Page 20 of Striking Range

Last night was drunken desire—repressed lust on my end. And yet, I can’t get the feel of his hard chest against mine out of my head. How every single inch of me lit up when he complimented me, when he whispered such sweet, filthy things against my skin.

“You sound so sexy telling me what to do. You always have,” plays on a loop in my mind. And every once in a while, the word always snags and lodges itself within me. An uncomfortable and concerning warning sign illuminates the world around me.

But before I can grasp it, before I can put any real emphasis or importance on the word, I recall how it felt as he nipped at my jaw and dug his fingers into my hips—and the gravity of the situation falls away.

If Everett weren’t my best friend, I believe I’d jump him the moment he comes home. I’d be desperate to taste that desire again, to lick his skin and feel his body pressed to mine.

I now understand why women keep chasing him, even while they know that he is an elusive, unobtainable creature.

And even as I know all of this, and I am content to separate desire and Evie himself, I cannot seem to diminish that feeling I got last night. The one that crept in and wrapped around my heart like a living, breathing thing.

“You do this lot?” I had asked.

“I guess so.” He said it with a smile—a lazy, lustful smile that dripped with sex and temptation.

How is it that I can feel this idea of betrayal, even as I know the kind of lover Everett is? When I have no claim, no horse in the race, and no intention of ever completing?

This is another adult thing I do not understand. But I do know that when I think about it, my body hurts. It’s a hot, sick pain. And it feels almost as overwhelming as the inside of his mouth did.

After some time, when I still cannot think of anything else, I decide to go for a run through campus. Maybe once I return, Evie will be back, and we can laugh these uncomfortable thoughts and feelings away.

Maybe we can go back to the way things were.

Chapter Six

Everett Young

Rockhill Heights looks like a typical suburb for the most part. The outskirts of Sinclair can get a bit shabby, especially the further you go east, but our neighborhood and most of the central part of town are palm trees, green grass, and ocean water.

Rockhill is huge—big enough that it takes a good ten minutes to walk from my house all the way to Skylar’s. It’s one of the biggest neighborhoods in town, and it’s always bode well for me. It made it easy to keep him from coming inside.

My childhood house, and unfortunately my current residence, is a two-story, four-bedroom home. There is one bathroom on each floor, with white paint and brown trim on the outside. The staircase has a step—the fourth stair from the top—that creaks when you put your full weight on it.

The dining room table seats six, though it’s only ever been the three of us.

Felicita has been meticulously keeping up with the rose bushes out front since I turned thirteen, and the grass is always perfectly cut. The two-car garage is forever neat and tidy, just as it always has been.

I stare at the front door, doing my best to mentally prepare for another encounter with my adoptive parents. I’ve spent the last few days bouncing between Henry and Skylar’s apartments—anything I can do to avoid coming here. It’s easy to make excuses when the drive is thirty minutes, and I can use the early lecture card.

“Everett.” Ash Carmichael opens the front door, his face stern as he waves me inside with a single gesture.

His black hair is peppered lightly with specks of white, his brown eyes so dark they resemble tar. His white button-up is taut over his shoulders and tucked snugly into his slacks.

With no patience, he turns on his heel and walks back into the house as soon as I acknowledge him. I take a deep breath, will my headache to take a backseat to my fear, and follow him inside.

Felicita is in the kitchen preparing breakfast as I come in; biscuits and gravy, her Sunday ritual. She floats around the kitchen in her Lululemon leggings and her tank top. Her blonde hair is in a tight French braid, her toned arms tanned, and her hands covered in diamonds.

Felicita played the game of life strategically—she was smart. As a personal trainer, she makes decent money, but not white picket fence money. Not diamond ring money. So, she married a lawyer.

And as time passed and wealth and vanity were no longer enough, they desired to keep up with social appearances, to appear as the perfect all-American family.

To do that, they needed a child—one Felicita did not want to ruin her body by bearing herself. So they adopted a blond-haired mutt.

Me.

Ash takes a seat at the head of the table, opening his newspaper and donning his reading glasses. I don’t even think he’s actually reading it, and if he is, it must be the obituaries or the weather report.

“Here we are,” Felicita says sweetly, resting the pot of gravy on an oven mitt in the center of the table, a tray of biscuits already set out.