Page 25 of Midnight Curfew

Entering through one of the patio doors, I head down a white hallway of marble and gold trim everywhere. Gold mirrors, gold picture frames, gold trinkets. The floors shine, and as I come up on a stairwell to my right, I look up to the second and third floors, imagining a definitive death for anyone who falls. Everything is clean and bright and hard, and for a second, I’m a little more forgiving toward Macon and Army. I could always sit on the furniture, and nothing ever felt cold in our house.

How much prettier this place would be if I got a rich boy to beg in it.

I find my way upstairs, passing photos on the walls of his family and of a woman who looks like him. Unlike my mother’s pictures, though, her smiles seem real.

Walking into the bedroom, I trail down a short hallway and come into a large space that looks like a hotel room. The girl I saw earlier lies propped up on her elbows on his bed, still in her swimsuit, and there’s also a dresser, a desk, and a private bathroom.

I find him outside the sliding doors to my right, still standing on his balcony.

I step up behind him and let my eyes trail over his hair and down his neck. I almost smile at his exhibit of courage right now, letting me get this close. How easy it would be for me to push him.

Instead, I curb the temptation and kneel down, picking off dead fronds and debris in the large gray pot.

Turning his head, he peers down. “You did sign a nondisclosure agreement when you took this job, right?”

What would I have to talk about? The underage drinking? His father treating him like shit? His parents fighting?

Or maybe it’s something about his stepsister. Yeah, that’s it.

“If I was going to talk,” I say, continuing my task, “you would know. This would be a very different conversation.”

“How so?”

Rising, I stuff all the leaves in my pocket, closing the distance between us by an inch. Then two. “Are you scared of us?” I ask him.

His brow pinches together, but he doesn’t reply.

I stand up straight, my nose just above his. “Are you scared of me?”

Still, he doesn’t say anything.

“I don’t want you to be,” I tell him.

How boring would that be? I want him to try me. Please.

His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, and a moment passes, then several, and I’m not sure what to do, because there are so many possibilities. I could make him bleed or make him—

He lunges out and grabs my neck, backing me into the side of the balcony as he bares his teeth.

It takes a second to catch my breath as the railing digs into my ass.

“I can do whatever I want right now,” he whispers, glaring up at me, “and I’d get away with it. That’s your reality.”

I try not to laugh—my pulse is racing in a way that feels so goddamn good. Everything inside me is so warm—my heart, my arms, the blood pumping in my veins—but I still have chills. No one has ever wrapped a hand around my neck before, but there’s something intimate about it. His grip isn’t quite tight enough to hurt me, just to keep me.

“Maybe,” I breathe out. “But when I’m mowing your fucking lawn someday, I’m not signing shit.” I press against his hand, bringing our faces closer as I whisper. “But you’ll still hire me.” And I smile. “Even though you’re scared of me.”

’Cuz you like looking at me, don’t you? Not even these rich pricks’ precious Wolfe Room can occupy his mind like I already do.

I knock his hand away, his glare meeting my amusement. What the fuck is he going to do?

Thunder rolls across the sky, the wind kicking up the palms on his balcony.

“Rain’s coming.” I walk back into the bedroom, issuing my challenge if he fucking dares to accept it. “The Bay will be on fire tonight.”

As I leave, I don’t seriously believe he’ll come, though. He’s the kind who’s only tough on his own turf.

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