by Coralee June
Keeping my eyes on his, I stepped close enough so that tension mingled between us. My chest brushed against his as I took in a deep breath, and with a cocky smile I knew only showed the surface of what I felt, I looked up at him through my thick lashes. "You gonna kiss me?" I dared. Nathaniel Youngblood wasn't one to back down from a challenge, and I was the ultimate conquest. I might not know him well, but I knew that he was competitive. Most men born into privilege were.
Nathaniel Youngblood stared at me, taking in each of my features while dragging his eyes up and down my body. The crowd was deathly silent, as if uncertain about this strange turn of events. But they didn’t even know all of it. It almost made me smile to think of what they would say if they knew the truth. I could almost hear it now. What kind of sister would want to kiss the man responsible for her brother's death?
"I'm gonna kiss you," he said, mostly to himself. I didn't allow myself to internalize his expression, but I saw an uncertainty there that I wasn't expecting. He leaned forward, closing the space between us in an achingly slow way. Tentative. Fearful. He felt wrong but intriguing, all the same. Sometimes revenge wasn't apparent. Sometimes it was a bunch of little moments leading up to a big explosion of triumph.
When our lips connected, I felt nothing at first. He was attractive enough and everything a normal girl should want. But there was nothing except a chill in my bones and hatred for the man touching me.
And then his tongue brushed against my bottom lip, forcing me to swallow his lusty groans. He wrapped his hands around my throat as I crushed my body to his. Hot and wild repulsion flooded my heart, but my body craved more. I wrapped my arms around his neck, arching as his hands traveled down my bare back, leaving a trail of goosebumps on my creamy skin.
Our kisses became wet, and I realized that tears were streaming down his cheeks as we moved like crashing waves against one another. He then wrapped himself around me, dipping me lower as we kissed while twisting us to hide his tears from the crowd. I might've been nothing but a shell of the girl I once was, crumbling in his arms, but Nathaniel treated me like a treasure worthy of his touch. He kissed me without pretense, he kissed me like I was his last breath. He kissed me like I was the only person in the room.
His kiss felt like the goodbye he never got, and I suddenly realized who my brother was to him—what William meant to Nathaniel. With his tears soaking my face, I allowed myself to feel, to let my emotions pour out of me and wash us clean. I gave him the goodbye my brother denied. The farewell of a lover.
I didn’t need an answer. The clues all led to this. Nathaniel said that the person he wanted to kiss wasn’t here, and he was right.
The person he wanted to kiss was dead.
Chapter 5
I wasn’t much of a runner.
William used to joke that if you saw me running, then you better damn well run, too. He was always the better runner out of the two of us. And this wasn't just a literal thing, either. I didn't run from my problems. I didn’t run from a challenge. I met everything head on, spat in my opponent’s face then screamed out a war cry in the tune of my people.
That's just who I was. Brave and stupid.
So why on earth I was running from Youngblood—literally running—was a mystery to me. I was running down the street, fleeing him like he was a plague while stupid little tears streamed down my cheeks. I was mad at him, mad that he called my bluff and poured out his grief into our kiss. I was mad that he made me question everything with his touch. I thought I was here to shake up his world, not the other way around. My phone was ringing in my clutch, and I stopped by a bar to answer it. Pressing my back against a cool brick building, I steadied my breath as Noah's voice came on the line.
"Octavia, I've been thinking..." was his slurred answer. I hit my head against the brick, begging the sharp pain to snap through my senses.
"Yeah?" I urged him to continue in a breathless sigh. I could focus on Noah. I could let his mess of a life distract me from mine.
"I'm not helping you. Not really. I don't help anyone these days," he said in a dark tone. I could hear him breathing into the receiver, and I squeezed my eyes shut, willing my emotions to get the fuck out of my head. Noah did this every now and then. He'd slip into his cycle of self-loathing and fish for compliments. I knew I was supposed to tell him that he was helping me, maybe a nicer woman would have. But I'm not the sort to tell someone what they wanted to hear.
"Stop with the pity party. It's not cute." I forced my tone to sound bored and even twirled a strawberry blond ringlet of hair around my finger to trick my body into feeling nonchalant.
"Damn, Octavia. Can't even let me feel sorry for myself? You're becoming quite the narcissist. Everything is always about you, isn't it?" His voice was teasing, and I forced out a laugh. This was another one of our games; he'd pretend to insult me back so we could act like we’re even. So many silly little games with my alcoholic therapist.
"You feel better now?" I asked, biting my lip. Noah was always dancing around the meat of the conversation. For a therapist, he rarely got deep about his own issues. He was too busy prodding at the gritty details of my fucked up life for that.
"Much. Spill. Where are you? What are you doing? When are you coming home?" I could tell that he was forcing himself to concentrate. He always elongated his syllables when he did that. Once I knew that my breathing had settled and my pulse was no longer racing, I launched myself off the brick wall and finished my trek home with newfound determination.
"I kissed him," was all I could force out.
"Who?"
"Him. The guy I came here to kill. I kissed him," I replied, turning the corner and looking off in the distance. I was only about twelve blocks away from my apartment. It was late at night, probably dangerous for me to be walking home, but I didn't care. I liked danger and impulsive behavior. I liked that chronic feeling of being all over the place. The therapist my mother used to make me see prior to Noah used to call it my “manic episodes,” but I just called it living.
"I'm starting to wonder if you're above my paygrade, Octavia," he said in a gruff voice that almost sounded angry like he was holding back. He wouldn’t be the first professional to give up on me.
"I’m not even paying you," was my sarcastic response. "He was at a charity event. We had to bid in an auction for kisses. I cleared my account and kissed him on stage in front of all of them."
Reaching up behind me, I pulled the two pins holding my hair up in an intricate updo and let the strawberry ringlets fall over my shoulders. "Is this the part where I ask how that made you feel?" Noah asked. He was always joking about being unconventional. I used to think he made fun of traditional therapists because it made him feel better for being such a failure.
"I don't know, you're the therapist. Is this the part where I'm supposed to say I feel guilty?"
"No. But it would make me feel better if you told me that you hated it," Noah mumbled, and I had to hold the phone away from my ear to compose myself. That sounded a little too close to jealousy, and I didn't have the time—or longevity—for attachments. The road I was on didn't leave room for a future for men I cared about.
"I didn’t hate it,” I began. In fact, if I were being honest, there was a moment when I almost thought I loved it. “He cried," I choked out while touching my cheek. I could still feel his wet, salty tears flowing down me, rubbing against my skin with his grief.
"I don’t remember you being that bad of a kisser," Noah laughed.
"I just wasn't who he wanted to kiss," I replied cryptically. I wasn't ready to say out loud what my mind had already worked out. I knew William was gay, but I hadn’t even considered the possibility that he was dating Youngblood. William liked sensitive men that played the guitar and wrote poems in the dark. Nathaniel was rigid.
"This is all so fucked up," Noah replied. I could hear the sounds of water splashing on the pavement.
"Are you pissing outside again, Noah? You got a public indecency last time that h
appened," I scolded with a smile.
"No, actually I'm pouring out the rest of my bottle of whiskey. I didn't go out tonight." Noah was handsome enough and still young. Not even thirty, he could probably start over if he really wanted to. It wasn't too late for him.
"Are you going to try being sober for a few days again?" I asked, more bite to my tone than I’d planned on having. If he was pouring out his drink, then that meant he was going to give sobriety a shot for the third time this year.
"Maybe. Been thinking a lot lately. It's time to let Arielle go," he choked out.
And there it was. The real reason Noah and I bonded so well. We were both grieving people taken from this world way too soon. It wasn't fair. His daughter was just two when she drowned at her grandmother's pool. The gate was left open. They tried to revive her, but it was no use. He’d never shown me a picture of her, but I couldn’t help but wonder if she looked like him. Light brown hair and bright eyes.
I swallowed. I didn't want him to get better. I didn't want him to give up on this pain, ’cause then what would we have in common? "You never talk to me when you're sober, Noah," I said, ignoring the comment about Arielle. He was right, really. I was a narcissist. I couldn't talk about him, nor could I help him. I couldn't give him words of comfort or encourage a better life. All I could offer were little distractions between the moments that mattered. "I'll call you, Octavia," he replied, his voice hoarse.
"Yeah, whatever."
I hung up the phone before he could draw out more of my insecurities and fear of abandonment. Misery wanted company, but the company always left.
Youngblood was leaning against my front door when I finally made it home. The moment he heard my heels clicking against the tile, he jolted to attention, stiffening his frame to stare at me. "What the hell took you so long? It's been two hours!" he cursed.
He looked kind of cute like that. Flustered. Ruffled hair, as if he'd been pulling at it for the last hour. "I walked home," I replied with a shrug, not really sure why I was even offering him an explanation.
I went to open my door, but he grabbed my wrist and pulled me to face him. "Why'd you run away? Wasn't that what you wanted?" His breath smelled like mint and his touch felt like regret. The stain on his shirt, spaghetti. Sweaty palms. And I thought Youngblood had his shit together.
How could I tell him that I didn't know what I wanted? One kiss. One devastating kiss, and I was nothing but a mess of emotions and realizations. I needed a moment to figure things out. I’d always been impulsive. Hell, even coming here was a last minute decision. One day, I just woke up knowing that if I didn’t do something soon I’d end up losing William for good. Anger over his death was all I had left. And since I was using all my free time to research Blackwood University, I figured why not?
"Want to come inside?" I asked while pulling out of his grip before twisting the key in the lock and opening the door. Youngblood blanched, seemingly shocked by my invitation. The shocked look on his face had me smiling. We had only just kissed a couple hours ago, after all. What kinda woman did he take me for? I mean, I’ve been known to fuck men for less, but not my brother’s ex-boyfriend.
"I'm not inviting you to fuck me, Youngblood. I'm just tired of walking in these heels. Come on, look at them!" I lifted a leg to emphasize my point, showing off the six-inch stiletto with disdain. His eyes traveled up and down my silky skin.
"Right. Right," was his mumbled response as we filtered inside. As expected, Mrs. Mulberry was sitting on the floral print couch. With junk food splayed across her stomach, she'd fallen asleep mid-bite, looking hauntingly dead for a sleeping woman. I went over to her and checked her pulse.
"You didn't choke on a chip, at least," I said before shaking her shoulders to wake her. If she slept like this, she'd be sore as hell tomorrow, and I'd never hear the end of it. Arthritis made people bitchy, apparently. Maybe that was my problem. "Wake up, Mrs. Mulberry. I brought home a guy worthy of your infamous spank bank," I said with a laugh while ignoring Youngblood’s flustered cough.
Her eyes shot open, and I watched her slowly move to a seated position. I knew that would get her up. Her joints cracked with every movement, and I winced at the cadence of groaning bones. "A gentleman caller, you say?" she replied with a mischievous grin. I looked at Youngblood and had to bite back a laugh at his pained expression.
Rolling her neck, she bit her lip before standing, sauntering his way with barbeque chips still clinging to her shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and I found myself not trusting the integrity of her crop top. If it were any shorter, she’d be showing off her nipples. "Well hello, I'm Meredith Mulberry, but you can call me Beautiful," she chirped out while holding her hand out for him to kiss. I crossed my arms over my chest, watching her shamelessly flirt with who Nathaniel Youngblood— the elite, rich, and cocky charmer that just so happened to also be my brother's ex-boyfriend.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Beautiful," Nathaniel rumbled in a low voice that I'm sure Mrs. Mulberry would be imagining well into the morning. I recognized his expression as the same one he used on the girls at the Pike party last night. “My name is Nathaniel Youngblood.”
"I'm off to bed. Feel free to join me, Nathaniel," she cooed before turning around. She kissed me on the cheek then, winking with her devilish blue-grey eyes before easing her way down the short hallway to her bedroom.
Once she was out of earshot, I made my way to my bedroom while stripping out of my dress. I called over my shoulder, “So how long had you been fucking my brother?” I asked. I swear I heard a choking noise, but I ignored it. He didn’t deserve polite avoidance. For all I knew, he was still responsible for William’s death. They say crimes of passion are the number one cause of homicide, and based on his kiss, I’d say Nathaniel felt pretty damn passionate about my brother.
“How did you...” he began as I stepped out of my dress. I’d opted to go braless, and I felt his eyes on me as I found jogging pants and an oversized shirt to change into. I thought the only thing between us was heat, but maybe there was a touch of attraction, too.
“I’m intuitive about these things. William didn’t tell me, but our kiss, it…” I touched my lips before finally staring at him. His eyes were red as if he’d been rubbing away the tears he didn’t want to fall all night. Grabbing my cell phone, I opened it up and clicked play on the last voicemail from William, listening to it again with new ears. This whole time, I took his words at face value, but there was a deeper meaning in William’s sad voice. Youngblood’s eyes welled up with each word, confirming what I already knew.
“There’s this guy...Youngblood...Na-Nathaniel Youngblood…”
When the voicemail stopped playing, he reached forward as if trying to grab the phone from my hands and listen again. I recognized the feeling. We were both clinging to the memory of my brother. But I was a selfish bitch, pulling it out of his reach before he could grasp it. He wasn’t allowed to have my message.
“So that’s why you think…” he choked out, unwilling to say the words out loud. Here was the proof, wasn’t it? If Youngblood were as close to William as I’d assumed, then he’d know that William hated drugs. He’d rather burn to death than die from our mother’s addictions.
“So that’s why I think that you killed him? Yeah. I mean, wouldn’t you come to the same conclusion?”
Nathaniel looked around the room, cringing at my mattress on the floor and suitcase full of clothes. I hadn’t really settled here. What was the point? He sucked in a deep breath, steeling himself for what he had to say next. For a brief moment, stark tension balled up in his chest before he slumped in defeat. “I did kill him, Tav. I killed your brother.”
Chapter 6
Nathaniel Youngblood was a motherfucking coward, dropping a bomb like that in my lap then running like a little bitch. Here I was, starting to feel bad for him, and he had the audacity to flee. I didn't chase after him, there was no use. Before, I was okay with not knowing the specifics. I was okay with taking a sta
b in the dark—pun intended. That was one of the many perks of being impulsive and chronically angry. I had no reservations about lashing out blindly.
But now, the next day, I felt an emotion more infuriating than anger. Now, I felt curiosity.
Curiosity was an emotion more dangerous than anger. Curiosity led to answers, which led to guilt. And guilt never led to anything. It just left you staring down the barrel of heartbreak, wondering what fucked up questions got you there. It kept you up at night, made you question everything. Like who you were and what you were doing with your life. It made you overanalyze every look, every pause. Every sigh. Nathaniel kissed me like a man on a mission. He cried like someone truly grieving, and there was a weighty sense of regret in the way he admitted to killing William.
And fuck, I wanted to kill him back. I wanted to take the pistol Mrs. Mulberry hid under her pillow and hold it to his temple. I wanted to pull the trigger and sit in his blood and brains for a bit, really soak in the magic of the kill before killing myself.
But now, I had this pesky little thing called curiosity bubbling below the surface. It was gnawing at me, making me toss and turn all night. I came here wanting to be seen, wanting to make everyone so uncomfortable that they couldn’t function, but instead all I wanted to do was hide. I itched to talk to someone, anyone, that might have an understanding of why Youngblood did it. Why kill someone he supposedly loved?
