Page 2 of Creeping Lily

LINCOLN

B entley grabs a bottle from the shelf, pours amber liquid into a glass, and sets it on the bar. He slides it toward me with a flick of his wrist, the base gliding smooth across the polished wood. I catch it just before it tips over the edge.

It’s our game. Years of trying to one-up each other, seeing who can send a drink skimming without spilling a drop. It doesn’t matter that I don’t drink — it’s the catch that counts. Neither of us has missed yet.

“You know I don’t drink,” I say, lifting the glass to my nose. The sharp burn of alcohol makes my eyes water. Usually he pours me lemonade. This time, the smell tells me he’s not playing nice.

“Come on, brother.” His grin is quick, teeth flashing. “One last hurrah before you run back off to college.”

I set the glass down and spin it on the bar, the swirl of liquid catching the light. “You happy?”

His brow creases. “About what?”

“With your career choice. Doing law. ”

He leans an elbow on the counter, studying me. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

I shrug, eyes dropping to the slow spin of the glass. “Because it wasn’t your choice.”

A smirk curves his mouth. “Getting cold feet there, Linc?”

“This is the rest of my life,” I remind him. “Not a marriage.”

“Depends which one you think’s harder to get out of.” His tone is light, but there’s a cynical shadow behind it. “Tell me what’s going on with you, brother.”

I think about it — about the way college is barreling toward me, the degree already chosen, the path carved before I even took my first step.

I think about a future that feels like a cage: endless books, courtrooms, deadlines.

No time for a life outside the grind. I think about waking up at forty and realizing I spent my best years chasing a life I didn’t even want.

But I don’t say any of that. I don’t tell him I’m second-guessing the whole thing. I don’t tell him I might be the disappointment our parents never saw coming.

Instead, I lift the glass and down it in one motion. Heat burns its way down my throat, and I see Bentley’s eyebrows rise — part surprise, part victory.

The games room door gives its familiar creak — the one we’ve never fixed. We like it that way; it’s our warning system when we’re up to something we shouldn’t be. This is our territory. Our parents never step in here.

Bentley and I are mid-game, and I’m destroying him, when the door cracks open. We both glance up — and freeze.

Lily steps inside. She moves slowly, eyes darting around like she’s trespassing .

I straighten, leaning on my cue. Across the table, Bentley pushes up from his slouch, his attention sharpening.

She drags a fingertip along the bar and inspects it, a tiny frown creasing her face.

“Does this room ever get cleaned?”

“This room’s off limits,” I tell her.

Bentley grins at her. “Not you. You’re one of the boys.”

She plants her hands on her hips in mock outrage.

The movement draws my eyes — her waist narrowing before flaring out into curves that weren’t there the last time I looked.

Sixteen, but already carrying herself like someone older.

Dark hair falling in chestnut waves, skin smooth and sun-warmed, a face that could belong on a postcard if she’d ever let someone take her picture.

I’m not the only one who notices.

She announces dinner’s ready and slips back toward the door. Bentley watches her all the way out, his gaze lingering even after she’s gone. Only when she disappears does he turn back to the table.

“She’s really grown up,” he says, shaking his head.

“She has. But she’s still sixteen.” My tone comes out sharper than I mean it to.

He stands straighter, tilting his head as if weighing my words — and the warning in them. “You think I don’t know that?”

“In some states, she’d be considered jailbait.”

“Not in this one,” he points out.

It grates that he knows and doesn’t care. Bentley’s bottom line has always been whatever Bentley wants.

“I know you’ve always had a thing for her, little brother,” he says casually.

“For fuck’s sake, Bentley — she practically grew up with us. She’s like a sister. ”

His grin tilts, the one he wears when he thinks he’s winning. “Like a sister. But not a sister. There isn’t a no-go zone here.”

“You disgust me.”

He laughs, that deep, grating chuckle that says he enjoys getting under my skin. He rounds the table, claps a hand to my shoulder — a mock show of camaraderie.

“You might be confused about a lot of things, Linc. But you can’t be confused about this — that little girl we knew? She turned out hot.”