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Chapter Sixteen

Scarlett

M y parents and the Brauns are doing that thing where they talk in hushed whispers. The four of them are huddled over by the Brauns' patio doors overlooking the backyard, doing a terrible job of pretending they’re discussing the weather or the tides or something, when obviously they’re talking about Dylan. I pretend like I’m not interested, but the truth is, I’m dying to know what they’re saying. All I can make out are a couple of words here and there, though. Something about “so much anger” and “a hole” and later in the conversation, “threw her phone.” Which makes no sense and only makes me more curious.

I’m pretty sure it isn’t anything related to school. The rest of Dylan’s week went down pretty much like the first couple of days. Nothing that actually escalated into a full-on fight, at least. Still, I feel like it’s just a matter of time. It’s going to happen. Maybe not an actual brawl, but Dylan knocking someone’s lights out. I have a feeling once he un-leashes that restraint, he’ll be a force to be reckoned with.

“Scarr, honey, would you mind going up to let Dylan and the girls know dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes?” Diane calls over to me, like anyone really needs fifteen minutes’ heads up for stuffed pork and scalloped potatoes. Clearly, they want me out of earshot.

It’s not until I get upstairs that I realize I don’t even know which bedroom is Dylan’s. The Brauns have a few spare rooms, so it could be any one of them. The first two are conjoined by a sitting area, so it makes sense it isn’t either of those. When I peek into the next one , though, it looks like a bland approximation of a teenage boy’s bedroom: the walls a deep blue with a complimentary rug covering most of the wood floor. Queen-size bed, large dresser and desk… and a few generic framed photos on the wall. Nothing to even hint at the personality of its occupant, aside from the barely used skateboard propped neatly against the desk. No posters or trophies or photos or anything. Not even one piece of dirty laundry strewn across the floor. Just a laptop on the desk that looks like it’s never been used and a black backpack by the chair. Also, no sign of Dylan.

The adjoining bathroom door is halfway open, though, and I can hear music filtering through.

“Dylan?” I call. “You there?”

No answer.

I take a few steps until I’m standing in front of the wide built-in shelves. They’re sparsely filled, mainly with a few stacks of coffee table books. Titles Diane no doubt picked out, with captions like “50 Ultimate Sports Cars”, “The Art of Keith Haring” and “Fun Facts That Can’t Be True But Are”. I’m sure Dylan has just been devouring every one of these literary treasures.

Then my eyes snag on two lopsided stacks of slightly disheveled comic books on one of the lower shelves. Given that they’re the only tattered items in the room, I know they must belong to Dylan. Something he brought here from his life… before.

I flip briefly through the top one: Descender.

I’ve never seen a comic book in real life. Honestly, I kind of assumed physical comic books were a relic of the past. Maybe they are; Dylan isn’t exactly your typical modern-day seventeen-year-old guy. More like a guy whose interests froze somewhere around fifth grade, with the skateboarding and braided bracelets and superhero comics.

I glance up and spot him in the bathroom. He’s standing in front of the wall-length mirror above the vanity, wearing nothing but faded jeans and a thin leather string around his neck attached to the blue number six Kenz gave him. It hangs against his broad chest, a bright, whimsical contrast to his ripped physique. My eyes do a cursory scan down the length of his body, pausing on the gauze wrapped around his left forearm, then snapping back to the mirror when they land on the pile of fluffy ash-blond waves pooled by his tanned feet.

He’s cutting his hair.

No—he’s hacking off his hair, gripping the scissors awkwardly in his bandaged hand, and dragging the blades roughly across his golden surfer locks.

“What the hell are you doing?” I push the door fully open, and Dylan’s gaze jumps to mine in the mirror, the deep green even more piercing under the bright glare of the vanity lights. The planes of his cheeks seem more angular, too, and his jawline somehow even more pronounced.

He turns and peers over my shoulder towards the bedroom, like he’s checking to see if there’s anyone else behind me. Then his accusing eyes meet mine again. “What are you doing in my room?”

I glance down pointedly at the tufts of hair brushing against the frayed hem of his jeans , then back up at his freakish hairdo. “More importantly—what are you doing to your hair?”

He assesses me for a moment, long enough that I anticipate the poking of his tongue against the lip ring a second before he does it. And those lips… God. They're so pouty and perfect and hard not to look at. But I avert my gaze when his brow furrows. His eyes bounce between mine, then he turns back to the mirror. Raises the scissors to his hair again.

“Dylan, wait!” I take a step into the bathroom. “Seriously. What are you doing?”

“Cutting my hair.”

“Gee thanks, Captain Obvious.” I take another step towards him, leaning in to get a better look at the side where he’s chopped off the most hair. It’s still a decent length, but just… bad. Like, some bits shorter and some longer, and the ends cut at different angles. “Why are you doing it yourself, I mean?” I make a face as my eyes land on a particularly uneven section. “Pretty sure Phil can swing the forty bucks for a trip to the barber.”

“What’s the difference?”

“The difference is: a barber knows what he’s doing. And you, clearly, do not.”

His eyes narrow, annoyed, and slightly tired.

“But sure,” I back away, waving a hand in the general vicinity of his head. “This whole… thing you’re doing here is gonna work out just fine, too. Knock yourself out.”

He watches me in the mirror for a couple more seconds, then goes back to hacking at his hair, literally just snipping it off in chunks. It makes me cringe just to watch, because seeing him saw it off like this makes me realize how beautiful his hair is. And what a sin he’s committing right now. But— not my business.

I keep backing out of the doorway.

Then, at the last minute, I stop. I can’t do it. I just can’t walk away from the complete shit-show he is about to unleash on himself. Like he doesn’t have enough crap to deal with in his life already.

I erase the distance between us and reach out to block him from hacking off any more. “I was lying. This is not going to look okay.” I push his arm away when he lifts it again. “Seriously. You can’t just cut your own hair.”

“Actually,” he scoffs, “I can.”

I inhale a calming breath. “Okay… Yeah. But that doesn’t mean you should .”

He lowers his arm completely. “Why do you give a shit what I do to my hair?” His expression hardens. “Or how much I got paid to take my shirt off for those ads? Or who I sit with at lunch?”

Holy crap… I almost stumble backwards from the shock of the onslaught of words. Full sentences, never mind. A string of them. And emotions. Whoa.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” I shoot back, ironically, sounding defensive.

“I’m not offended,” he scoffs. “I’m annoyed.”

“Oh.” I shrug. “Well, I can live with annoyed.”

He gives me another look. I stare back—take in his broad shoulders, the smooth expanse of his back, then lower to the black elastic of his underwear—Volt , of course. I wonder if he gets a free life-time supply of them.

“You’re eye-fucking me again.”

“No, I’m trying to figure you out.”

“Well, don’t.”

I roll my eyes, trying to mask my embarrassment—because I was checking him out this time. Now I just watch as he prepares to go all Edward Scissorhands again.

“You want me to do it?” I blurt out.

“Do what?” He gives me the suspicious look again. The only one besides the totally blank one, that’s familiar to me.

“Cut your hair. I can do it for you.”

Another suspicious look. “Why?”

“Because I’m a decent human being, and I don’t want you to have to go out in public looking like an alien spaceship landed on your head and took off with half of your hair.”

The bridge of his nose furrows. “Why would an alien spaceship take off with half my hair?”

He’s right. It makes no sense. It was just the first thing that came into my mind.

I sigh. “You’re missing the point.”

He arches a perfect, wheat-blond eyebrow.

“The point,” I explain, “is I’m offering you a free haircut.” I lean against the door jamb. “Only now you’re making me regret it.”

“You’ve cut hair before?”

“Yes.”

Lie. I’ve never cut hair in my life. But I’m confident that whatever I do will still be better than the mess he’s creating.

“So?” I lean forward, holding my hand out for the scissors.

He’s still deliberating.

“This isn’t some big life or death decision,” I push. “Go get a chair and I’ll fix this hair carnage.”

He studies me for another stretched out minute. Pokes at his lip ring. Then turns and brushes past me into his bedroom to grab the desk chair, tracking tufts of wispy blond locks across the carpet.

He comes back and sets it down on the tiles, then stands there, eyeing me again. This guy is so suspicious of everything.

“Sit.” I push down on his shoulder. A jolt of heat rushes to my cheeks at the feel of his bare skin beneath my palm.

He sits.

I run my fingers through his hair a few times, trying to figure out how I’m going to approach this, now that I’ve committed—no clue where to even begin. It’s soft… silky. And suddenly the act feels intimate somehow. I quickly lift my hands, but he’s already leaning away from me.

“Can you just cut it?” he bites through gritted teeth.

“Relax,” I huff. “I’m assessing.”

“Fucking cut it or don’t.”

“Take a breath… My God.”

He pushes up from his seat. “Forget it. I’ll—”

“Wait!” I hold my arms up, palms out. “Sorry… I’ll start cutting. No more assessing.”

He hesitates, frozen mid-crouch, halfway to standing. I ease him gently back onto the seat with just the tips of my fingers this time. I don’t linger. But he still flinches away from my touch.

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what? Touching you?”

“Yeah.”

Does he think I’m coming on to him or something? It was three fingers on his shoulder. For maybe two seconds.

“Just—can you make it fast?”

“You’re awful demanding for someone who’s asking for a free haircut.”

“I didn’t ask you to—”

“Kidding.” I roll my eyes. “Geez. I’ll be fast.”

True to my word, I’m done in about ten minutes. And not to brag, but it turns out I’m a natural. Of course, Dylan’s got the kind of thick, wavy hair that’s pretty forgiving. Not the way he was cutting it, obviously—but the job I’ve done, natural and less chunky, it looks really good. The back almost brushes his shoulders, still the same surfer vibes, only more like prep-school surfer than grunge-surfer. At least he’ll fit in better at school. Sort of. He’s still the kind of beautiful that’ll make him stand out wherever he goes.

“Wait…” Something suddenly occurs to me. “You’re not going to get in trouble, are you? With Volt ? ”

Dylan looks confused. “Huh?”

“You didn’t sign a contract or something saying you’re not allowed to cut your hair?”

“Not sure.” He shrugs. “What the hell are they gonna do about it? Can’t make it grow back any faster now.”

I guess if he doesn’t even know how much he got paid to do that whole campaign, I shouldn’t be surprised he’s so un-bothered by the possibility of breaching his contract. Besides, I guess chopping off his hair can’t be any worse for his modeling career than the hundred-and-one ways he seems to find to mar his body.

“Anyway, it looks good,” I say, stepping back and admiring my handiwork. Really, though, I’m hoping it will prompt him to thank me, or at least admit he likes it. Say something nice to me for once. But he just glances up briefly at the mirror, gives his head a couple of shakes, brushing off the stray bits of hair, and stands. No reaction whatsoever. He could hate it, for all I know. I don’t think he even cares.

Which begs the question: why is he even cutting it in the first place, then?

“So, what’s the occasion?” I pry lightly. “You trying to woo someone?”

His forehead wrinkles. “Woo?”

“Attract someone—hoping to put the moves on them.”

“By cutting my hair?”

It really is like he’s lived under a rock his whole life. I guess he sort of has.

“Okay, so then why the sudden urge to cut your hair?”

“Just felt like it.”

Bullshit. It’s obvious he couldn’t care less what his hair looks like.

“It was Phil, wasn’t it?” I lift an eyebrow. “Or Diane? I bet it was Diane who asked you to cut it. She totally hates—”

A ping sounds from my phone on the vanity.

My stomach lurches into my chest.

It’s been happening ever since those texts from Carter three days ago. My heart rate spikes every time my phone pings with an incoming message. I’m constantly on edge, anticipating another one. Basically, Carter has slid from my DMs straight into permanent residency somewhere in the back of my brain.

I lean across Dylan to pick up my phone.

The text isn’t from Carter, though. It’s Gavin. The message lights up:

Gavin

Hey babe. ur coming w me to Xave's tonight right?

“Another mother-daughter movie night?” Dylan drawls, hooded gaze tracking my fingers as I start typing my response. He must have seen Gavin’s name pop up.

“Reading my texts now?” I give him a sardonic smirk. “Nice.”

I hate that my snarky comeback doesn’t negate the fact that we both know he has one up on me, with that bald-faced lie he caught me in last week. I also hate that the best retort I could come up with just now was a lame “ nice” . Usually, I’m the queen of zingy retorts, putting people in their place with the speed and efficiency of a snappy fly swatter. Except with Dylan Braun, apparently.

It was on the tip of my tongue to point out that at least I have options on my Friday night. But I restrained myself. Partially because, let’s be honest, the truth is he could be the guest of honor at any number of parties this weekend, if he wanted, or any girl’s bed—but also, because, unlike him, I at least have a minimal standard of civility.

“Out of curiosity,” I ask Dylan as I finish typing out my response to Gavin, letting him know I’ll meet him at Xave’s later on, “why are you always such a dick to me?”

“Out of curiosity,” he volleys, his eyes flicking briefly to mine as he stands up. "Why do you care?"

My body jerks back. God, what an asshole . He lifts the chair easily despite his bandaged hand, stepping around me to bring it back to the bedroom as I look on. Why does he insist on continuing to act this way? When I’ve done nothing to threaten him or to be mean, other than the comment in the car that one time. Which I apologized for right away, and about half a dozen times after.

I stand alone in the middle of the marble tiled room, reeling. My eyes lift to the mirror, my own harried gaze reflected back at me.

He’s right, though. Why do I care?

I’m not sure I have the fortitude to explore the answer to that question just now. Especially under such scrutiny. I square my shoulders, then turn and cross the threshold from polished tiles to stained hardwood. “By the way,” I say casually as his bare arm brushes against mine on his way back to the bathroom. “Diane wanted me to let you know dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes.”

I’ve been up here with him for the past fifteen minutes. They’re probably sitting down for dinner as we speak. But I’m feeling petty and yes, I’m hurt. I’m allowing myself this tiny childish retaliation. It’s our weekly Braun-Thiels meal—not Thanksgiving turkey. No one’s really going to care. They’ll just be annoyed they have to send one of the girls up to get Dylan after I already did. Just enough, it’ll take a tiny nibble out of the pedestal they’ve all had him on since his arrival on the scene.