Page 51

Pink hair comes around the corner, with Nate right behind it.
He kisses Tillie on the head before disappearing upstairs.
“Yum! What are you making?” she asks, peeking into the pan before pushing herself up to sit on the counter. Tillie is the obvious type of beautiful. She’s the kind of girl who will walk into a room filled with people and unknowingly steal everyone’s attention. She has defined features that could be compared to the likes of girls like Megan Fox. Madison is the same, though, and I’ve only seen her through a camera lens. Together they must be lethal.
“You okay?” she asks, kicking out her legs while I grab two plates. I already know she’s going to want some, and the more I’m lost in my thoughts, the less hungry I become.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly, pulling the bagels out and dropping them onto our plates before dishing them up. I grab the avocado. “I did something last night and now I can’t get this feeling out of my gut that feels a lot like I made a mistake.”
Tillie steals a strip of bacon and chews on it slowly. “That is regret. What did you do?”
I chop the avocado, some tomatoes, red onion, and toss it all over the bacon and eggs on our plate, before dashing—generously—some hot sauce on mine but none on Tillie’s when she stops my hand from going over her plate.
I give her a plate before sliding up onto the bench opposite, resting my plate on my lap. I take a piece of bacon and chew on it slowly. I exhale once I’ve swallowed the salted meat. “I kissed Brantley last night.”
“And?” Tillie says, waiting for me to continue.
“And maybe I tried to have sex with him.”
She stares as if she’s waiting for more.
“And he told me he didn’t want me, but not until after he made me—you know. With his tongue.”
She pauses, her mouth opening and closing, before she finally rolls her eyes while sliding her plate on the counter beside her and leaning forward, sucking the bacon fat off her fingers. “Let me tell you about men and how they respond to things they think they don’t want, or in Brantley’s case, deserve.” I tilt my head, chewing slowly. Removing my sweaty tank top so I’m left in nothing but my sports bra and high-waisted yoga pants, I toss it across the room. “I don’t understand.”
Tillie leans backward, shoveling food into her mouth and talking around it. “It’s Brantley. He won’t touch you because he will think you’re too good for him. He will think that all the dirty things he did in the past will taint his perfect little doll.”
“How can you be so sure?” I ask, taking a bite out of my bagel and almost rolling my eyes to the back of my head when the salty butter slides down my throat. Food. Carbs.
“Because I know Brantley.” Tillie shrugs. “And let me say, that motherfucker is so lucky I’m pregnant right now, or I’d be taking you out tonight just to be an asshole.”
“This is why he calls you Little Terror?” I chuckle, shaking my head.
She nods. “Yep!”
There’s silence that drags between us, and when I know she’s not going to fill it with small talk, I do. “Our mom…”
Tillie stills, her hand around her bagel. She places it back on her plate and brushes the crumbs from her hands. “I didn’t know her well. I only just found out she was my mother recently.” She picks up her bagel again and bites into it. “But she was a bitch, so we didn’t miss much.”
We clean up after that, and I’m running upstairs to get changed when I round the corner and crash into something—or someone—hard, tall, and built from pure muscle. My heart short-circuits in my chest as I jump backward, sidestepping away from Brantley without saying anything.
“Hey!” he snaps at me just as my hand is on my door handle. The gold metal in contrast to my pale skin.
I turn over my shoulder. I’m not good at this. This feels awkward. “Yes?”
His eyes roam up and down my body. “You fucking ran like that?” His brows are pulled in, his hand waving up and down.
“What?”
“What?” He mimics my tone. “Don’t fucking ‘what’ me, Saint. Did you run dressed like that?” He starts walking toward me and I push my door open and step inside. I’m about to slam it closed when he slaps it open so hard it flies out and hits the wall.
“What are you doing!” I yell at him. I never raise my voice at him, and to be fair, it’s not that loud. I probably sound more like a chihuahua barking at a rottweiler.
“Answer me!” His tone is a few levels above whatever temperature Hell is.
“I didn’t, but the question was weird!” Now my hands are in the air.