something appropriate to wear.”
“How's this for appropriate?” I snap back, lifting the front of the shirt and flashing him tits and bush, all in one go. The girls have wandered out the back door to the yard, so they don’t see it happen, but Oscar most certainly does. An unreadable expression crosses his face before he goes right back to making a list on his iPad, seemingly unaffected by my naked body. Psycho. I drop the shirt back into place and grab the booty shorts I wore beneath my cheerleading skirt last night. I yank them on, twist my hair up into a messy bun, and use the hair-tie on my wrist to keep it in place. “Let's go.” Slipping my feet into my combat boots (the tennis-shoes are covered in blood and should probably be burned), I head for the front door, exhaling sharply as soon as I step out into the wet, cold November morning.
November.
Just last night, there was a harvest moon, a Halloween party … and a murder.
Speaking of, as I close the door behind me and rest my back against it, gathering a bit of peace for myself, I see Callum on the edge of the sidewalk, the hood of his navy-blue sweatshirt over his head, the sleeves torn at the shoulders, his muscular arms and scars on vivid display.
“Hey,” I start, moving across the wet grass to stand beside him. The cold dew seeps through the laces on my boots, chilling me to the bone, but I ignore it, crossing my arms over my chest to ward off the frigid air. My breath escapes in tiny, white clouds as I pause next to Callum, our shoulders pressed as close as I was with Aaron just a few minutes prior.
But between Callum and me, there's a hell of a lot less baggage.
I scoot a bit closer, so that we're touching.
“Good morning,” he says, giving me one of those cryptic smiles of his. The look in his blue eyes is telling, a somber sort of acceptance. “Sometimes pain is pretty, to the people who have too much of it.” Callum Park has already accepted that his life will never be what he wanted, that he will never achieve his dreams. He's come to the realization that some of us just exist in nightmares. “Taking off so soon?”
A shudder comes over me at the thought of returning to my mother's house, of sleeping under the same roof as the Thing. I'm not sure that I can do it, muster up that level of courage just about now.
“Not really. More like, I can't feed the girls junk food for dinner, not after a day of eating chips and cake.” My mouth twitches into a bit of a smile as I remember playing with Penelope, running around the house dressed in Mom's fancy dresses and laughing, stuffing our faces with snacks. When Pamela came home and saw what we were doing, she cracked Pen across the cheek so hard that her face swelled up for almost two weeks. Mom told the school she'd been stung by a bee, that she was allergic. “We're going to the store for supplies.”
My smile disappears as quick as it came.
“Well,” Cal starts, giving that husky laugh of his as he pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his hoodie pocket. “If you need something to do today, stop by the studio.” He lights up, the orange glow from the lighter pushing away the shadows in his face, warming up the darkness inside his hoodie. Beneath all the scars and the bullshit, Callum looks tired and stretched thin.
Nothing I'd ever thought I'd see from a Havoc Boy.
“Yeah?” I quip as the front door opens and we both glance back to see Oscar stepping outside, the gray glare of the sky cutting the lenses of his glasses in half. I can't see his eyes, and I don't like that. There's no telling what he might do if he isn't watched. And if he thinks I've forgotten what he said to me last night—You know I can’t stand you; go bother somebody else—then he's got another thing coming.
“I'm teaching a beginners' class, for adults,” Cal finishes, reaching up to push blond hair away from his forehead. He gives me a tight smile and a wink before taking off down the sidewalk, hauling his black duffel bag up his shoulder.
I wait until he disappears around the corner before I turn and head up the driveway, pausing as I