Page 14

Chapter Thirteen

Scarlett

D ylan swaggers down the driveway alongside his father, looking bored as always as I wait by the shrubs. But I know better now. He’s wearing a gray long-sleeved T-shirt, which conveniently covers whatever damage he inflicted on his forearm last night. And ever since I woke up, I’ve been trying to convince myself that it’s the right thing for me to not get involved. That Phil and Diane know he’s got issues, and they’ve got it covered. Dylan is their concern. Not mine.

Still, I know how long I lay awake, tossing and turning last night. I know what shade of green the eyes were that haunted my dreams. How sad they looked. I can tell myself all I want that Dylan’s shitty attitude lessens the guilt for feeling relief at knowing his suffering is Phil’s issue to deal with. But it just isn’t true. I am concerned, even if Dylan’s no-one to me. I do care. And I can’t magically wish it to be untrue.

So, although I might not like Dylan Braun, apparently I like even less knowing he is hurting. I am determined to have more patience with him. I definitely won’t let myself lose it on him again—say anything that might end up as a carved line across his flesh.

“Morning, Scarr!” Phil calls, pulling my attention, and I wave back. Day Three and he’s still escorting his seventeen-year-old son to the bus stop. The bus stop, in this case, being the hedge at the end of his semi-circular cobblestone driveway, and the bus being my red Mercedes coupe. This time, he stays by the walkway instead of coming to the end of the driveway, though. Baby steps, I guess.

Their front door suddenly swings open, and Kenz comes rushing out, blond hair flying around her face. Her brother’s mini-me. Only girlier. And fancier. And a thousand times smilier.

“Dylan! Wait!” She clamors down the driveway and slams into her brother’s leg, just as he’s about to duck into the passenger seat. “I have something for you!” She holds out her hand, revealing one of those small fridge number magnets in the center of her tiny hand. A blue number six.

Dylan straightens and glances down at her bizarre offering, the corners of his eyes down-turned in confusion.

“It’s my lucky number six!” Kenz beams up at him. “You can have it. So that you have a really good day today… and lots and lots of really good days after that, too. Infinity and beyond good days!”

He continues to stare down at the number, clearly unsure what to make of it.

“Wow, Kenz! That’s so sweet of you,” I enthuse loudly, because someone’s got to say something and acknowledge the kid’s kind gesture. I arch my eyebrows at Dylan behind her back, nudging him to respond.

He blinks. “Uh, yeah… Thanks.” He reaches for the magnet with a hand that is wrapped in white gauze, only the fingers sticking out, and the joints on those are bruised and swollen. My eyes go wide, but luckily he’s looking at his sister now, so he doesn’t notice.

I know that isn’t from the knife… So what the hell could he possibly have done to himself between then and this morning?

He takes the magnet from Kenz. It looks so tiny between his bruised thumb and finger.

Kenz giggles. “I bet it’s gonna make your day so so good.”

He nods. “For sure.”

His hair is down today, and he rakes his other hand through the choppy waves. I’m not usually into the long hair thing on guys, but I can’t deny that Dylan Braun’s got really good hair. Thick and golden blond and tousled. Parted messily off to one side yet still somehow perfectly windswept, when he hasn’t even been outside long enough for it to even be windswept. I think it’s the only reason I like the look on him: because it’s so ridiculously effortless.

“Kay, I gotta go finish my breakfast. Bye, Dylan!” Kenz hugs her brother’s legs. “Bye , Scarlett!” She waves at me, flashing a gap-toothed grin before skipping back up the driveway and into the house.

A few seconds later, Dylan lowers himself into the passenger seat while simultaneously slipping the magnet into his pocket. The same pocket he pulled that knife from last night.

The knife that’s probably there today, too.

As I peel out of the driveway and down Ocean Avenue, I can’t help stealing glances at his pocket, searching for an outline of the knife. I can’t get it off my mind, wondering if he carries it all the time, or just certain days. Or maybe just at night.

“You mind not eye-fucking my crotch while you’re driving?” he mumbles.

My breath hitches at the crass accusation, and my eyes snap back to the road. I’m not even sure I schooled my features before he had time to witness my mortification at the notion that he thought I was ogling his crotch. God. He has such a knack for throwing me off my game. I hate it. What makes it even harder is knowing that this time, I hold the power to throw him off his game. I could easily gain the upper hand in a heartbeat, just by uttering seven little words.

I saw what you did last night.

But of course, I don’t. Because my moral compass isn’t as dented as I’d assumed it was. And while I may have stooped low in the past in order to maintain that feeling of control, I’ve never stooped that low. I go for humor instead.

“You realize you posed shirtless for giant billboards across the entire country, with your pants pretty much around your thighs, right?” I grin. “So, technically, thousands of women are ogling your crotch every day while they’re driving.”

I meant it as a lighthearted ribbing. A way to counteract his crass comment with humor. But I forgot Dylan doesn’t have a sense of humor. I haven’t seen him so much as crack a grin since I met him last week.

I wonder if he was different in his life back in California. If he smiled then, maybe. Talked more. I try to picture him hanging out amongst a group of rowdy guys, roughhousing, laughing with his head thrown back, high fiving someone or calling out to them… But I can’t. It’s a version of Dylan Braun that doesn’t compute. I can picture the wild, angry version of him easier than I can picture the laid back, content version. Which, in itself, is tragically sad.

“You want music?” I ask, leaning over Dylan’s long legs to retrieve a new lip gloss from the glove compartment. The car swerves and the vehicle behind me honks.

Dylan curses as I sit back and straighten the wheel.

Then my phone rings. I answer it on speakerphone. “What’s up?”

“Your shitty driving,” Xavier Rockwell’s smooth voice fills the car. “You smearing on that watermelon lip crap in your visor mirror right now?”

I glance in my rear-view mirror. Sure enough, Xavier’s army green Subaru is following close behind us (yes—his father is a multi-billionaire, and he chooses to drive a freaking Subaru Outback. Because Xave’s weird like that).

“Oh, chill your precious chestnut curls. No, I’m not applying lip gloss,” I sneer, lowering my visor and gliding pink gloss across my lips in the mirror. I don’t miss Dylan’s marginally arched eyebrow in my peripheral as I pop my lips a couple of times.

Xavier laughs. “Precious chestnut curls?”

I flip the visor closed, ignoring the question. Which wasn’t really even a question, anyway. “I thought you had a spare first period on Thursdays.”

“I do. I’m heading to the hospital to visit Seb.”

“Cool.” I toss the lip gloss into the cup holder. The car swerves (only a bit this time) and I jerk us back onto the road. “Tell him I said hi.”

Xavier cusses on speakerphone. “Christ, how did you even get your license?”

Another rhetorical question I don’t bother answering.

He veers left behind me, off towards the highway. “Alright, I’ll catch you in English second period.” Then he adds, “And for the love of God, keep your eyes on the road.”

“Bite me, Xave.” I grin, then hang up. I slow the car a bit as we pass Main Street. Lavender has a new window display and there are some really nice cream and black silk pajamas on one of the mannequins. I’ll have to drop in next weekend and check them out.

“What happened to your hand?” I ask, motioning with my chin at Dylan’s bandaged right hand.

“Hurt it skateboarding.”

I nod. “Huh.”

He’s totally lying. I saw the only skateboarding he did last night, and that was just a few tricks out on the back deck. And he didn’t so much as stumble. He clearly busted his knuckles punching something—or someone. Hard.

I don’t push him, though. It’ll only piss him off. Possibly incite him into leaping out of the moving vehicle.

So, we go back to driving in silence.

When we pass the Volt billboard ad a little while later—the one marking the spot where the car leaping occurred, I glance over at him again, watching his eyes skim the ad with that cool, detached expression.

“What’s the deal there?” I ask. “With the Volt ads.”

“There is no deal,” he says in that bored tone I’m totally not buying anymore.

I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“They gave me a contract; I signed it. They took a bunch of photos.”

I roll my eyes again. “Wow, thanks for explaining how a modeling contract works.” I turn onto Winchester Street. “I meant, why did you do it?”

He’s quiet for a moment, and when I glance his way, he’s tonguing that damn lip ring.

I sigh. “Are you doing that thing where you don’t answer? Or just taking your time coming up with a response that clocks in at less than five full words?”

He shrugs. “Paid good money,” he says, still not looking at me.

So, Option B, then.

“Because you’re so strapped for cash these days?” I tease. But he doesn’t even grace that one with a response.

“Okay, then. How much?”

He rakes his un-bandaged hand through his messy hair. “Huh?”

“How much did you get paid? For the modeling gig? The billboards and the tv ads and magazine spreads and stuff. How much did they pay you—ballpark?”

He stares me down for a good few seconds.

I arch an expectant eyebrow, focus concentrated on the road, but he still doesn’t bite. I nudge him again. “Are we talking five figures? Six?”

Another lengthy silence.

“Come on… Just a rough number.”

“Not sure,” he finally says, practically through clenched teeth.

“ What? ” My jaw drops and the car jerks again briefly as I gawk at him. “You’re not sure how much you got paid?” I face forward again, and Dylan lets his head fall back and turns to look out the window. I push on, undeterred. “How can you not know how much you got paid?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Clearly you didn’t inherit Phil’s keen sense of business, huh?”

“Clearly,” he deadpans.

“Okay… So, if you don’t know how much you got paid, that means you lied earlier. About doing it for the money.”

Again, he doesn’t respond.

“So? What’s the deal? You obviously had a reason for doing them, and if it wasn’t for the money, then why?”

He keeps staring out the window. His eyes have that far off look he gets sometimes, and I suddenly feel bad for pushing. It’s clearly a topic that makes him uncomfortable. I throw another glance in his direction, obviously for longer than I intended, because the car swerves again. Dylan swings his head my way, his green eyes wide as he curses under his breath then tells me, "you're a shit driver."

I regain control of the car. "You're a shit conversationalist."

He proves my point by lolling his head back against the headrest and resuming his landscape-watching. We drive in silence.

“I wasn’t looking at your crotch earlier,” I say after a while. “I was looking at your pocket. You’re going to lose that lucky six your sister gave you if you leave it loose in there.” It’s my version of an apology. Not for the pocket staring, but for the insistent questioning about the ads.

He tilts his head just barely in my direction, enough for his eyes to flicker briefly across my face, like he’s trying to read me. Then he goes back to staring out the window.

We’re both quiet for the rest of the drive.