I glance toward the stairs and put the pill back into the bottle. Not taking meds means I’m guaranteed nightmares, but at least if I’m not medicated, I can escape them.
Mia
I wake to a thump and sit up in bed. It’s three in the morning and my room is dark, but there’s more thumping. Someone’s kicking the wall between my room and Arrow’s.
My heart clenches as I picture him on the other side having wild sex with some girl. Maybe some old fuck buddy came over after I went to bed. Hell, for all I know it’s Gwen visiting her stepson’s bed.
I dismiss the idea as quickly as it comes. Arrow can’t tolerate Gwen, and he may have changed, but he’s never been one to fuck girls he can’t tolerate.
There’s another thump, then I hear Arrow’s voice. “No. Don’t.” Rough, choked words. And more thrashing. “Why?”
I throw off the covers and run to his room, opening the door without a thought.
I don’t know what I expected to find. Arrow is sleeping alone, tangled in his covers.
Frozen, I stare at him. Moonlight spills in through the open curtains and casts shadows across his face. Sweat glistens on his forehead, and his face twists in a grimace.
I step closer. I could touch him, but I shouldn’t. “Arrow?”
He kicks. His arm flies out and hits the wall.
“Arrow,” I repeat, louder this time.
He grabs my hand at the wrist and flies upright in bed as his eyes pop open. He’s breathing hard, and anguish is all over his face. For a minute, I feel like I can see inside him—all the terrified, vulnerable parts he hides from the world. I can see inside him and I know exactly what I’m looking at, because my dreams make me feel the same way.
“What are you doing here?” he asks in a low whisper. The anger from earlier is gone from his voice.
“You were having a nightmare.”
His eyes rake over me—greedy, hungry, desperate. “What? No red lace nightie? Or do you save that for my dad? Like mother, like daughter?”
I gasp before I can stop myself. Why doesn’t he just punch me? His fist to my face would hurt less than those words.
I yank my hand away, spin on my heel, and walk toward the hall. As I reach for the knob, he’s behind me. He slams his palm against the door, and it closes with a violent thunk. “I’m sorry,” he whispers behind me, his breath on my neck. “I’m sorry I said that.”
I keep my gaze on his hand. Arrow has the best hands. Big, strong, beautiful. And the first time they touched me . . .
I squeeze my eyes shut at the unwelcome memory, and shrug. “I need this job,” I say slowly. “Your stepmother has made it clear that she’ll fire me if we can’t get along, and we both know your dad will fire me if you ask him to. But please don’t. Please don’t screw it up for me.”
“Mia,” he says softly, and I feel him step closer, the heat of his body against my back. The rough pads of his fingertips brush the hair from my neck, then his breath, hot and sweet, tickles against that tender skin.
I’m frozen, divided between the wish for his kiss and the fear of it. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. Hot tears roll down my cheeks, and I don’t know what I’m apologizing for. For taking this job? For going with Brogan that night when Arrow asked me not to? For entering his life to begin with?
Yes. All of that. More. “I’m so sorry.”
He drops one hand from the door and the other from my neck. My body grows cool as he steps away.
“Stop apologizing,” he says.
I turn the knob and head to my room. I don’t look back.
Arrow
I go down to the kitchen to grab breakfast. Dad and Gwen are sitting at the breakfast table having coffee. Gwen’s dressed in heels and a pink strapless dress, looking more like a girl ready for a night on the town than a young mother preparing for a day with her family. She sweeps her sleek blond hair over one shoulder as she looks through interior design catalogues. On the opposite side of the table, my father is dressed in jeans and a polo shirt—what I’ve come to know as his weekend golfing attire—and is reading the Blackhawk Valley Times. Now more salt than pepper, his thick hair has always made him look younger than he is, no matter how much it grays. Even so, a stranger walking in the room might guess them to be father and daughter.
“Coach is going to send over a workout schedule for you,” Dad says, not bothering to put down the paper and look at me. “I expect you to train just as hard as you would if you were in the weight room with your teammates.”
Train for what exactly?
I want to ask, but I don’t. I’d work out anyway—I feel like shit when I don’t—so I might as well use Coach’s program. “Yes, sir¸” I say, pouring myself a cup of coffee.
Mia comes down with the baby, and I stop the mug halfway to my lips. She’s wearing a yellow sundress with her hair tied back at the base of her neck. Her backpack is slung over one shoulder, and the baby’s cradled in her arms. She looks so natural with my little sister. It’s weird to see her more a part of my family in that way than even I am.
She looks so damn beautiful that I expect that old sparkle to be back in her eyes, but when she meets my gaze, I realize I’m only anticipating what I hope to see. Her stare is vacant and cold. The old Mia still sleeps somewhere, not facing a world without her brother, not accepting a world that would do this to Brogan.
“Here’s your mama,” she says, handing Katie over to Gwen.
“Good morning, baby!” Gwen says to Katie. She settles her into her arms and looks to Mia. “When do you think you’ll be back?”
“The usual,” Mia says. She gives Katie a kiss on the forehead. “Just call if you need me sooner. It’s not a big deal.”
“Of course,” Gwen says.
“Good morning, Mr. W
oodison,” Mia says, nodding to my father.
“Morning, Mia.” Dad folds his paper, lays it on the center of the breakfast table, and pushes his chair back. “I’ll be in my office if anyone needs me.” He leaves before any real conversation can begin, which is typical of my father. He’s more comfortable working than talking to his own family.
Mia looks at me and then cuts her eyes away. “You have a good day too, Arrow,” she says.
I keep my mouth shut and just incline my chin in acknowledgment.
I can’t help but watch her go, my eyes drifting to the sway of her hips as she heads to the front door. I listen for her car and drain half my mug of coffee when I hear her pull out of the drive.
“Where is she going?” I ask it out loud without meaning to. It’s more a stray curiosity than an attempt to make conversation with Gwen, but my stepmother smirks at me.
“The same place she goes every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday—to Indianapolis to visit her boyfriend.” She pushes back from the table and shifts the baby in her arms. “I imagine you’d know something so important, but I guess you were too busy doing drugs to know how your friends spend their lives.”
Damn, I hate this woman.
But four days a week? It shouldn’t surprise me, but it hurts a little to imagine her sacrificing that much time—sacrificing so much of her check for gas—for Brogan. I wonder if she believes he wants her there. That seeing her makes his days better.
Hell, maybe it does. I haven’t said a civil word to her since I got home, and seeing her sure as hell makes my days better.
* * *
“Damn,” Keegan says. “You’re one lucky son of a bitch, Woodison. What kind of punishment is this, anyway? You don’t have to go to class, don’t have to have Coach bitch at you every day, no suicide drills, no nasty-ass dorm showers.”
I smirk and add, “No social life, no degree.” Then the smirk falls off my face as I think, No football.
A half a dozen guys from the team came over tonight and a few brought girls with them. Since having Mia so close is making me lose my mind, I was grateful for the distraction.
Keegan cracks open a beer. “You really expect me to feel sorry for you?”
I follow his eyes to the second-story picture window where Mia folds sheets, her back to the window, her ass filling her denim cutoffs. My jaw tightens as I turn back to Keegan.
He laughs. “You’re gonna try to tell me you’re not hitting that?”
Beside me, Chris groans.
“She’s Brogan’s,” I growl.
Keegan smirks. “Like that ever stopped you before.”
One second, I’m standing there, my hands clenched at my side, and the next, Keegan’s flying into the pool, fully clothed, beer in hand.
Chris grabs my arms and pulls me back before I can jump in after Keegan, and I’m grateful, because with the anger pulsing through my veins I’m not sure if I’d punch him or drown him.
Keegan comes up sputtering. “What the fuck?”
“Don’t be an ass,” Chris tells him.
Keegan smirks. “I’m just telling it like it is.”
Fucker must have a death wish. I lunge, but Chris holds me tight.
“Not worth it,” he murmurs.
“Get out of my fucking house,” I call as Keegan climbs out of the pool.
He’s sopping wet, his T-shirt clinging to his torso, his soaked jeans hanging precariously at his hips, his beer can floating in the water. He glares at me then turns to leave, lifting one hand and extending his middle finger as he pushes through the gate.
Only after he’s disappeared from view does Chris let me go. “Since when do you let Keegan’s bullshit get to you?”
I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on breathing. The humid air fills my lungs, and I hold it in for a beat before I exhale. Adrenaline buzzes through my veins, begging for release.
I’ve been home a week and I don’t know how to talk to Mia. Don’t know how to live with her so close to me. The last four months have been a haze of apathy and numbness, and I don’t know what to do with everything I’ve felt since I came home.
I lift my eyes back up to the window and catch Mia staring at me, her lips parted, shock on her face. For a moment, our gazes lock, and something nearly tangible pulses between us. Regret. Frustration. Desire.
She turns away, and it feels like someone has sliced off a piece of my heart.
“Christ,” Chris mutters. “You can’t look at her like that and expect assholes like Keegan to keep their mouths shut.”
Mia
There are so many things rich people have and take for granted. It’s not just the big houses and the flashy cars. It’s not the decadent vacations or the security of knowing you have a safety net if today’s job disappears tomorrow. It’s also the little things. Like fine linens. Thick, plush towels that hug your skin and smell like flowers. Sheets so soft they caress your skin as you slide between them. A stocked fridge. Fresh fruit year-round, and never the crap from cans. Air conditioning.
I fold the last of the towels, relishing the smell and the feel of them, and then begin my journey throughout the Woodisons’ house to put them away. I learned quickly that rich people don’t just have nice towels. They have different sizes of each towel—guest towels, hand towels, bath towels, bath sheets, and swim towels. And the Woodisons have different colors designated for each bathroom. In fact, Gwen’s a little OCD about her towels. I think she fancies herself an interior decorator or something.
Since Arrow has friends over, I head to the bathroom just off the pool first. The door to the back patio is open, and music and laughter float into the house.
I roll the towels and position them in the baskets the way Gwen likes them. My eye catches on the group gathered on the other side of the porthole window. Half a dozen guys from the Blackhawk Hills University football team gather around the pool, girls hanging on the arms of a couple of them. In the middle of the semester, I heard the coaches told the guys to stay away from Arrow, but here they are. Bailey said that rumor has it the judge thinks his team is the positive influence he needs to turn his life around.
As I start to turn away, I spot a broad-shouldered blond laughing at the pool-house bar. My heart squeezes hard, refusing to beat for one painful breath, then a second. You’d think I’d become accustomed to these moments when the world stops and I have to scramble to remember where I am in time and space. I grasp for my footing in the present, like forcing myself awake from a good dream and finding myself in a nightmare. The guy turns around, and I have a better view of his face, and just like that, I’m body-slammed back into the present—the nightmare. No. Not Brogan. Of course not. He won’t be joining his friends tonight.
“Oh, hey, Mia!”
I shake myself out of my reverie and turn to see Christopher Montgomery standing in the doorway. The BHU quarterback, Chris has soft blue eyes and one of those dimpled smiles that makes a girl feel like a princess. His chest is bare, and his shaggy mop of brown hair is wet from the pool and slicked back from his face. He’s not a loudmouth like some of the other guys, and he’s got this Southern accent to go with his striking good looks. I imagine he’s melted countless panties since he hit puberty. “Hey, Chris. I’ll get out of your way.” I shove the rest of the towels into their spots and grab my laundry basket.
“What are you doing with all that?” He frowns at the towels. “Why aren’t you out back with everybody else?”
I shake my head and try to pretend it doesn’t matter. “Gotta work.”
He steps to the side, blocking my escape, and cocks his head at me. “I guess the rumor was true. You are working for the Woodisons.”
“There’s a rumor about it?” I tell myself I don’t care, but my stomach’s sudden summersaults say otherwise. “I had no idea my employment status was fodder for gossip.”
“It’s not like that. Just with Brogan, we all . . .” He shrugs. “We all worry about you.”
Sure they do. They wor
ried enough to show up to my brother’s funeral—an endless line of broad shoulders in black waiting to shake my hand and avoid my eyes. And after that? Nothing. “You could visit him, you know.”
Chris flinches and averts his eyes. “It’s just . . . hard.”
“You should visit.” I stare at him until he meets my gaze again.
He nods. “Yeah. You’re right. Okay. We’ll go this week.”
Satisfied, I nod and turn to leave. “Excuse me.”
“Go put that basket in the laundry room and put on your swimsuit. Join the party.”
“I couldn’t. Arrow wouldn’t . . .” The rest of the words fizzle away as Arrow walks up behind Chris, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on me.
“Arrow wouldn’t what?” he asks, making Chris turn.
“Nothing.” I take advantage of the moment to push out of the bathroom and past both men.
Chris says something to Arrow, but I can’t make it out. I keep walking.
I’m hanging clean towels in the master bathroom when I sense someone behind me.
“Come to the party,” Arrow says, his voice low.
“I’m working.” I keep my head down. I can’t look at him. For the first time since I took this job, I feel shame for being the hired help. Which is bullshit. I work hard and pay my own way. Always have. Always will. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.
“You’re the nanny, not the maid.”
I open the cabinet with more force than necessary, and the handle clacks against the wall. “What, are you in charge of my job description now?” From the baby monitor clipped to my hip, I hear Katie fuss. “I need to check on the baby. Go back to your friends, Arrow.”
I don’t turn until I hear him leave, and then I stop in the doorway and lean my head against the wall, breathing deeply. Even though I just gave Chris a hard time about never visiting Brogan, I’ve been relieved not to have to face the team. Having so many of them here is too much of a reminder of how things used to be. Before. And it’s too easy to give in to the game of what-ifs. What if I hadn’t asked Nic to come get me? What if I’d told Brogan the truth? What if I hadn’t left with him that night? What if I hadn’t let Arrow comfort me when I was hurting?
