Reyn pauses, and it’s too dark to make out what his eyes hold, but I can see the silhouette of his parted lips. “I’d probably seem a lot cooler if I said I was getting something out of the car, but I was actually just waiting for you to get home.”
Those warm butterflies spin in my stomach again. I take a step closer and open my mouth to tell him that I’m glad he did, but the garage door opens again.
Dad calls out, “Everything okay? You find the cat?”
“Yes, Dad!” I yell, a little too loud. Firefly jerks back, offended at my volume. “Coming!” I turn to Reyn, grimacing. “Sorry. I have to go.”
I see the flicker of disappointment—irritation, maybe—in his eyes. I push up on my toes and kiss him quickly, hoping to soothe it away, and then take the squirming cat from his hands.
“Night,” I whisper, hoping maybe he’ll kiss me again, but he just nods, eyes settled on the house behind me.
Great, I think, dropping Firefly by his food bowl and refreshing his water. He’s probably pissed off, or frustrated, or realizing that I’m basically a prisoner and having second thoughts. No—third thoughts. Maybe even fourth thoughts. It’s hard to forget that this thing I’ve got going with Reyn is fragile. Any little thing could burst the bubble.
I tell my parents goodnight, pulling out my phone as I ascend the stairs.
V: Sorry. I told you my parents hover.
I wait for a moment on the staircase, hoping for a response. It never comes.
Paranoia nags at me as I walk into my room. I’d told him that I’m not a kid, but sure enough, that’s exactly how everyone is treating me. Now, I look like some silly girl with no freedom, home on a Friday night, locked up tight by her well-meaning parents. I kick off my shoes, push down my jeans, and look at the tattoo on my inner thigh. Earlier, I’d felt so brave and special for having it. Chosen. But that’s not actually the case, is it? It’s just another symbol of pity, one that Reyn had to secure for me out of fear of getting in trouble. And who even knows. This thing we’re doing could easily be a ploy to make me forget about the exposé. If there’s one thing my brother and Reyn know how to do, it’s making me complicit in their crimes.
Suddenly, I feel like a complete fool.
The wave of insecurity takes my breath away. It’s abrupt and engulfing, a tidal wave that I haven’t felt in a long time. I hate it. I hate it so goddamn much. In the back of my mind, a little voice is telling me that it’s not rational. Emory would never sign off on something like that. But it makes a perfect kind of sense. What other reason would someone like Reynolds McAllister be interested in someone like me? Maybe I’m being careless, having all these feelings for him. Maybe it’s all a joke.
Maybe I’m delusional, after all.
There’s a way past this, you know…
The impulse settles over me like a heavy cloud. It’s a justification, an excuse. The sad thing is, it’s not even hard to rationalize when I go into the bathroom and approach my jewelry box. I open the top and fish out the small drawstring bag inside. There’s three pills left—one for tonight, two for tomorrow. I restock from my hidden stashes on Sundays, and lately, I’ve tried really hard to ignore how small that’s probably getting. I drop one pill in my hand and contemplate another. Maybe I should take an extra today, just to get past the hump, the insecurity, to calm myself down. Who could blame me?
I’m shaking the second into my hand when I hear three sharp raps. I jump, the two pills falling out of my hand. Worried that it’s my mom, I hastily fish them from the counter and put them back into the bag, locking them away.
But when I get to my door, no one is there.
Tap-tap, tap.
As soon as I realize where it’s coming from, I know it’s Reyn. There’s nothing special about the raps to give anything away, but clues so obvious are unnecessary. Somehow, I just… know.
I feel him.
He’s crouching right outside my window, but it’s too dark to make out anything but the ambiguous shape of him. “Hey, it’s me, don’t freak out,” he whispers when I’ve wrenched my window open.
I watch, stunned as he climbs inside. He’s wearing a loose pair of gray sweatpants and the same Preston Prep football shirt he’d been wearing the day we got our tattoos. He gets inside easily, shirt lifting when he reaches up to grab the window, swinging a leg inside. I catch a quick flash of dark ink disappearing beneath his waistband and my fingers itch to touch it.
Once inside, he quietly slides the window closed and turns to me, dusting his hands off on his thighs. His face spreads into a wolfish grin, cheeks dimpling. “Hey.”
“How did you get up here?” The awe in my voice is apparent and I peer around him to see out the window.
“You’ve got that little overhang just below the window that covers the side door. I pulled myself up.” He inches forward, and his hands fit perfectly on my waist, thumbs sweeping gently beneath my shirt. From here, his eyes look tired, a little bit strained. At my incredulous smile, some of that falls away, softens.
“You pulled up?” I gape at him. “Twelve feet?”
He shrugs and tightens the grip on my waist—my bare waist. I’m still not wearing pants, something I slowly realize as my heart rate shifts from shocked to…well, something nervous and undeniably wanting.
He ducks his head to press a slow, soft kiss to my neck. “I may have been the pull-up champion of Dixon Hall for three years running.” His kiss travels up the spot below my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “Had no idea it’d be so useful.”
I accept his kiss enthusiastically, our mouths parting, tongues gliding against one another. He tastes like warmth, a lot like how he smells. Something complicated and new and undeniably masculine. His hands drag down my hips, fingertips skating across my outer thighs so gently that it’s as if they’re merely flirting with the idea of touch.