28. Chapter 28
Chapter 28
Cedric
K eys jingle in my pocket, and I’m kicking up puffs of sandy gravel as I reach the designated beige-painted house.
It’s rather small, though it has that same quaint quality all houses in Fern Port seem to possess. I glance around me, noticing the thickness of the trees that surround the building, how it seems isolated from the neighboring ones. I tell myself it’s best not to dwell on the why, though I’m sure there’s a reason Myrta wanted the contract signed before I set foot within a two mile radius from the house. Call it poor business on my part, but securing somewhere for Marcus to live was always one of the priorities.
I can’t decide whether Marcus will hate or love the privacy this house grants. Myrta said the previous owner passed about a year ago, and no one else has shown interest in taking their place yet. It might have sounded some warning bells, but neither Marcus nor I are in the position to be picky at the moment. Beggars can’t be choosers. I turn the copper key Myrta gave me into the lock, and once I step inside, a strong smell of dust assaults my nostrils.
“Bollocks,” I mutter as I look for the nearest light switch, given the shutters are firmly closed. When I find it and the lights come alive, I heave a breath of pure hindrance.
Not because the furniture hidden beneath off-white cloths is likely horribly out of style.
But because the living room walls are spattered in thin rivulets of blood.
“You have got to be joking me,” I mutter to myself. I press the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger, searching within me for an ounce of patience. I consider my options as I step further into the house, heading toward the closed blinds. When I pull them up and sunshine filters in, the environment looks marginally less gruesome. It’s not that I didn’t expect actual proof that this town is home to other people like Marcus, at some point; I suppose I’d imagined something less… blatant. I take a picture of one of the walls and send it to Marcus.
Can you guess who lived here before you?
That’s a bit on the nose, don’t you think?
The good news is that Marcus, irony of the decorations apart, didn’t seem to hate the photos I sent him of his soon-to-be home. Myrta was utterly evasive about the reasons why the house hadn’t been cleaned–she grumbled something about how Marcus is welcome to live on the streets instead–and, in an impressive feat of both patience and unwillingness to argue on my part, I decided not to push on the matter.
The bad news is that I’ve wasted an entire day not being with Delilah in the process.
I tell myself that it’s fine, that we have plenty of time; except what we do have is a handful of days and a murky relationship status.
The terms of Joe’s contract are clear: once lodgings and adequate measures are put in place for Marcus’s new life, I am to fly back to Cambridge and forget I have a brother altogether.
The truth is, until a few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have minded, not as long as it meant Marcus would be alright, safe, and above all, as far away as possible from our father’s looming threats.
But that was before Delilah.
Guilt gnaws at me for many reasons. Not only would Marcus be prepared to tear the contract apart and risk for Joe to expose his nature, put him at the mercy of the press and the people, and all for the small chance I got to have what I wanted; perhaps even worse is how I could have prevented all of this. As soon as I saw Delilah, let alone talked to her, I knew. Deep down, no matter how I downplayed it or tried to convince myself of the opposite, I knew a single smile from her would make me crumble, and I did next to nothing to stop it from happening. I encouraged it. I welcomed it. I picked the worst possible time to think about what I wanted. Because at the end of the day, I’m more selfish than what Marcus or mum ever thought me to be. If I could talk to her about this, maybe she’d have some advice for me. Maybe she’d talk some sense into me; after all, she had to give everything up in the same way Marcus will. In the same way I am about to, as well… but of course I cannot reach her now.
Every time I think I could not possibly despise my father more, I am reminded of what he’s done to Eliza, the way he pried on the only thing that truly mattered to her, in order to make her leave. He discarded her as if she were an afterthought, rather than the mother of his child, and the only parent who ever cared for me, as far as I’m concerned. It never mattered one bit she’d taken the place of a mother I’d never known in the first place, given she passed a few weeks after I was born.
The craziest thing is, Eliza could have hurt him. She could have put an end to all this, drained him–literally–of everything he’d ever been, but she didn’t for our sake, and particularly Marcus’s.
I sigh and grab my phone, taking another look at Delilah’s goodnight message from last night.
I’m thinking about you. I wish you’d put on those hideous running shoes and come here .
I very nearly did.
And despite what I told her, I don’t know for how long I’m going to be able to hold back–especially if we’re about to say goodbye for good.
I pass a hand over my face when I hear my name called from the counter of the pastry shop. I thought it would be nice to grab us some breakfast and bring it to her.
Marcus would risk a veritable stroke if he knew I was buying a girl breakfast and picking up flowers for the feeble chance they’d make her smile.
Then again, so would pre-Delilah me. Truth be told, romance had little appeal to me before. Now it feels like I need–no, I want to catch up on all of it.
I pay for the croissants and drinks, all rolled up in a kraft paper bag, and make my way toward Delilah’s. The bakery and her cottage are close, yet I find myself hurrying, and it’s not because I worry about the drinks getting cold. I’m about to enter the path to Delilah’s house when a hissed Hey! comes from my left. I turn with a furred brow, only to be met by Faye’s matching expression as she waves for me to go to her, her elbows propped on the window’s balcony.
“Faye,” I say, only mildly annoyed.
“Come in, hurry,” she replies, shutting the burgundy balconies with a thud. I have no bloody clue what this is about, though I suppose there has to be some urgency to the matter. I just hope Delilah’s alright.
The door opens with an ominous creak, though no one is there to greet me.
“What are you, a vampire?” Faye calls from somewhere within the house. My impassive expression nearly morphs into something terrified at her choice of words, though I quickly collect myself. “Get in, Campbell! ”
I clean the soles of my shoes on the mat and do as ordered, despite my better judgment. Surely Delilah’s best friend is not about to murder me.
“In here,” Faye adds, and I follow her voice to what I assume is supposed to be a living room, though every surface is covered in either clothing items, puzzle pieces or–I assume that’s silly string? It might as well be a recreational center. She must see some sort of surprise in my eyes as she gives me an unimpressed look.
“You try managing a house this big, a teenager, and two seven year-olds with an attitude,” Faye says from the spot where she’s sitting with her legs crossed, several pieces of unintelligibly-scribbled paper scattered around her.
“You do know I’m not a lawyer, right? If you need legal counsel–”
“What?” she drawls as she looks up at me.
I gesture vaguely at the papers, and she closes her eyes with barely restrained patience.
“Never mind,” I say. This is what happens when I try being humorous, and it’s precisely why I do it as little as possible. “Have I been summoned for a reason? I was bringing Delilah breakfast.”
“She’s still sleeping, so it could be argued I did you a favor. Barely-awake Delilah is not for the faint of heart,” she says with a smirk.
“How do you know she’s sleeping?”
“Enough with the unnecessary questions, Campbell! There is a time sensitive matter we’ve got to discuss,” she says, a hand gesturing toward the couch.
I gently move a Wolverine mask to the side and sit, the paper bag perched in my lap.
“And what might this matter be? ”
“Delilah’s birthday is coming up,” she starts, “and whatever poor excuse for a party she’d settle for, we’re going to make it better.”
My mouth opens and closes on nothing.
“I’m not exactly an expert on parties,” I say carefully; it partly feels like I’m being examined. There hasn’t been a single test I haven’t aced in school and university, but a test issued by the best friend of the girl I’m–seeing? Courting? It feels so much bigger than that. It feels like it’s more important than one might give it credit for.
“You don’t say,” Faye says drily, and though it’s clearly not a compliment, I cannot hold it against her. “Still, I want you involved. You’re important to her. Is she important to you?”
“Of course,” I reply with no hesitation.
“Ding ding! Right answer,” she says. “She never wants to make a big deal out of it, but I know she loves being the birthday girl and if you’re not going to be around for the next one…”
My heart squeezes painfully in my chest, because I know what Faye probably thinks. That I am choosing not to be around. That I have a choice in the matter at all.
“What’d you have in mind?” I ask, the paper bag crinkling beneath my fingers.
“That’s where you come in,” she says, collecting her notes. “We usually have dinner at her house or mine, invite a few friends–well, mostly our neighbors. It’s pretty depressing, and I think it’s about damn time she gets something–”
“Bigger,” I finish for her.
Faye smiles confidently. “How glad I am that we’re on the same page, Loafers. ”
Delilah
“You feel so good,” he rumbles against my neck, hands full of my breasts. “Too good.”
“Is there such a thing? As–as too good?” I ask breathily.
“You shouldn’t be real,” he says. The muscles in his arms flex as he positions himself over me, his eyes roaming across my face, then lower. I feel like I could combust. “But you are. I’ve wanted you under me like this for so long, Delilah.”
“Please,” I say, entirely wound up, a violin string on the verge of splitting in the middle.
“You never have to beg,” he whispers as he starts pushing–
I wake up sweaty, a name on my lips lost to the sound of birds chirping outside.
Oh my god. I’m nearly paralyzed, skin a million degrees, and sure, it was a dream, but it felt so real .
I blink a few times and expel a deep breath, finally gaining enough movement in my limbs to turn and grab my phone from the bedside table. Blaine stretches at the foot of the bed and sneezes, reminding me of his presence in the room.
“Hi baby,” I say, leaning forward and scratching his head. “Don’t tell Cedric, ’kay?”
God. Cedric. If he knew how badly I want it, him , that just might scare him worse than the werewolf thing.
Ha, that’s a good one, Lila.
With a sigh, I focus on my phone and see a message from Faye.
Skip the yoga, eat a breath mint
Good morning to you too! Why?
I type as I pad to the bathroom. My hair looks like a bird’s nest, though that’s unsurprising given what my brain was putting together while I slept. I close my eyes against my reflection in the mirror, and if I focus enough, I can recall the feeling of Cedric’s hand tugging at my hair, his stubble on–
The doorbell rings, pulling me out of my daydream.
“Coming!” I shout, taking a swig of mouthwash while grabbing the nearest scrunchie and putting my hair up in something a bird might not want to take residence in.
When I open the door, Cedric’s tall frame is standing in front of me, a paper bag I immediately recognize in his hands.
“Good morning. May I?”
“Hi, yes, of course! I wasn’t expecting y–”
He steps inside and kisses me full on the mouth. My thoughts melt away like a popsicle in the sun.
Thank you, Faye. I am once again in your debt. She must have seen him from the window. If she were psychic, I would have probably figured it out by now.
“Delilah?”
“Yep?”
He shakes his head, eyes alight with mirth.
“Nothing,” he says. “I wish I could see what’s going on in your head.”
“Oh, you’d need a map! It’s a chaotic place,” I laugh, though it’s the absolute truth. We step into the kitchen, and Cedric sits on the same stool he did the first time he came to my house, when we both got soaked and he helped me rescue my flowers (and avoided I broke a leg, probably). It feels like a lifetime ago–it feels like I’ve known him for so much longer than I have. It doesn’t matter how I kid myself. Saying goodbye is going to hurt like hell.
“What’s in here?” I ask hopefully as I pry the paper bag open, a pink-glazed croissant glistening as I take it out. “I love these.”
“I had an inkling,” he says. “The taller drink is yours.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, and before I know it, I’m moving toward him, placing one hand on his knee. As if he’d read my mind, Cedric spreads his legs, making space for me to sit on his lap. I’ve never been like this–confident, a little brazen. But I like that he takes it out of me. I like everything about him.
“Thank you,” I say, placing a kiss at the corner of his mouth as his warm palms rest on my back and on my thigh. My very naked thigh.
I remember, all at once, that I’m not wearing any pants, and in this position, the oversize shirt I slept in is rising, exposing me.
And the wild thing is, I realize, that I’m not worried about it. I mean, my neck is probably flushed, my cheeks soon to follow, but I’m no longer disconcerted. I want this man in all the ways a person can be wanted. I just woke up from what would have been a fantastic sex dream about him. And I like that he’s reminded of the effect he has on me at every chance we get, since we might not get many more.
Cedric swallows, his pupils dilated. I smile and lean forward to grab the rest of the food, and I can tell he’s observing my every move with clinical focus.
“I could have gotten used to this,” I say as I wrap my hands around my cup, belatedly realizing how it sounded.
Something sad and distant passes in his eyes .
“I’m sorry, I don’t want to dampen the mood, but–is it okay if I tell you that I’m going to miss you?”
“We’ve still got time,” he says roughly, a muscle feathering in his jaw.
“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”
I have to force myself to look away, his eyes too deep and magnetic for me to bear at this time of morning. “So,” I say, changing the subject before I take a bite of my croissant. “Will you accompany me on a mission?”
“A mission? Should I have brought an actual weapon?”
“Not this time,” I say with a wink.
“You are not going to tell me what it is, I presume?” he asks, his fingers squeezing my knee lightly, a zing of sensation shooting upwards, making this position potentially dangerous.
“All you’re going to need is a healthy dose of honesty, and maybe, hmm… one arm.”
Cedric nods, a solemn expression on his face. The next thing I know, I’m yelping as he effortlessly picks me up.
“How about two?”