Carter #2
He stood up in one smooth, explosive motion, the sheer scale of him forcing me to stumble back a half-step.
“You want to talk about fighting back?” he said, his voice a low, dangerous vibration that seemed to thrum right through my skin. “Your father took his shot. He missed. Now he’s just a no name that’s terrorizing my father’s lawn. And you?”
His eyes dragged down my body, lingering on the stained SHIFT shirt with a sneer that made my skin crawl. “You’re just the person picking up the pieces and smelling like a fry-cook’s mid-life crisis.”
“At least I’m doing something,” I shot back, my heart hammering against my ribs. “At least I’m not a placeholder with a fast car and a soul made of ice. You’re nothing but a name with too much inheritance, Dominic. Take away the car and the money, and there’s nothing left but an empty shell.”
His eyes flashed—a flare of something I couldn’t name that made the breath catch in my throat.
“You know what?” He stepped closer, his nose almost touching mine, his body completely swallowing me. “You’re right. It is a little too loud out here.”
I opened my mouth to launch a comeback, but the world suddenly tilted.
“And you,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to my mouth for a split second, “could really use a rinse.”
His hand clamped around my waist—fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt with a sudden, rigid intensity—and he hoisted me off the ground like I weighed nothing.
For a split second, I felt his grip hitch, a strange tremor in his strength as if his fingers were momentarily forgetting how to hold on.
“Dominic—put me—!”
Then came the freefall.
The sun and sky swapped places for a heartbeat before the blue swallowed me.
The water hit like a punch, cold and shocking, slamming the remaining air from my lungs.
I scrambled for the surface, but my sodden clothes and now heavy shoes dragged at my limbs like lead weights, anchoring me in the deep.
Below the surface, the world turned into a silent, turquoise blur. The muffled vibration of the music felt a thousand miles away.
Then, a hand found me.
It wasn't a grab this time. It was a steadying, heavy weight that slid around my stomach. I looked through the sting of chlorine, seeing him as a figure in the bubbles, his face inches from mine. He wasn't moving. He was just... holding me.
I felt his fingers twitch subtly against my side again—a sharp, involuntary spasm—before they pressed firmly into my bare skin where my shirt had hiked up.
His palm was searingly hot against the chill of the pool, an electric contact that seemed to vibrate through the water.
We stayed there, suspended in that quiet, weightless pocket, his grip tight and desperate in a way his face never was.
It lasted a second. It felt like an hour.
Then he shoved me upward.
We broke the surface at the same time, gasping. My hair was a wet, tangled curtain over my face, and reality rushed back in with the roar of the bass and the heat of the sun.
Dominic was right there, drifting in the water. He looked like he hadn't even broken a sweat, but his composure looked painfully forced, and his arms were held strangely stiff at his sides.
“Next time,” he stated, his breath a warm, ragged contrast against my wet ear, “knock before you try to start a fire, Shortcut.”
His voice held an edge I hadn't heard before—a crack in the porcelain.
He didn't wait for a reply, instead slicing through the water with a clean, powerful stroke.
When he reached the edge, his right hand didn't grip the tile immediately.
He hoisted it from the water, fingers curled into a stiff, useless claw, and gave it a sharp, frantic snap.
He hauled himself out in one motion, muscle and sunlight, and didn't look back once. He just ran his fingers through his dripping hair and vanished into the crowd of laughing people, the superstar restored to his throne.
I scrambled to the ladder, my waterlogged shoes squelching with every step as I hauled myself onto the tile.
I didn't look at the crowd, didn't look at the female in the sarong, and I certainly didn't look at the back of Dominic’s head.
I just marched toward the pool house, leaving a trail of chlorinated grease and salt in my wake.
I shoved the door open, the sudden air conditioning sending a violent shiver through my frame.
My father was there, slumped in the armchair by the window.
Dominic was right, the bottle on the side table was significantly lighter.
A ceramic mug sat beside it, the steam long gone and a dark film skinned the surface of the untouched coffee.
He turned his head slowly, his eyes glassy and unfocused as they traveled from my dripping hair down to my soaked shirt.
He let out a short, wet bark of a laugh.
“Look at you,” he muttered, the words thick and sliding into each other. “Going for a swim... in your clothes. That’s... that’s a new look for a Hayes. Practical.”
He chuckled again, a tired sound that made my chest tighten until it hurt to breathe.
I didn't say a word. I didn't even look at the bottle. I just walked past him, my shoes leaving heavy, wet prints on the floor, and slammed my bedroom door shut.
I leaned against the wood, the distant rhythm of Dominic’s party still vibrating through the walls and closed my eyes.
I was freezing, I was exhausted, and I still smelled like a fryer—but all I could feel was the presence of a hand that shouldn't have been there, and the crushing weight of a house that would never be my home.