Chapter 6
Selena
My sister had been attending the special residential school located near Portland for years.
She was so happy here, I hadn’t minded one bit when my mother had sold off our mansion, and cars, to fund it—no easy feat after paying off the massive debts my dad had left behind.
If the remaining money should’ve gone to anyone, it should’ve gone to making sure Cici was happy.
We found her in the gardens. They were doing art therapy, and I could objectively say, Cici’s art was the best.
“Selena!” she yelled when I got close.
“Cricket.” I smiled at her, scooping her up into a hug. I couldn’t lift her anymore, those days were long gone, but extra-long hugs with her were the highlight of my life.
“Can I show you my picture? It’s pretty lame, but…” She was already walking toward an easel.
They were painting the fountain in the middle of a courtyard.
I loved this place. It was peaceful and serene, and the scenery was beautiful.
The students here deserved this safe haven from the cruel world beyond the gates.
I wanted to make sure that Cici kept going here as long as she wanted to.
That was one of the only reasons I was playing along with my mom, going back to college, staying in the new McMansion.
John Sinclair was paying for this school, and that made me appreciate at least one thing about him.
Cici was brilliant at art. Gifted. It was her talent and her special interest. She had dipped in and out of mainstream school when she was young but had been happier and healthier here.
She had autism spectrum disorder and generally functioned very well, but her anxiety had been unmanageable in regular school.
Her past stint, when our father had just died, had left her with a crippling eating disorder.
That worried me more than anything lately.
“It’s amazing, which you already know.” I smiled at her. “Just keep drawing these beautiful creations, and I’ll keep learning how to sell them and run your business.”
Cici nodded. She looked tired, but then, she was so thin, it was hard to know how she’d look without her hollowed-out eyes and dark circles.
Mom bustled off to catch up with Cici’s eating disorder therapist.
We sat on a bench in the late afternoon sun together. I took my coat off and rolled it into a cushion to put under her. She’d confessed that it sometimes hurt to sit on any hard surface.
“So, what are they like? The evil stepbrothers…”
Cici had met John. At least he’d made time to come and meet his new stepdaughter. It wasn’t much, the bar was low, but it was something.
“Awful,” I admitted and told her about the library incident, censoring where needed, substituting kissing for tit-fucking.
“So, you caught him with a girl? Like, kissing?”
“Yup… kissing, and not caring who saw.”
Cici laughed. “I wonder if she’s his girlfriend?”
I pulled a face. “I hope for her sake he isn’t. He wasn’t being very nice to her.”
“Horrible! That’s Brody, right?”
“Mm-hmm, an arrogant, stuck-up English asshole, as far as first, second, and third impressions go. Oh, and he’s Mr. Popular despite only arriving here about a week ago, since they’re the Hellions’ shot at winning this year. Apparently, they’re good hockey players.”
Cici sighed. “Then he’s only about to get more bigheaded. We all know how much Hade Harbor worships hockey.”
“Yep.”
“What about the twin brother?”
“Weird, broody, ‘keeps to the shadows but is always watching’ kind of vibe.”
“Great. I can’t wait to come home and meet them,” Cici said, her bony fingers twisting in worry.
The last thing I wanted was anything to make Cici feel nervous.
“They won’t even notice us, seriously. We are beneath their notice. You don’t have to worry about it at all. If you feel intimidated by Brody, just think of him as…” I searched my brain for a British insult I could nickname our new stepbrother with.
“Mr. Bellend,” I finished, triumphant. It was an insult from one of our favorite BBC shows.
Cici laughed heartily. “Mr. Bellend. I like it, though I’m still not sure what it means.”
“Maybe Brody can explain it to us,” I laughed.
A nurse approached us from the side.
“Good afternoon. I’ve got Miss Cici’s snack for her,” he said gently.
I looked at Cici. Her laughter had gone, and her jaw was tight.
“Thanks, I’ll take it,” I said, taking the protein shake from him.
“Wow, look at this, it’s a very social-media-friendly aesthetic, isn’t it? The glass and the straw, even the shake is like one of those fancy expensive smoothies everyone’s drinking—”
“Don’t.” Cici’s voice was quiet. Resigned.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t try and pretend it’s anything other than a high-calorie meal substitute. The same one they force down my throat three times a day.”
I stared at her, torn about what to say. What could I even respond to that? It was true. Cici had real problems, and as much as I wished she would just laugh and down the damn drink, she couldn’t.
“Sorry. I’m rattled. Mom bought me a few bags of what she called ‘elegant outfits’ earlier, and I’m getting worried I’ll have to wear one soon.”
Cici chuckled at the thought of me in one of mom’s “elegant outfits.”
“Can’t she see that your style has changed? I’d think the piercings would tip her off.”
I nodded. “Well, you know Mom. Ever the optimist.”
When I’d come back from California, Cici had never asked me about the change of style. She’d never seen me as damaged or broken beyond repair. She’d just glanced me up and down and beamed.
“Cool. You look really cool, sis.”
“Do you promise to take a picture of the outfits for me?” Cici asked.
“Ugh, okay, but only for you, cricket. Only for you.”
Later, alone in my new room, I stared at the selection of clothes on the bed. Not too long ago, these designer items would have been my dream. Now, they seemed like the clothes of a stranger.
Cici: Send pics!
My sister’s message popped up as I procrastinated changing into my new outfits.
With a heavy sigh, I started the long process of removing my clothes.
Despite the temperature these days, I wore layers.
Under my jeans, there were tights. Under my T-shirt, I had a cami on, and one of those compressing sports underlayers that came right up to my throat and down to nearly my fingertips.
It drove my mother crazy, but I loved it.
It made me feel safe and took the edge off the chill I constantly felt.
I slowly took the underlayer off, leaving me in just my underwear.
I didn’t check in the mirror. I avoided it whenever possible.
I didn’t need my reflection to show me anything about my body that I didn’t already know.
Every hollow and scar, every burn, every freckle. I knew them. They were all mine.
After all, I was damaged goods and had become the keeper of my own pieces.
A caretaker of the ruins. Collector of wreckage.
I pulled on a vest and buttoned it up, then put on the matching tailored pants.
Now, I stood in front of the mirror only to take a selfie to send to Cici.
It wouldn’t work like this to wear in front of anyone else but Cici.
My arms were bare. I’d have to wear a dress shirt underneath.
Scars tended to lead to questions, and I wasn’t going to answer to anybody about what I decided to do with my own body.
I had one scar that I hadn’t chosen, and that haunted me enough to try to block it out with my own handiwork. That was my choice to make.
Cici: You have to put your hair up
Me: Agreed
Cici: Let me see!
I pinched the bridge of my nose for a second, tossed my phone down, and then headed for the bathroom. I didn’t have anything approaching a hair tie in my new room. I barely had anything at all in there, so I could only hope the bathroom would have something.
My mom was the type to be easily influenced into stocking and restocking random shit in my bathroom just for the hell of it.
I pulled open the door, and a cloud of steam billowed into my face, enveloping my head.
I waved a hand in front of my face, my brain struggling to take in what had happened in my own bathroom… before a voice spoke.
Deep, English, arrogant.
“I don’t do free shows more than once, heathen, so get out of here and remember to knock next time.”
Oh, right. It wasn’t my own bathroom. It was a Jack-and-Jill, and now I knew whose bedroom was on the other end.
My brain didn’t take those words in right away, since the steam had cleared enough for me to see him.
Brody Sinclair, naked, except for a towel around his strong hips. His inked torso glistened with droplets of water. His muscles were ridiculous. Like a guy like him needed anything to make him cockier.
The familiar signal to freeze flashed through me, making me powerless for a second. Then he touched me. Firm fingers on my chin, pushing my mouth shut with a soft snap.
“You want a picture? It’ll last longer.”
His hand on my face reminded me of our kiss. My first in over a year. But that had been before I’d known he was my wicked stepbrother. His finger reached out and softly traced over my lip ring.
It broke the spell. I slapped his hand away.
“Wow, what an original comment. Did you come up with that yourself? Don’t touch me.”
“Don’t stare at me like you want me to then,” he drawled and turned away from me to stand in front of the mirror. “Again,” he added.
“I wasn’t. I don’t. Ever. I was drunk and had swallowed half the pool. Clearly it affected my taste, because you aren’t it.” I scanned him up and down, attempting to look disdainful. Honestly, it was a challenge. This guy was everyone’s type… until he opened his mouth.
“Tell that to your face,” Brody continued, unbothered by my words.
He started to brush his teeth. I couldn’t seem to move myself away from him. I wanted the damn hair tie, but I didn’t want to go into the bathroom while he was there. So, I just stood there and watched him like a creep, rooted to the spot.