“Yeah,” he says with a cocky grin. “But that’s hot.”
“Maybe they changed the policy,” I say, ignoring his comment. “Baron sounded pretty upset that someone had a phone out.”
It’s hard to imagine that school, how much it must have changed by now. The twins and Dixie are the only people I knew who are still in high school. King graduated years ago. Royal graduated last May. I would have graduated if I’d stayed. Devlin would be playing football at some university. I’d be a freshman in college.
I wonder how different they are, everyone we left behind. I wonder where Royal is. Thinking of my twin sends a knife of pain twisting through me, so I turn my thoughts away from him.
I want to watch the video again, but I resist. The twins are bigger, but they look exactly the same. Their antics aren’t anything shocking, either. They were always like that, pushing boundaries, getting in trouble, having to be bailed out for lighting fires, breaking windows, DUIs, or whatever mischief the night brought. Even before we left New York, when they were overgrown preteens with overgrown bank accounts, they were little hellions. In eighth grade, the year before we moved to Arkansas, they were already six feet tall and known for partying hard, having threesomes, and getting into scrapes with the law.
At the time, I was too busy feeling resentful that they were allowed to drive and go to parties with Royal and King, who barely let me out of their sight even though I was a year and half older. Now, as a mother, I shudder at the thought of my own kids growing up that way. Thirteen seems like the right age to have your first kiss, not already have a reputation for sleeping around. If all the twins are doing four years later is flashing someone in the cafeteria, Arkansas was definitely the right move on my father’s part.
I wonder if Mom knows about this, if she ever moved to Arkansas. Not that she’d do anything. When they got in trouble in New York, she’d just say “boys will be boys,” take another Valium, and tell Dad to take care of it. After all, she grew up in a mafia family, where the boys didn’t just break windows, they broke kneecaps. My brothers’ antics are hardly on the same level with murder.
“Do you still miss it?” I ask after a few minutes of letting my thoughts wander to the past.
“What?” Devlin asks. “Home? Football? The South?”
“All of the above,” I say, wrapping my arms around him and snuggling closer.
“All the time,” he admits, kissing my forehead. “My family more than anything.”
“Me too.”
“But if I could go back three years, I wouldn’t change a single thing,” he says, running his fingers through my caramel hair.
“I might change something,” I say. “Royal was kidnapped this weekend, three years ago. Remember, it was the night of Homecoming.”
“I remember that night for different reasons,” Devlin says, pulling my knee up over his hip and pushing against me. “That was the night some sweet little virgin ended up in my bed.”
I pull him closer with my leg. “Not such a sweet little virgin anymore, am I,Steve?”
He chuckles and kisses me on the nose. “See, we don’t need them. Y’all are my family now.”
“I just wish…” I trail off and lay back on the bed. “I’m glad I could see them. Even if it’s just for fifteen seconds.”
“We agreed after I got Dolly’s demo to the producers at work,” Devlin reminds me. “It’s too risky.”
“I’m so glad she didn’t recognize you,” I say, shivering even though our bed is warm. “I wouldn’t give this up for anything.”
“Need me to remind you how worth it we are?” he asks, rolling back to me and pushing his erection against my hip.
“I’m all milky,” I protest.
“Mm, I love it,” he murmurs into my neck, his big hand covering my swollen breast. He strokes my nipple through my shirt until it stiffens, bringing a blossom of wetness with it. “I’m going to get myself wet with it before I fuck you.”
“Devlin,” I scold.
“You can’t pretend to be uptight after putting period blood in my coffee.”
“Sounds like the name of a bad country song,” I say, a game we play since he works for a record label.
He sings the line with a country twang, strumming on my ribs until I’m giggling. Then he leans down and closes his mouth over my nipple, sucking it through the wet fabric of my T-shirt.
“You’re getting milk in your mouth,” I protest, still laughing.
“You think a little milk is going to scare me off?” he asks, pulling up my shirt and lathing his tongue across my leaking nipple. “I eat you out when you’re on your period.”
“Okay, but…”