I scroll down to see she hasn’t been online much since she’s been here, only enough to be tagged in one of Rose’s statuses. Some guy Richard has put a post on her wall asking when she’s coming back. Never, motherfucker. I click on her photos and flick through them. Photos of her dancing, one with her friends at what looks like a club. Not her club, though. Another one with her and the same guy Richard. And another with Richard.
Keaton disappears upstairs, and now it’s just Dove and I and the silence that stretches out between us. Just as I’m watching her, my phone vibrates in my hand.
I need to kick this up.
My first real boyfriend was Lionel O’Connor; he was two years older than me and street raced as a side hobby. His parents were rich as sin from old oil money, and he had a slight Southern twang to end each sentence. I have to admit, it was partially what made me fall in love with him. That and the fact he enticed my rebellious nature to come out and play every Saturday night when there was a race. I would always be sitting shotgun, and other girls hated it. They were envious that Lion chose me. He had a square jaw and prominent cheekbones, and he smoked cigarettes like they were an oxygen source. We dated for almost a year through high school, and he was my first everything. Lionel turned out to be one big mistake because he got bored and cheated on me with my best friend at the time, which was also around the time that my parents died. I would give anything to have King bored of me and move on to the next person to terrorize, because right now, he’s staring at me like a starved bear, and I’m the freshest fish in the ocean. It would make this whole experience and life change a little easier to swallow.
When he doesn’t look to be moving from the chair he’s on in the kitchen, his phone in his hand, I end up asking the question that has been burning my throat since he made me come in the middle of a show. Literally. “Why touch me like that at the show?” The words fall out of my mouth without any thought of catching them and shoving them back inside.
He tilts his head. “Because I fucking wanted to.” The longer he stares at me, the harder it is for me to look away. “Come here.”
I pull my eyes off him.
“Stop fucking doing that, Dove.”
“Doing what?” I ask, allowing myself to get lost in him again.
“Looking away from me. Come. Here.”
“Come where?” I counter, looking around the table. King is bad for every girl walking this planet. He has a face that is crafted to perfection, with a body built from steel, but that’s not why he’s poison. He’s everything you were instilled to fear as a little girl. He’s your father’s worst nightmare and your mother’s wet dream. He carries himself with confidence and danger. His felonious smirk is one thing, but the way his eyes dismiss you is another. King is exactly like Lion, only worse. So, so, so much worse. Because even after two years of dating Lion, I never felt with him the way I feel while being around King. Because even if Lion was a cold bastard, he would never have done anything to truly hurt me. And that scares me, that King already makes me feel vulnerable. You can’t have feelings for a corpse. They don’t feel back.
King shuffles in his seat, spreading his knees wide. His eyes, again, remain cool, but his mouth twitches on the corner.
I look down to his lap, and then look back up to his face. I don’t trust him or the game he’s playing, but I find my feet moving anyway. And it’s not because of some creepy mind game they all like to do; it’s because underneath the cement of trust issues I have, especially when it comes to The Brothers, I want to know what he wants. And maybe that makes me dumb as fuck.
I’m standing directly in front of him when he tilts his head and stares back up at me. Killian is blasting “Deuces” from Chris Brown, which I’m thankful for because it drowns out the bad decisions I’m thinking about making.
His fingers come to mine, and he yanks me down until I’m on his