Right.

Must have been why her house was pitch black when I pulled up.

“Nothing good ever happens after dark,” Mark continues his lecture.

“It won’t happen again.” I want him off my case. I’m tired, I want a sandwich, and I want to go the fuck to bed. I swallow a big old batch of pride and lower my head in faux-shame.

“Damn right it won’t.”

Uh-oh. Mark said damn. He must be angry.

“All due respect, Mark, you really don’t need to worry about me. I can handle my—”

“I won’t have you coming in here, setting your own rules and disrespecting the rest of the family.” His nostrils flare, pulling in long, hard breaths like a bull about to charge. “We have a strict eight o’clock curfew in his household. The example you’re setting is completely inappropriate.”

“Be home in time for Dateline. Got it.”

His mouth parts for a second. He wants to continue lecturing and berating me, but he doesn’t. Instead he pulls in a deep breath and rubs his tired eyes. He’s giving me that look—the same one Rich gave me. They look at me like I’m some victim—an abused, defenseless little boy. I’m anything but, and I refuse to ever identify as a fucking victim.

Mark mutters something like, “goodnight.” He’s gone, disappearing into the darkness of the main house. I head straight for the kitchen, pulling a loaf of white bread from the pantry and ransacking the fridge for something to shove between a couple slices.

I grab a packet of bologna and a bottle of ketchup and slam the door. My heart nearly falls clear to my feet when a figure standing in the kitchen doorway appears without warning. My eyes focus in the dark until I recognize those virginal Coke bottle curves.

“Shit, Waverly, you scared me.”

“Sorry.” She stands there all saucer-eyed before tiptoeing toward me. “Want me to make you something?”

I’m not sure where this niceness is coming from. Last I knew, we’d left things on a sour note. Maybe she heard Mark yelling at me.

I pull out a plate and knife and go to town. “Nah. I can make my own sandwich.” I start to cut my sandwich on the diagonal and then freeze mid-slice. “Aw, shit. Am I not supposed to be in the kitchen?”

Her brows furrow.

“You know, ‘cause I’m a guy and all.”

She crosses her arms and fights a smile for a quick two seconds. She wants to smile. I know it. But she won’t allow herself.

“Be careful with Dad,” she says, her voice hushed. “It’s better to let him get it all out. Just don’t talk back. He doesn’t like that.”

“I take it you’re not mad at me anymore?” I shove a third of the sandwich into my mouth at once. Bologna and ketchup sandwiches were a staple at my old house until Juliette came along. Josiah didn’t cook much, and most evenings were fend-for-yourself.

“I wasn’t mad at you.” She’s still playing the denial card.

“Okay. If you insist.” I shove the rest of the sandwich in my face, eating like a prison inmate guarding his food, but I don’t care. I’m fucking hungry. I make myself a second sandwich and inhale it as she watches. “You want one?”

She shakes her head. I consider asking why she’s still standing there, but I don’t have the energy. I’m dirty. I’m tired. I need a shower. Waverly cleans up my mess without saying a word.

“You don’t have to do that.” I’m trying not to laugh, but the girl flits around me like a goddamned housemaid.

She wipes up the crumbs and replaces the rag. The dampness rubs against her white cotton pajama top and sells out the fact that she’s most definitely not wearing a bra. Who knew under all those thick cardigan twin sets, Waverly Miller was packing a set of perky, round tits?

“Go on upstairs, Jensen. Get to bed. I won’t have you making us late for school again in the morning.” Her languid command reminds me the rest of the house is fast asleep. It’s just us two standing in the dimly lit kitchen of the main house.

“Don’t worry about me. Rich gave me a truck. I won’t be needing your brake-slamming taxi services anymore.” I head out of the kitchen. Waverly follows in step.

“I’m a great driver.”

“Not when you’re mad.” We take two steps, then two more. I stop short and she bumps right into me. “You were mad about something today. I don’t care what you say.”

The warmth of her breath hits my back as she sighs. She’s not going to argue. She won’t even put up a fight.

“A life of servitude is no life at all.” I have to say it, even at the risk of pissing her off. I want to give her something to think about when she goes to bed at night. I can’t imagine what else might fill that pretty little head of hers. Puppies? Rainbows? Shit. She needs to think about real life, because real life is fucking hard. “You wait hand and foot on everybody else, you keep your opinions to yourself, and you’re giving them permission to walk all over you.”

“This is all temporary.” She flashes a knowing half-smirk. “I walk a straight line. I get to go to college in the fall.”

I knew there was more to her than meets the eye.

I keep climbing stairs until we finally reach the top. The hallway is pitch dark. I turn toward her, though I can’t make out her face—only the outline of her profile. Her body heat radiates onto me, and her sweet scent fills my lungs. And then I say something for the sole purpose of provoking her, because a girl like Waverly needs to be incited once in a while.

“I thought about you last night.” Darkness hides my smug smile as I wait for her reaction. My confession is stark and honest, unexpected and entirely inappropriate. I want her to slap me across the face so hard it makes my cheek radiate with pain. I want her to feel better when she does it. Only I’m met with nothing.

“Goddamn it, Waverly, did you hear what I just said? I thought about you last night.”

She swallows so loudly I can hear it. “I thought about you, too.”

CHAPTER 6

WAVERLY

The road to hell is paved with impure thoughts, and I just bought myself a one-way ticket. I’m lying in bed, my face burnt red and raw as I try to catch my breath.

Every part of my body came alive for the first time as we stood at the top of the stairs. Jensen’s confession nearly sent me over the edge. My body and mind fought like the mortal enemies they are until I said my piece and brushed past him like I hadn’t said it at all.

I shouldn’t have said anything. All I did was make things worse. Breakfast is going to be awkward tomorrow. Chem class, too. I cannot entertain these thoughts. I’m in the Devil’s playground right now. One misstep and I tumble and fall, and my father would refuse to let me leave for college this fall.

My head is buried face down in my pillow, the cool white pillowcase absorbing the cherry red heat of my cheeks.

I can’t believe I let temptation and lust get the best of me. I know better than to entertain frivolous emotions. This is grossly inappropriate.

I. Am. Mortified.

***

I avoid confrontation like the plague, and that’s precisely why I wake up at the crack of dawn and head to school under the guise of tutoring another student before Jensen wakes.

And it’s also why, when the first bell rings, I make a beeline for the nurse’s office, complaining of a stomach ache that coincidently subsides just in time for my Chem class to end.

I don’t see him the rest of the day, thank goodness, and I rush home after school, grateful when I don’t see his truck because it means he’s working at Uncle Rich’s shop.

I’m playing on the floor of the family room with the younger kids after dinner when I feel a presence lingering over me.

“Missed you in class this morning.” I rotate around to see Jensen standing behind me, his arms crossed, and his lips curled at the corners. He must’ve just come home from work. “Don’t worry. You can borrow my notes.”

“I wasn’t feeling well.” I swallow the enormous lump in my throat. It comes right back. My eyes trace the length of his solid body, stopping at his forearms as they flex just so. His dark hair is ruffled and he smells of diesel and bad intentions. Half a turkey sandwich rests in his hand, which he promptly shoves into his mouth. The indentation above his jaw hollows with each chew.