Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“ Y our driving sucks.” The words are a straight up lie, and judging by Boone’s snort from the driver’s seat, he knows it. I’d refused to sit in the passenger seat, not that he’d asked. Instead, I got into the back to flop down on the bench. Not that he said anything about that either.
He’s a way better driver than I’ll ever be in the snow, and not just because I haven’t been here in a while. I’ve never been confident driving through snow, ice, or even windstorms of the midwest, though I have no idea why exactly. In theory, it shouldn’t be that big of a deal. Boone shouldn’t be this much better at it than I am.
But I suppose I’ll have to accept that even I have limitations.
“My driving is way better than anything you’ll ever accomplish,” Boone quips, leaning back against the driver’s seat. The sun is still up, seeing as it’s barely past two pm, but it feels like I could sleep for the rest of today and wake up tomorrow, on Christmas eve, to the disappointing fact I’m still here, still snowed in, and still stuck with my stepbrothers.
I huff and sit up, grabbing the door handle to open it and stalk off. Except…it doesn’t open. My momentum just sends my face into the window, where I stay with a long, slow, exhale with my nose pressed to the glass and my eyes closed. “Turn off the child locks, Boone.”
“Ask me nicely.” He makes no move to get out. Just leans back in the driver’s seat in front of me.
But I don’t ask him nicely. That’s not in the cards for us. Instead, I shift and lean back to meet his eyes in the mirror before jamming my feet into the back of his seat until he snarls and leans forward.
“Hey, hey!” With his fingers white-knuckling the steering wheel, he twists in his seat to glare at me. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re acting like?—”
“A child ?” I sneer. “Yeah, that’s because I’m living up to how you’re treating me.” I kick at his seat again, being careful not to do any permanent damage. At worst there will be a few muddy footprints from my shoes when I’m done, but that’s fixable. Not by me, of course. Boone can scrub his mom’s car all on his own.
“You think this is going to make me unlock the door?” He glares at me still, and holds himself forward so my kicking barely affects him.
He’s not affected, I realize. He doesn’t care about any kind of fit I’m throwing, or the point I’m trying to make. I flip him off wordlessly before lunging forward, shoving between the front seats so I can climb out of the passenger door.
But I don’t expect him to grab me, his hand fisted in my hood. “Oh, I could make you regret this,” he sneers in my ear, face suddenly close enough I can feel his breath on my skin. “If I didn’t want to strip out of these layers right now I could make you?—”
“You’re all talk.” I shove out of his hold, nearly strangling myself until he lets go. “And in case it’s in any way unclear”—I dramatically kick the door open, revealing an unamused Fletcher on the other side of it, who doesn’t move even as the edge comes within inches of his face—“I hate you both. I don’t want to deal with you, I don’t want you to be here. I left because of you . And no amount of creepy threats, diner lunches, or forced Christmases spent here will change that.” Sliding down to the ground lands me closer to Fletcher than I’d like to be, and I tilt my head up to glare at him, a rant ready on my lips.
But Fletcher just holds his hands up in surrender and steps back, brows raised. “Don’t look at me that way,” he murmurs. “You weren’t in this bad of a mood last time I saw you.” It had only been a fifteen minute drive, thanks to their comfort of driving in snow and ice and Boone’s familiarity with Cheryl’s SUV.
“Fuck you.” That’s the best argument I can think of, and when Fletcher’s eyes narrow, it makes me second guess myself.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even really look miffed. Instead he steps back, hands in his pockets, and looks over my shoulder at Boone almost questioningly, who then just mutters in response. But that’s more than fine with me. I walk past him, getting up the nerve to slam my shoulder into his, hoping to knock him over. Maybe it’s immature of me. Maybe all of this is immature, I’ll allow that. But I deserve even this petty revenge after what they put me through.
Fletcher’s grip on my upper arm is sudden and tight, making me wince at the sharp pain. “Don’t get too comfortable yet, princess,” he murmurs in my ear, still not turning to really look at me. “You’re really trying my patience and Boone’s temper. I intend to remind you why that’s not in your best interest. Or…” he trails off and finally turns to look me over. “Maybe it is. I can’t tell yet.”
I have no idea what he could mean by that, but I hold his gaze for a few seconds before dropping my eyes to the ground. “Let go,” I mutter, jerking out of his hold when he allows it. I wonder if maybe I should tone it down. At least where Fletcher is concerned. Boone is easy. He’s an open book, with a temper that flares fast and quick before sputtering out.
But Fletcher knows how to wait and plan .
Without a word, I walk up the stairs, missing the iciest step by hopping over it, and close the door behind me with a grateful sigh. At least now I can change out of all my layers and take a shower to unfreeze my toes and maybe, just maybe, take a long nap afterward so I’m not so cranky and frustrated at everything.
There’s no ensuite bathroom downstairs, probably because when my dad bought this place, my room was a large office for the person who owned it before. Because of that, I have to grab my clothes as I let Sitka out, barely watching to see where she goes once she strides out of my room on light paws, her claws tapping on the hardwood floor. They’re just as good as a bell on her collar, in my opinion.
The closest bathroom is down the hall and across from my room, but I pause before I enter it, listening for any sign that Boone or Fletcher have come into the house. Strangely, I don’t think they have. I don’t hear them anywhere, and I certainly didn’t hear them going up the stairs into their room. For a few seconds more I hesitate, still listening as if something will change or one of them will let out some call to tell me where they are.
But then I remember there’s no reason for me to give a damn. A low sigh leaves me and I shake my head, clearing it and trying to get a hold of myself. I’m so strange when they’re around. I’m frustrated, on edge and…waiting for something. Though I have no idea what that something is. But I do know I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, because I can tell from their expressions, from the way they talk and look at each other, that they’re not just here to say shit and make my life a little miserable.
“Whatever,” I mutter, forcing myself to walk on bare feet into the bathroom. There’s no tub down here, which I mourn a little since I’d love to fall asleep in a tub the size of the one attached to the boys’ room. But the shower is big enough to have a bench and cute cubbies in the walls where body wash, shampoo, and conditioner have been placed for me, either by Cheryl or her sister in an attempt to be welcoming.
Curiously, I open one of the bottles, wrinkling my nose at the clean smell of ‘fresh linen’ as the bottle says. I can’t really expect them to know what scents I love or hate. Honestly, I’m just grateful to have supplies here in the first place. Even if it’s not to my taste. “You’re being picky and selfish,” I tell my reflection once the water is going and slowly heating up, steaming up the bathroom while I strip out of my last layer of clothes. When I look at myself again I have to rub my hand over the glass, surveying my pale face and my hazel eyes that look different than usual.
It’s probably because I’m tired. That’s obvious by my expression, though I couldn’t fix it even if I tried. I rub my face wearily, breath leaving me in a long, low sigh. “Worst Christmas ever,” I tell the mirror before leaning back on my heels. Goosebumps have broken out on my arms, even in the steamy heat of the bathroom, and I take that as my sign to step into the shower and under the hot water before closing the thick, black curtain that happily obscures most of the light.
I should’ve turned my phone light on and the ceiling light out, I realize belatedly. I love showering in the dark, or soaking in the mostly-dark with only a small light to keep me from slipping or tripping and eating shit. It always helps me feel more relaxed and off in my own little world after I’ve had a hard day. Today definitely qualifies as such, and I’m counting today as over due to all the shit that happened at four in the damn morning.
Being careful, I scrub my hair, watching out for the tender spot on the back of my head. Again, I wish I had the nerve to ask Boone for more of whatever he gave me this morning, but I’m not sure I trust myself being that level of knocked out with them here. At least not until I find a way to barricade my door so Boone can’t come in and exact some sort of revenge for my shittiness earlier.
Though I suppose I could apologize.
The sound of the front door closing makes me glance up, but other than fading voices and footsteps, I don’t hear anything else. I have an urge to peek out from the curtain, to check on the bathroom to make sure everything is how I left it. But of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?
I don’t let myself. I refuse to become a shaking, nervous mouse who has to look over her shoulder every few minutes to reassure my mind that everything is okay. But it’s hard for a few minutes to resist the urge, and I busy myself with letting the hot water relax my muscles and thoroughly warm me up.
By the time I’m done washing my body with shampoo instead of the body wash in the cubby, I don’t want to get out. So I sit on the bench, thankful again that we have what usually seems like a limitless supply of hot water up here. The fake-stone is cool under my skin, and the wall behind me is a dramatic contrast to the water continuously coming down on me.
But I know I can’t hide in here forever. I don’t want the disappointing, unfortunate feeling of the water cooling off and making me colder than I want to be. So I force myself to stand up, reaching out to turn off the water in one quick motion before it can get even a touch of a chill in it.
The bathroom seems suddenly so quiet, as does the whole house. Yet again I can’t hear anything, and I stand there for long enough that I’m surprised nothing finds my ears. Maybe they left, I think to myself, grabbing the towel I slung over the shower rod and wrapping it around my body. Unfortunately, Cheryl hasn’t learned what bath sheets are, so the towel is just a standard bath size and covers me from my chest to the tops of my thighs. It makes me wish I had thought to bring my own towel, if only to have something that covers more surface area and makes me feel drier, faster.
“You can’t be so picky,” I remind myself as I shove back the curtain, striding over to stand in front of the mirror. I look a bit like a drowned cat, and with my eyes on my reflection I grab another towel and scrunch the excess water out of my hair. The whole time I survey the dark circles under my eyes and the irritated look on my face, trying to will both away but ending up looking like I might break into tears at any moment.
Finally, when my hair is somewhat dry and I’m not dripping water onto the tile floor, I decide it’s good enough. It’s not like I’m going anywhere other than my bed, anyway. I have no one to impress and nowhere to go. Though belatedly I do brush my teeth to get rid of the last vestiges of biscuit that I swear I still taste every once in a while, no matter how much iced coffee I drank to try and wash it out. But that’s all I’m going to do, with my hair smelling of leave-in conditioner and my mouth minty fresh.
It is so time for sleep. The best sleep, where I feel like my soul leaves my body for a few hours. I turn, going to where I left my clothes on the laundry hamper against the wall…and stop.
They aren’t there.
Confused, I look on the floor, as if I could miss a pair of pj pants and a tee, before opening the laundry hamper like they could’ve slid in there themselves.
Nothing. My clothes aren’t anywhere around the bathroom, even though I do multiple circuits of it to make sure. By the time I’m back to staring at my face in the mirror, my eyes are wide with realization and my heart is thumping against my ribs. After all, it certainly doesn’t take a genius to figure out where they went.
If I had to guess, I’d say this is one of Boone’s master plans. Especially with how I’d acted in the car. I should’ve known he’d do something I would never even think to try, and I groan, elbows thumping on the counter so I can bury my face in my hands.
On the bright side, my room is just a short jaunt down the hallway. I don’t even have to go to the living room or pass the kitchen to get there. It’s six seconds, maybe seven, of being just in a towel outside of this bathroom, then I can barricade myself in my room, put clothes on, and scream into my pillow while plotting my grand revenge.
Yeah. That’s what I’ll do. Just six seconds. Six and a half, if I’m slow. Taking a breath, I force myself not to look nervous or scared. If they are out in the hallway, I’m just going to walk past them and not even acknowledge their presence. It’s the only thing I can do. Or at least, the only thing I can think of that I can do before I obtain clothes.
With my phone in my hand I yank open the door, turning down the hallway toward my room.
But I freeze when my eyes land on Fletcher, sitting in front of my door with his head leaned back against it, one knee drawn up and his arm resting on it oh so casually. But there’s nothing casual or unintentional about this.
My plan and my steps falter, but there’s not really an alternative. So I stride down the hallway, towel wrapped tight around me as I wish it had even just a half inch more material. Especially when I get closer and Fletcher gazes up at me, his blue eyes unreadable. With one hand holding the towel closed and the other gripping my phone, I don’t have any hand left to flip him off or hit him.
And honestly, the idea of hitting Fletcher is much more terrifying than punching Boone again.
“Move.” My voice is cold and unfriendly, but I manage to keep the nervousness out of it. “Seriously Fletcher. You’ve made your point. So move .”
He doesn’t move; not that I really expected him to. That would be way too easy, and make my night not complicated enough in his eyes, I’m sure.
“And what point did I make, exactly?” Fletcher’s gaze wanders up my legs, from my calves to my thighs, where they stop as if he can see through the fluffy lavender towel. But then his gaze keeps going, keeps studying me in a way that makes it hard not to squirm.
“That you’re a real jerk.” It takes a lot for me to snap the words out at him, and I look down the hallway both ways, just in case Boone is standing somewhere nearby.
With a camera.
That thought makes me shut my eyes hard, and anxiety roars to life in my chest. It’s a testament to how tired I am that I can’t push away the memories or the feelings associated with them, so I barely notice when Fletcher uses that moment to push to his feet.
“What’s wrong?” He cups my jaw unexpectedly, palm warm against my skin. Opening my eyes, I glare up at him, fingers clenched hard over the towel.
“Nothing.” It doesn’t matter, but I still glance up and down the hallway, unable not to know that the idea has planted itself in my brain. “Just…” I can’t trust him, I know that.
But I need this anyway.
“Just tell me Boone isn’t somewhere nearby waiting to take a picture of me.”
Fletcher doesn’t speak, and it makes my heart twist in my chest, like it’s trying to wring out all the blood so I can just die on the spot and save myself any further misery. But then Fletcher gives a small scoff, followed by a chuckle, and he rolls his eyes at me.
“No one is going to take a picture of you without your consent. And any pictures of you taken by us aren’t for anyone else. Okay, princess?” His words send a shudder through me, and I remind myself that I can’t trust him.
“Whatever.” I hesitate, and let out a huff. “Can you move now?”
“No.” Amusement replaces the worry in his eyes, and his mouth curls in a smirk. “You’re not going to your room.”
My brows climb toward my bangs, and I stare up at him, incredulous. “You want to repeat that? I’m not about to have sibling bonding time in a towel. So either you give me my clothes back, or you let me in my room to grab more. It’s one or the other, Fletch.”
“Actually, I think there’s a third option.” He steps closer to me, until we’re nearly chest to chest.
“Is it one where I run you over with your truck and crash it into a tree?” The words are out of my mouth before I can really think that the threat might not be smart, but they only make Fletcher chuckle.
“Not quite. We can explore that one later, but for now, I’m thinking you need to learn some manners, Conor.” He leans in close, and I find I can’t pull away. “And learn that your actions have consequences. Especially with us.”
Footsteps coming from the living room make me look up, and I catch Boone’s harsh grin just as he reaches us, hands out and reaching for me. I barely have time to make a noise of protest, trying to yank away from him, but in seconds he has me thrown over his shoulder, the towel riding up so that my ass is definitely on display.
“Put me down!” I howl, grabbing his hair with one hand as my phone clatters to the floor. From the corner of my eye, I see Fletcher pick it up and pocket it, but I’m too busy digging my fingers into Boone’s scalp and t-shirt, trying to convince him to put me down any way I can. “Goddamnit, Boone!” I kick at him, but he only traps my calves against his chest, his low chuckle vibrating through him and into me.
A jolt is my only clue that we’re taking the stairs, and I gasp in surprise at the disconcerting feeling of being carried up them while over Boone’s shoulder. His hand wanders as he walks, reaching up to cup my thigh and prompting me to smack the back of his head.
“You’re only making this worse, snow bunny.” He laughs, as if he doesn’t care about the pain. “Only making me want to take this further.” His steps level out, and suddenly it dawns on me that we’re going to their room.
“Put me down!” My words are lost on him, and on Fletcher, who disappeared somewhere on the first floor. Though when we turn off of the landing I see him start up the stairs, a few bottles of water in his hands.
“Fine.” We pass through their doorframe and with a few more steps I’m hefted off of Boone’s shoulder, tossed down with his hand gripping the towel that barely covers me. The result is that I land on their beds which have been pushed together in front of the bay window, though I immediately cover myself and drag my knees up to my chest.
I watch as Boone tosses the towel on top of the dresser, where I can also see my pjs. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I hiss, heart pounding as I nearly shake with surprise and frustration. “Have you fucking lost it, Boone?”
“No, princess,” Fletcher sighs, closing the door behind him. Casually he walks over to the dresser, setting down the waters and my phone on top of it. “He hasn’t lost it, and you’re not leaving here.” He moves to stand behind Boone, wrapping his arms around him and resting his head on his shoulder. “At least, not until you’re begging for us to forgive you for how shitty you’ve been to us.”
“And not until you mean it,” adds Boone, leering down at me and leaning his face against Fletcher’s.
My mind scrambles, trying to come up with a plan. But all I can do is stare up at the two of them and hope to God I’m about to wake up from some kind of depraved nightmare so that this isn’t really happening.