Chapter Six #2
“How, how can I fix this?” I whisper, my voice barely audible. She just shakes her head, looking down at the table, unblinking.
Sam, who scoots noticeably close to Alisha, places his hand on her arm. I think he feels her fear as well. But the look in his eye says more.
“You won’t lose me,” I whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her lips press together, but she doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to—her silence says enough. Sam removes her hand and starts rubbing her back.
“Yeah, as long as you don’t go getting all self-sacrificing,” Richie mutters, trying to cut the tension.
I roll my eyes. “I’m not sacrificing myself.”
The cold smirk on Alisha’s face tells me she knows better. She’s always known better.
Selene leans forward, resting her upper half onto the table and looking back and forth between all of us. “Well, I for one want to do something. You think Dad’s goons will let us? We’ve been stuck here long enough and nothing has happened.”
Richie lights up like a firecracker. “Ooooh, let’s go! I was thinking of getting some blackout done. Anyone up for a tattoo run?”
Hazel snorts. “Can’t. Shop was taken out too. Courtesy of the rapist fuck face.”
The room stills for a second. We’d forgotten to check on Juniper.
“Shit. Is Juney okay?” Selene blurts.
“She’s with the boys,” Hazel answers. Relief flickers across all of our faces. “She said we could come by last night, but I wasn’t sure anyone would want to leave so I didn’t bring it up. I can see if she is up for it tonight?”
Selene grins. “We can. We should. Right?
“If it’s the Slaters, Dad will be fine with it,” Sam replies. “They’re just as scary as the Mafia… well, almost as scary.”
The Slaters again. He always brings them up.
Hazel and Juniper have talked about them, but I have no interest in meeting any men outside of the ones I already know.
I causally date here and there. Not much though.
Hookups, sure. Quick and empty. But dating?
Trusting? Never again. Eleven years isn’t long enough to erase the scars Gavin left, or least isn’t long enough for me to want to see if they are.
So meeting any of them has been a low priority for me.
Eventually, after too much begging, I cave.
We scatter to get ready. I swipe perfume on my neck and wrists, tease my hair back to life, and slip on my classic, checkered black and white Vans—the one comfort I will never give up.
Then I change my baggy t-shirt out for a cute tank top, and make sure my black skinny jeans don’t have any stains before walking out.
The Suburbans are waiting downstairs, all bulletproof paranoia courtesy of my father. I slide into the passenger seat, Samuel and Alisha in the far back, Hazel, Selene, and Richie in the middle row. Two nameless guards flank us like shadows.
The drive takes forty minutes due to evening traffic, city lights flickering past the tinted windows. Seattle hums with life, oblivious to the war brewing under its skin.
Inside the Slaters’ building, Hazel leads us down polished halls, past art, plants, and even a working rotary phone on a side table. I lift it, curious, and grin when the dial tone buzzes in my ear. Half the kids in this city wouldn’t even know how to use it.
The elevator takes us to the top floor, and Juniper answers the knock, looking whole, thank God.
She ushers us inside, demanding to know what we want to drink.
She has got on a long black t-shirt, and from what I can see, nothing else.
Interesting. Hazel and Richie vanish with her toward the kitchen, leaving me, Selene, and Samuel in the living room.
Then a man approaches—tall, broad-shouldered, hand outstretched. “Hey, Sam. How are you?”
“Great, Josh. How about you?”
Josh. That’s the name. He’s better looking than I expected. Selene catches my eye, and I know she’s thinking the same.
Another one follows. Just as tall, just as magnetic. He greets Sam, then glances at us. “And you must be Selene and Surry.”
Josh cuts in, eyes flicking between us. “So which one’s which?”
“I’m Selene,” she says, flashing her smile. “This is Surry. And no, we’re not twins.” She laughs and rests a hand on his arm. “We get asked that pretty regularly.”
Juniper appears out of nowhere, sliding her hand through Josh’s and tugging it free. Message received: no touchy–touchy.
“This is Joshua and Corver,” she announces. “Brenden’s being a pussy in his room. Claims he’s calling it a night, but he’ll probably wander out when he gets FOMO.”
Sam frowns. “What the fuck is FOMO?”
I roll my eyes. “Fear of missing out. F-O-M-O. How are you thirty-eight, and don’t know that?”
Linking arms with Selene, I turn to Juniper. “I need a drink. A strong one.”
Juniper smirks. “Oh babe, I got you.”
Later, the drinks blur into laughter. Sugar and rum buzz through my veins, a heady mix that makes the room dance in soft edges.
“JUNIPER! I NEED THE POTTY!” I yell, voice tipping into a whine.
“Down the hall, first door on the left!” she shouts back, perched on Josh’s knee, playing charades like a queen.
I wander the hall, distracted by the empty walls—bare, not a single picture, not even art. The apartment feels so put together until you enter this area, like it was forgotten. As if they had made it all the way to this point and either didn’t care or didn’t know what to do.
At the crossroads, I hesitate. Light seeps from under the left door. The right one is dark. Logic tells me left is occupied, so I twist the knob on the right and step inside.
And I freeze.
My sugar and alcohol induced haze evaporates in an instant.
Standing before me is a man, no. A god. A towel slung low on his hips, long dark hair dripping water onto a chest carved like marble, ink scrawled over muscle.
The overhead light is off, and just the lamp on his desk remains on, explaining the darkness under the door.
His eyes catch mine, sharp and unyielding.
“Enjoying the show, darling?” His voice is low, gravelly. Dangerous. His hand loosen’s on the towel slightly, causing it to highlight the sacred V-line and light trail of dark hair that disappears under the white material.
Oh, fuck.
This man. This beast. This GOD. He growled. He called me DARLING. I don’t know what to do with myself. All I can do is stare at him.
He has long, shoulder-length dark brown hair that is freshly wet from the shower.
His body is chiseled from marble; there is simply no other explanation.
The deep V that cuts down into the towel leaves little to the imagination.
Especially when I can see the uh, the outline, underneath.
He is absolutely enormous. Has to be bigger than six foot four, is my bet.
I am sure I look insane now, just staring at him. But what else is a girl to do.