5. Fletcher
Chapter 5
Fletcher
W e could have finished the project in two hours, but somehow we managed to drag it out for the entire two weeks. The first night, we argued about who would take what part of the project, a rendezvous which ended with Gideon storming out of my room just shy of one in the morning, face flushed and hands shaking. He showed up at eleven the next night, and we finished what we’d started the night before.
Sunday, again at eleven.
By Tuesday night, we’d drafted the barest bones of an outline.
We worked at a slow pace, maybe deliberately. Every second we spent together was a direct rebellion to the rules of my father and probably to his as well. North and Sinclair, side by side, working toward a common goal. In all the history of our families that I’d bothered to remember, I’d never heard a story like that. It had always been lying and cheating and conniving until one man came out on top. One day, someone would break the curse of our names, but I didn’t think it was either of us. Gideon, maybe, but not me. There was too much fear inside me still, tangled in the marrow of my bones. I was my father’s son, a soldier for him, and I always would be.
Wednesday Gideon showed up with two takeout boxes of curry in a crinkling plastic bag. He didn’t say anything different, didn’t do anything different. He was still in those well-worn plaid pajama pants, his hair twisted back into a messy knot at the base of his skull. When he lifted the bag of food to show it to me, his undershirt rode up, revealing the smallest sliver of his tanned, bare hip.
Swallowing, I stepped back, mind racing.
I was losing the upper hand.
“I hate curry,” I lied, hoping he didn’t hear the way my stomach growled at the scent of it.
Gideon didn’t falter. He licked his lips, corner of his mouth twitching—almost indecipherably.
“More for me then,” he said.
I didn’t invite him in. I never did, but he came anyway. Gideon dropped the bag of food onto my desk and pulled out one of the containers. In one graceful motion, he dropped down into the empty seat in front of my desk and kicked his legs up, propping them up on the foot of my bed. He made himself at home and dug into his meal, ignoring me until he’d polished off the last bit of rice in the bottom, then he tossed the empty in the trash and fixed me with an amused look.
“Now we can get started.”
Upper hand?
Didn’t know her.
Not anymore.
“How gracious of you to join me,” I said, rolling my eyes and flipping my notebook open to the outline we’d drafted the night before.
It was one sheet of paper, both our handwriting, and as I leaned down to review what we’d agreed on, Gideon sidled up close to me, shoulders touching.
“Teamwork,” he said softly, almost under his breath.
I looked at the backward way he wrote most of his letters, just like the weird fives in his phone number, wondering what life had been like for him before he was sent off to Rose Hill. He didn’t carry himself like he was scared of his father, like he got beat for falling out of line the way I did. He didn’t look like his dad dictated every second of his life.
But I knew he had to. He was a North, after all.
Fuck the North family, I reminded myself. A rule like that couldn’t come without a reason behind it. Maybe I’d underestimated him because he was nice to look at it. Maybe Gideon was a far more skilled predator than I’d ever be. He could throw me off my own goals just by batting his eyelashes in the right light.
“Do your parents know we’re working together on this project?” he asked, so close I could smell the coconut on his breath.
“No.”
“Mr. Smith would get fired on the spot if my dad found out,” Gideon said.
My mouth went dry.
“My father would probably kill him,” I whispered.
Gideon tensed, then relaxed, huffing out an aborted laugh. The paper in my notebook fluttered. I smoothed it down, unhappy to find it cool to the touch. My skin burned when Gideon breathed on me—why should the paper get off easy?
“Do you talk to him often?” Gideon asked. “Now that you’re here?”
I hadn’t talked to him since the first time I called Gideon to come over. “Not often. You?”
“Not since Christmas,” he said.
“Lucky bastard.”
Gideon laughed, leaning back and stretching his legs out, so comfortable and casual. He threaded his hands together behind his head and tipped back, staring up at the ceiling of my room.
“He treats his second better than me,” Gideon said.
“My father doesn’t treat anyone well.” I kicked my foot against the back of Gideon’s knee and he dropped his hands down to my desk, arranging himself in some semblance of an acceptable posture for studying.
He reached across me to get a pen, the entire length of his arm dragging over my chest, across my nipples. I shivered, knowing the feelings weren’t right, but I didn’t dare pull away from him. I didn’t know if Gideon noticed or not, but when he pulled back, pen in hand, he touched me harder, longer…only with the outside of his forearm, the back of his hand.
I couldn’t breathe.
“Fletcher,” he said softly, clicking open the pen.
“What?”
“Remember the first day we met? In the library?”
I nodded. “Of course.”
“I can still keep a secret,” he said, brushing away invisible dust or eraser shavings from the notebook between us. “If you ever wanted to.”