Текст книги "ARROGANT PLAYBOY"

Автор книги: Winter Renshaw

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 43 страниц)

CHAPTER 4

WAVERLY

I push my breakfast around on my plate, staring at the empty seat across from me where Jensen is supposed to be. Water whooshes through the pipes above. By the sounds of it, I’d say he’s just now finishing his shower.

We need to leave in five minutes. If he’s not down here by seven-thirty, I’m leaving without him. I’ve never had a tardy in my life, and I’m not about to get one for him. Summer can drop him off in the freshman lane, for all I care.

Loud thumps coming from the stairs a minute later direct my gaze to where Jensen is running down two steps at a time. His finger combs his dark hair into place as he rushes through the kitchen. He grabs an apple from the fruit bowl and slips a backpack over one shoulder.

“Ready?” The green apple fills his palm, and he takes one giant, crisp bite. The juices run down his chin, but he wipes them away with the back of his hand.

“I thought you didn’t eat breakfast.” I rise up and grab my bags.

“Jensen,” Dad says from the head of the table. “Missed breakfast, buddy.”

My dad calls him “buddy” like they’re a couple of old pals. He’s trying to make an effort. I just wish Jensen would try, too. It’s not like my dad to give people multiple chances or to tolerate flippant attitudes, but he’s doing it for Kath’s sake.

“My alarm didn’t go off.” I know he’s lying. “My bad.”

It’s seven thirty-one now. My heart sprints. I hate being late. I hate risking losing my favorite parking spot in the front row of the senior lot. It’s the entire reason behind why I need to arrive at school at precisely seven forty-eight each morning. I get my spot, head to my locker, grab my things, drop off my jacket, and head to my first period class where I find my favorite seat by the window in the third row with a little extra time to spare. If I’m a minute late, it throws off my entire morning.

What makes matters worse is that today, I have to find time to show Jensen to the counselor’s office to grab his schedule, and I’m sure I’ll get roped into showing him to class, too.

I pull in a deep breath as we head to my pearly white Jetta. I’m trying so hard to be positive. Good AUB girls don’t have opinions or complain or get upset. We “keep sweet,” as my father always instructs.

I’m a good AUB daughter. At least, on the outside.

“What’s wrong with you?” Jensen snorts as he plops into my passenger seat.

“We’re going to be late because of you.” I start the car and let it run for a few seconds before checking my mirrors, buckling up, and shifting into drive. He reaches for my radio, messing with the stations. “Hey. Don’t do that.”

“God, are there any decent radio stations out here?” He twists knobs until some classic rock song blares from my speakers. The singer’s screechy voice and wailing guitar hurts my ears.

“The polite thing to do would be to ask if you could turn my station.” I place my hands at ten and two after adjusting the volume using the steering wheel.

“Sometimes you have to forgo politeness when you’re trying to save somebody.”

“Save me from what?”

“From yourself. You need to loosen up. I’ve never met anyone so tightly wound.”

“What are you talking about? I’m a good person. I don’t need to be saved.” My blood boils. I can’t go to school all worked up like this.

I momentarily close my eyes when we approach the next stop sign and suck in a cleansing breath like my life depends on it. If I don’t collect my nerves, I’m going to have to kick him to the curb and make him walk the rest of the way.

“You look in the mirror and see a good girl,” he says. “I look at you, and I see someone who’s so molded and shaped she doesn’t know who the hell she’s supposed to be. You’re like one of those Stepford wives. You’re a Stepford daughter. Everything about you is too perfect. It’s fucking creepy.”

I slam on the gas and turn the radio off. “Stepford?”

“Never mind.”

He grips the handle above the passenger door as I slide into a parking spot in the back of the senior lot far away from my usual spot. Jensen climbs out and slips his bag over his shoulder. For someone heading into their first day at a new school, he doesn’t show a lick of apprehension. His eyes are a lot less swollen, his gash is virtually gone. The plastic girls are going to eat him up with his dark hair, golden eyes, and those permanently upturned corners of his smug little smile. I can practically hear them scrambling to secure dates with him before the rest of the school catches wind of what just rolled into town.

“If anyone asks, you’re a family friend.” Dad gave me instructions that morning as to how we were going to address the newest member of our family. I couldn’t exactly say Jensen was my stepbrother when my parents have been happily married for over twenty years. For all intents and purposes, we’ve led the outside world to believe Summer and Kath are neighbors and our families spend a lot of time together. There are a few other families like ours in town, but we all live in secrecy. Dad says we live in troubled times where too many of us have deviated from our original teachings, pressured by society to abandon the heart of our religious principles. It’s up to us to restore faith in the old doctrines and combine them with modern times.

“That’s pretty much what I am,” Jensen says. He turns to me, catching my stare. My cheeks redden. “You know we’re not really family, right?”

I shake my head, vehemently disagreeing with him. “Kath is one of my mothers. The twins are my siblings. So are you. We’re all family.”

“Not in the eyes of the law,” Jensen says. “I could say I’m married to you right now but it won’t mean a damn thing because it’s not legal. This is the adult version of playing house, kid. It’s all pretend.”

“Please don’t call me ‘kid.’ We’re the same age. And you’re insinuating you’re smarter than me on some level. It’s rude.” I can say things like that to him as long as my father isn’t around.

“I’m smarter than everyone.” He shrugs. “Can’t help it. Just the way your God made me.”

“That kind of talk is what gets a person in trouble.” I’d tell him to keep sweet, but that rule only applies to AUB women. Men are a little less restricted when it comes to emotions. They’re governed by a different set of rules. It’s not fair, but I’ve never been allowed to question it. Mom compares it to asking why the sky is blue. It just is; the reason doesn’t matter.

“Oh, no, the morality police is here,” he laughs. He sticks his wrists out like I should handcuff him. I grip the straps of my backpack until my knuckles whiten.

“You’re not cute,” I tell him. I sound like I’m in third grade. Jensen brings out the worst in me. He’s testing me. I need to shower him with kindness and patience, even if it’s the hardest thing I’ll ever do. He’ll lead me down a path of frustrated destruction if I don’t keep myself in check. Jensen presses buttons. He’s a button presser.

“Not everyone can be cute and sweet,” he says, implying that I am, in fact, cute and sweet. He pulls the heavy doors leading into the east entrance of Whispering Hills high and lets me go in first. Maybe he’s not a total jerk.

“Guidance counselor’s office is this way.” I point down a long hall filled with orange, red, and yellow lockers. A group of gossiping sophomore girls silence themselves the second they see us walking in their direction. A hush falls over the hallway with each step we take, like a row of tumbling dominoes. All eyes are on us—on Jensen, actually. He doesn’t look like anyone who belongs here, and truth be told, he appears older than eighteen. There’s a worldliness on his face, in the way he carries himself. He wears the confidence of a man much older than eighteen.

I’m still dying to know what happened and why he was dropped on Kath’s doorstep like an abandoned baby in a basket. Though it’s more like the clouds parted, lightning flashed, and out came Jensen Mackey like an angry clap of thunder complete with black eyes and an attitude.

We knock on Mr. Kaplan’s door as he’s finishing up his breakfast sandwich. I observe through the half window as he crumples up his wrapper and takes a couple long sips of his soda.

“Come in,” he calls.

“Mr. Kaplan,” I say. “This is Jensen Mackey. He’s new. We’re just picking up his schedule.”

“Yes, yes.” Mr. Kaplan runs a greasy hand over the top of his shiny, bald head as his other frantically lifts the various papers that litter his desk. “Jensen, Jensen, Jensen Mackey… here we go.”

He hands me the schedule and offers a smile at Jensen, his stare lingering a bit too long. Even Mr. Kaplan can sense Jensen doesn’t fit in here.

I glance over his schedule.

Ugh.

Our first and last blocks are together: Chemistry and AP English. He doesn’t look like an AP student. He doesn’t look like someone who would consider his grades or merit.

His locker number is printed on the bottom of his schedule, along with the combination. At least we’re in different hallways. I don’t think I could survive my last three weeks of senior year being joined at the hip with him all day long.

“We have to get to class,” I say, pulling on his shirtsleeve. “I’ll show you your locker later.”

He yanks the schedule from my hand. “Going to let me see what Kath signed me up for? Good. Drawing II and Mixed Media.”

We blaze into chemistry with thirty seconds to spare before the tardy bell rings. All the window seats are taken, so we settle for a table in the back row. Mrs. Davenport takes roll call, and when she gets to Jensen, she makes him stand up.

“Tell us a little about yourself,” she says with an open-mouthed smile. She shows the same kind of enthusiasm when she talks about thermite reactions because, you know, thermite reactions are super exciting. She pulls on her long necklace that holds a bedazzled charm in the shape of a beaker. “I realize we’re in the final weeks of the school year, but it’s never too late to make new friends and get to know each other.”

Jensen stands, his head leaning to one side and a hand on his hip. He rubs his eyebrows and clears his throat. He is literally too cool to give a crap about all the people staring at him. “I’m Jensen Mackey. Just moved here from Charter Springs, Arizona. Finishing my senior year.”

Two girls, cheerleaders, spin around from the table in front of us. They flash toothpaste-commercial-quality smiles and toss their curled hair over their shoulders like they share a brain.

“Hi, Jensen,” the brunette says. “I’m Claire Fahnlander, and this is Harper Griffin.”

Jensen offers an off-center smile, one that makes him look drunk and cocky all at the same time. I’m rolling my eyes—on the inside, of course.

“We’re glad to have you, Jensen. You can partner up with Waverly today. Her usual lab partner is out sick. Okay, safety kits out.” Mrs. Davenport turns to the white board, writing today’s lesson plan on the board as we retrieve our goggles and lab coats.

Claire and Harper giggle and snap selfies behind Mrs. Davenport’s back, making goofy faces through their goggles and flashing peace signs with fish-lipped pouts. Jensen watches them. Errant heat sears through my belly, tingling and evaporating as a tiny part of me hates that they’re earning his attention.

“Do you have an extra beaker we can borrow?” Claire says to Jensen, batting her lashes. She sticks a finger in her mouth and bites the tip of her long, pink nail as she winks. Harper giggles.

“Probably shouldn’t put your finger in your mouth,” Jensen says, avoiding her gaze. “You’re in a chem lab.”

Claire blushes and spins around. Harper is still giggling, leaning her head on Claire’s narrow shoulder. I have to give Jensen credit for not falling for that like every other guy in school does. She’s eager to make him hers before anyone else has a chance to. Claire is the alpha female of a catty group of senior girls who rule the school with iron-clad, manicured fists.

They infuriate me, especially when I’m the target of their mean-girl giggles, but I never let it show. It’s not worth it. In just a few short months, I’ll be trekking all over a college campus, my English lit books in hand, with a group of collegiate peers with more important things to discuss besides who’s dating whom.

The period ends before we know it. I don’t remember much of it. Jensen did most of the work, which is unlike me, but my thoughts were jumbled all morning. I chalk it up to being thrown off my routine that morning and promise to do better the next day.

“You need me to show you your locker?” I ask as we file out of the classroom.

“Nah, just point me there. I can find it.” His independence very well might be his only redeemable quality.

“South hall. Red lockers.”

He pats me on the back like I’m an old pal and gives a quick nod before disappearing into a sea of students without so much as a “see you later.” I wouldn’t say I miss him, but his sudden absence is noticeable.

“Hey, Waverly.” I spin around to see Cade Corbin, the guy who’s been relentlessly pursuing me since middle school. His perennial tan, cleft chin, and deep blue eyes always seem to work in tandem to try and melt my resolve, but I’ve stayed strong. “What are you doing this weekend?”

“Cade.” I fight a grin and shake my head as we trudge ahead. Every week he asks me this. He knows I’m not allowed to have a boyfriend. He knows I can’t date. He refuses to give up. I’m quite positive he only wants me because he can’t have me. “Who’s that guy you walked in with this morning?”

“A family friend.”

Cade slips his arm around my shoulders as he walks me to History. He’s tall and lanky, star of our cross-country team. The space around him is scented with clean shampoo and fabric softener, and there’s a hint of peppermint on his breath as he talks.

“Family friend,” he repeats, drawing out each syllable as his eyes crinkle.

I resist the urge to apologize or explain. I’m not dating Cade, and Jensen is… Jensen.

We stop outside my classroom and Cade brushes my arm as he tells me goodbye. He’s sweet, and I’m sure if my family met him, they’d love him. It’d be nice to be able to date. To be kissed. To experience the highs and lows of teenage love like the rest of my classmates.

I think about dating all the time. Sometimes, in my daydreams, I’m someone else. I’m not AUB. I’m a “normal” teenage girl. I date and drive fast and break into liquor cabinets and stay out late and flirt and attend parties. It’s my super-secret second life, lived out only in my fantasies.

And as much as Jensen grates on my nerves, and despite the fact that he’s part of the family, I thought about him last night. I fell asleep imagining the way his lips would feel against mine, and the way his body could pin me against the bed and make me his in all sorts of ways. I pulled out the old Harlequin novel stashed between my mattress and box springs and flipped to page one-seventy-six, reading the steamiest scene in the book and pretending it was us.

I shake my head and snap out of it, take my seat in the front row, and flip my notebook open. I can’t think about him. And it’s all kinds of wrong. He’s my brother now, and that will never change. Our parents are eternally sealed to one another.

CHAPTER 5

JENSEN

“You can drop me off at A1 Auto Repair.” I climb into Waverly’s car after school gets out. She’s been waiting a good twenty minutes, and she’s clearly pissed. I can’t help that I got cornered on my way out by a whole gaggle of junior girls trying to flirt with me. They couldn’t flirt their way out of a paper bag, but that’s neither here nor there. “You know where that is?”

“For future reference, my schedule will not revolve around your social life.” Her eyes dart to the clock on her dash before she slams her car into drive. I haven’t had a chance to buckle up. “Where were you the last block? I thought we had AP English together?”

“I swapped English out for another art class.” I roll down the window. It might be April and sixty degrees outside, but her car is a fucking sauna. What is it with girls claiming they’re freezing all the time?

“Don’t you need English to graduate?” Her words are fast and choppy, as if she is personally offended I dropped that class. That or she’s still mega-pissed about having to wait on me.

“Nope.” I take in a sharp breath of heated air that glazes my lungs with a soup-like coating. “Just needed chemistry. Everything else is elective. Plus, I took AP English last year.”

She snaps her gaze toward me and then returns to the road. I know what people see when they look at me. My outside and insides contrast. I throw people for a loop. I’m smart, and I’m a smartass. It works for me.

“Oh,” she says. She squints into the afternoon sun, then snaps the visor down and grips the steering wheel.

“You okay? You seem kind of…”

I don’t know what she seems like. I’ve known her for all of a couple of days. All I know is she walks around with a holier-than-though attitude, and when she’s not busy prancing around as Mark Miller’s golden child, she’s huffing and sighing and keeping her opinions to herself like she’s forbidden to speak them.

“It’s not good to keep things in.” I stretch my arm across her small car, hooking it behind the driver’s seat.

“I’m not keeping anything in. I’m dealing with everything in my own way. Thank you for your concern.”

It sounds like a canned response, and I don’t buy it. “You’re an angry girl.”

More like sexually frustrated.

“How would you know?” She spits her words with a wrinkled nose.

“Told you earlier. I’m smarter than everybody else.”

“Hate to break it to you, Jensen, but you’re not.”

“Ouch.” I clap my hand across my chest as if she’s just aimed and shot at me. “I doubt you’ll be calling me stupid when I’m tutoring you for your calculus final.”

“How do you know I’m taking calc?”

“I know everything about everything, kid. Tried to warn you. I’m all-knowing and all-powerful. Omnipotent. O-m-n-i-p—”

She jabs an elbow into my side and retrieves it just as quickly, which tells me she’s not a girl used to being physical with anybody. This girl has a shit ton of pent up anger and frustration. If she needs to take it out on me, I’ll gladly be her human punching bag. I don’t mind when it’s going toward a good cause.

“Saw you walk into your class on my way to Mixed Media. Our classrooms are down the hall from each other. Relax.” I rub the dull ache in my rib cage until it subsides. She’s got to do better than that next time. That was weak.

Waverly pulls up to a mechanic’s shop with gray cinderblock walls and five bays. A yellow sign with black and red lettering says, “A1 Auto Repair.” She slams on her brakes, which I’m guessing is her way of telling me to get the fuck out. God, I’d kill to hear her say “fuck” or “damn.” Or even “hell.”

For a second, I debate asking if she’ll come pick me up in a couple hours, but I don’t dare. If looks could kill…

“Thanks for the ride.” She peels out of the parking lot before I have a chance to shut the door behind me. “All right, then.”

I’m greeted by jingle bells on the door and a cashier with a nametag reading “Liberty” across her pinstriped button-down. It’s a mechanic’s shirt, but she has it open just enough to offer the world a shameless sneak-peak at her cleavage. Her hair is long, dark, and wild, and she has the same glass-blue eyes as Waverly.

“Can I help you?” She snaps her gum between cherry-red lips. She’s so busy working her Bubble Yum six ways from Sunday she doesn’t bother to smile.

“I’m Jensen. Mark Miller sent me here for a job.”

“Ah, yes. Uncle Mark,” she says, picking up the phone and pressing three buttons. The cuffs of her shirt are hiked up just enough to show she’s got a whole sleeve of tattoos going on. Judging by her smooth baby face, she’s barely old enough to drink. “Dad, that guy that Uncle Mark sent is here.” She hangs up. “You can have a seat. He’ll be out.”

I locate a dingy aluminum chair and grab a stale issue of Car and Driver, flipping to the middle and hoping to find a half-interesting article somewhere.

“So, you’re one of the Millers now.” Liberty’s mouth turns into a knowing half-smile.

“Not a Miller.” I clear my throat and flip the page. It’s not that I’m proud to be a Mackey, it’s just there’s no way in hell I’ll ever be a fucking Miller.

“Yeah, but you’re Uncle Mark’s third wife’s son from another marriage. Right? Did I get that right?”

“Something like that.”

“It’s okay. I know about their, uh, lifestyle,” she laughs. “My mom and Waverly’s dad are brother and sister. We’re not poly, or anything, but we know about them. Family’s family, right?”

I flip another page and mutter, “Forever and always.”

“Uncle Mark is fucking nuts.” She says it with a heavy connotation, as if I should know what she’s talking about by now.

“Only known him a couple days.”

“Well, you’re in for a real treat.” She slides her body against the counter and leans against her arm, yawning. She’s far too young to be this tired at three thirty in the afternoon. “Sorry. Out way too late last night.”

“That supposed to impress me?” I’m fucking with her, but it’s mostly because this Car and Driver magazine is old as hell. She should take it as a compliment.

“Look, I’m not trying to impress you. Just making a statement. Don’t flatter yourself. You’re too young for me. Plus, I’m taken.”

“Poor guy.”

She scoffs and flips me off with a shit-eating grin. I kind of like her. If I were looking for a friend, I might consider someone like her. Her sass isn’t unlike mine, and it’s a breath of fresh air in the boring land of Whispering Hills, Utah. I have a feeling we’re both treading the same dark water, in some way or another.

“Jensen?” A man appears from behind Liberty. His dark hair matches hers, though his eyes are black as coal. He wipes his oil-stained hand on a dirty shop rag and extends it. “I’m Rich. Mark said you needed a job?”

“Mark said you needed a… gofer.”

“I do.” He motions for me to follow him out to the shop. A team of young guys are rolling tires, hoisting cars up on lifts, and running hydraulic tools. We weave between a sea of vehicles until we reach a back room where all the parts are kept. “You familiar with car parts?”

I nod.

“Good.” He hooks his thumbs into the belt loops of his dirty gray pants and rocks back and forth on his heels. He may as well be chewing the end of a piece of straw. He takes me in from head to toe, sizing me up before he makes it official. “Pay is eight bucks an hour. You can work a couple hours after school during the week. Saturday mornings too, if you want to pick up extra hours.”

“I’ll have to look into transportation, but I think I can make that work.”

His brows furrow. “Got an old diesel Dodge in the back. Doesn’t run. Been meaning to fix it up myself and sell it. If you can get it running, it’s yours. You can work off the parts, if you need to. Just keep a running tab with Lib. Keys are in it.”

I’m not sure what I did to deserve such a karmic pay off, but I wholeheartedly accept.

I spend the next two hours running parts back and forth. The guys are friendly enough, but I’m not here to make friends. By seven, Rich says I can mess around with the Dodge for a bit, which is good because I have no other way to get home, and I’m not about to phone in any favors from Waverly.

I pop the hood and tinker around a bit, running back and forth from the shop floor and grabbing various tools and parts. Mostly new spark plugs and a battery get it running, but it sounds like a dying cow. It’s going to need a timing belt soon and a few other odds and ends, but it should get me back and forth for the next few days.

“Congratulations,” Rich says come eight o’clock. He hands me the title to the Dodge with his signature on it and shakes my hand. I get the feeling he’s taking pity on me. I don’t like the pity, but I’m not in a position to turn down the free truck.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now get on home, boy. I know Mark likes his kids home by a decent hour.”

I restrain myself from telling him I’m not one of Mark’s kids. I’m Kath’s son, biologically speaking, and I’m only passing through for a few months. Instead I bite my tongue, offer a nod, and climb up in my silver and blue truck.

Blazing through the quiet streets of Whispering Hills in my loud-as-fuck ride, I’ve never felt more alive. For the first time in years, I’ll get to go home and not be met with the Spanish Inquisition, be slapped around, or be reminded I’m a piece of shit disappointment.

I almost smile.

Instead, I crank the radio, roll down the window, and go for a drive until the moon is high in the sky.

By the time I pull up in front of the street I’ve now dubbed the Suburban Compound, the main house is lit up like the Fourth of July. But the silhouette of a man peering out the living room window with his hands on his hips is concerning.

I drag myself up the steps and show myself in, bracing for rapid-fire questions from Mark-of-Many-Wives Miller. It’s hard to take a man serious who truly believes with all his heart that marrying multiple women is a straight ticket into the pearly gates of Heaven.

“Before you say anything,” I begin. “I stayed late after work fixing up this old truck Rich gave me.”

“I called Rich.” Mark’s face is the color of a beet. I never knew the human face could turn such a garish purplish red. “He said you left the shop two hours ago. Where were you, Jensen? What do you have to say for yourself?”

None of the wives are in sight. Discipline must not be on their chore list for tonight.

“I went for a drive. Had to clear my head.”

“You call, Jensen. You don’t just take off and not tell anyone where you’re going.” The vein in his head is protruding, and he’s halfway to an aneurysm by now. He’s trying to make it sound like he gives a shit about me, but I know what this really is. It’s a control thing with him. He’s got his wives and daughters and children under his thumb, but not me. He doesn’t quite know how to wrangle me in yet. News flash—he’ll never be able to. “Your mother was worried sick.”

Right.

Must have been why her house was pitch black when I pulled up.

“Nothing good ever happens after dark,” Mark continues his lecture.

“It won’t happen again.” I want him off my case. I’m tired, I want a sandwich, and I want to go the fuck to bed. I swallow a big old batch of pride and lower my head in faux-shame.

“Damn right it won’t.”

Uh-oh. Mark said damn. He must be angry.

“All due respect, Mark, you really don’t need to worry about me. I can handle my—”

“I won’t have you coming in here, setting your own rules and disrespecting the rest of the family.” His nostrils flare, pulling in long, hard breaths like a bull about to charge. “We have a strict eight o’clock curfew in his household. The example you’re setting is completely inappropriate.”

“Be home in time for Dateline. Got it.”

His mouth parts for a second. He wants to continue lecturing and berating me, but he doesn’t. Instead he pulls in a deep breath and rubs his tired eyes. He’s giving me that look—the same one Rich gave me. They look at me like I’m some victim—an abused, defenseless little boy. I’m anything but, and I refuse to ever identify as a fucking victim.

Mark mutters something like, “goodnight.” He’s gone, disappearing into the darkness of the main house. I head straight for the kitchen, pulling a loaf of white bread from the pantry and ransacking the fridge for something to shove between a couple slices.

I grab a packet of bologna and a bottle of ketchup and slam the door. My heart nearly falls clear to my feet when a figure standing in the kitchen doorway appears without warning. My eyes focus in the dark until I recognize those virginal Coke bottle curves.

“Shit, Waverly, you scared me.”

“Sorry.” She stands there all saucer-eyed before tiptoeing toward me. “Want me to make you something?”

I’m not sure where this niceness is coming from. Last I knew, we’d left things on a sour note. Maybe she heard Mark yelling at me.

I pull out a plate and knife and go to town. “Nah. I can make my own sandwich.” I start to cut my sandwich on the diagonal and then freeze mid-slice. “Aw, shit. Am I not supposed to be in the kitchen?”

Her brows furrow.

“You know, ‘cause I’m a guy and all.”

She crosses her arms and fights a smile for a quick two seconds. She wants to smile. I know it. But she won’t allow herself.

“Be careful with Dad,” she says, her voice hushed. “It’s better to let him get it all out. Just don’t talk back. He doesn’t like that.”

“I take it you’re not mad at me anymore?” I shove a third of the sandwich into my mouth at once. Bologna and ketchup sandwiches were a staple at my old house until Juliette came along. Josiah didn’t cook much, and most evenings were fend-for-yourself.

“I wasn’t mad at you.” She’s still playing the denial card.

“Okay. If you insist.” I shove the rest of the sandwich in my face, eating like a prison inmate guarding his food, but I don’t care. I’m fucking hungry. I make myself a second sandwich and inhale it as she watches. “You want one?”

She shakes her head. I consider asking why she’s still standing there, but I don’t have the energy. I’m dirty. I’m tired. I need a shower. Waverly cleans up my mess without saying a word.

“You don’t have to do that.” I’m trying not to laugh, but the girl flits around me like a goddamned housemaid.

She wipes up the crumbs and replaces the rag. The dampness rubs against her white cotton pajama top and sells out the fact that she’s most definitely not wearing a bra. Who knew under all those thick cardigan twin sets, Waverly Miller was packing a set of perky, round tits?

“Go on upstairs, Jensen. Get to bed. I won’t have you making us late for school again in the morning.” Her languid command reminds me the rest of the house is fast asleep. It’s just us two standing in the dimly lit kitchen of the main house.

“Don’t worry about me. Rich gave me a truck. I won’t be needing your brake-slamming taxi services anymore.” I head out of the kitchen. Waverly follows in step.

“I’m a great driver.”

“Not when you’re mad.” We take two steps, then two more. I stop short and she bumps right into me. “You were mad about something today. I don’t care what you say.”