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Trust me, I checked.
And I was very thorough.
I put my drink on the nightstand and shimmy my pyjama pants down my legs so that I’m just wearing my top and underwear, before sliding beneath the sheets with my book. The cotton quilt feels cool on my bare skin and I shudder as I slink further into the mattress, the rain thudding repetitively on the window pane outside.
I’m almost unconscious when I hear it. Loud voices outside. Getting nearer. And then the sound of the front door being unlocked.
The sound of the front door being unlocked.
I shoot up in bed, shoving my glasses back up my nose as I try to ease the crick in my neck from jolting so suddenly.
There are voices in the house.
I didn’t even think to shut my bedroom door because I’m home alone tonight. I can hear multiple male voices, fanning out downstairs. Loud and clear.
Obviously it’s not going to be my mom and Mitch, but whoever is here has a key…
I tighten my grip on my book, pause for a moment, and then gently extrapolate myself from the duvet. I pull my pyjama pants back on, and then check outside the window for any familiar trucks. I catch sight of a large black Ford and my tummy clenches.
Fascinating.
Time to investigate.
I pad out of my room with stealth and grace. No one has ever moved so silently. When I reach the top of the stairs to the ground floor I see shadows moving across the living room. They’re playing music through someone’s phone and I hear the hiss of bottles opening. I look down at my healing fist contemplatively.
“River?”
I snap my head up and my breath gets caught in my throat.
Tate is standing at the bottom of the stairs in nothing but a pair of denim jeans and his silver crucifix. His torso is the best colour I have ever seen, like piping hot caramel. He has one hand shoved in his front pocket, and the other is running through his hair.
And, unless my brain is glitching, there is a large dark tattoo – something like a cross and storm clouds and maybe some scripture – enveloping his swollen bicep.
I haven’t seen him since he deposited me in his former bedroom, so this feels like a lucid dream.
I put on my annoyed face and cross my arms. “Breaking and entering?”
His eyes trail down my body, a somewhat reluctant look in his gaze as he takes in my outfit, and then he lets out a breath, eyebrows pinched. He glances to the living room and then back to me, warily. He advances one step forward so I take one step back.
“I thought you were at Jason’s tonight,” he replies.
Who the hell is Jason?
“I do not know anyone by that name,” I say in a dignified voice.
He bows his head and breathes out a laugh. His abs ripple. This feels like a test from Satan. I want him to lift his face so I can see his smile, but he hides it from me until the laugh has passed.
He grips the bottom of the banister with one hand, the tendons in his arm flexing. “Jason is my uncle,” he clarifies. He glances down my outfit once more and then suddenly looks up at me with heated, taunting eyes. The corners of his lips twitch. “Ouruncle.”
Did he-
Before I can think of a retort, one of Tate’s friends rounds the corner and pulls up to lean on the other side of the staircase. He’s just as tanned as Tate and most likely the same age but his hair, peeking out from a backwards baseball cap, is light gold, surfer style.
He folds his arms across his chest.
“Sup,” he says, jerking his chin at me before surveying my outfit. I think that it gets worse every time someone sees it. Then he looks over at Tate. “Who’s that? If that’s your dad’s girlfriend I’m gonna lose my shit.”
Tate is still looking at me. “She’s not his girlfriend.”
