Page 6

Chapter Five

Scarlett

“ I s he still there? That serial killer’s kid?” Gavin, my sort of boyfriend of the moment, leans forward and peers over my shoulder at the Braun’s house as I climb into his car. I asked him to come pick me up after dinner. A few people are heading to Hooks to hang for a while. The Rusty Hook (“Hooks” to us locals) is the diner where everyone hangs out in Sandy Haven.

I buckle my seatbelt and pull down the visor to check my hair. “He’s Philip Braun’s kid. And yeah, he’s still there. He lives there.”

“So, you met him?”

“Yup.” I snap the visor closed. “Are you going to drive? Or sit here stalking my neighbors the rest of the night?” The past two hours exhausted all of my patience. Also, any of my “sweet and bubbly girl” reserves.

“Whoa. Chill, babe.”

I should apologize for snapping. I don’t. And after a couple of seconds, Gavin sits back and starts the car. “So, what’s he like? I heard he’s crazy as fuck.”

“He’s quiet,” I say, echoing Diane’s initial answer to the same question just hours ago. Hopefully enough of a hint that it’s something I don’t want to elaborate on. I was ambivalent towards Dylan Braun before I’d even met him. Now I’m annoyed by him, too.

Okay. Thrown off.

Gavin doesn’t pick up on my tone, though. He’s not the kind of guy who notices things like nuances or subtleties. Not that there’s anything subtle about my tone. Ever.

“So, he’s silent but deadly, then.” He scoffs as he squeals out of the Braun’s hedge-trimmed semi-circular driveway. Gavin is also the kind of guy who likes to squeal his fancy sports car tires at every opportunity. Also, not surprisingly, the kind of guy who wouldn’t get why that might be annoying to ninety-nine percent of the population.

I just roll my eyes in response this time. Gavin can be a lot to take. I don’t date the guy because I’m starry-eyed over him. Nor do I think all these traits of his are cute or quirky or even worth putting up with because all his other ones are just so endearing. Our connection is more of an unspoken, mutually beneficial “pairing up” than a relationship. I date guys like Gavin because they’re predictable. Easy to handle and least likely to get attached to.

“Did he trash the Braun’s house yet or what?” Gavin asks. “Try to pawn the silverware?” He continues, on a roll now. Mister funny guy. “Hold up. Does he even know how to use silverware?” He cocks his head, curling his upper lip in a sarcastic grin. “Tell me he didn’t show up for dinner wearing just his Volt boxer briefs?”

See? Like I said, really not the type of guy you have to worry about getting attached to.

On the flip side, this whole “two-dimensional personality” boyfriend thing is what made it hurt so much when I found out my previous boyfriend had been cheating on me last month. Because if I can’t hold the attention of a guy with the personality of a box of tampons, it sure doesn’t speak well of my personality. And while it’s not like I was unaware I’d had to change a lot of things about myself when I decided to climb to the top of the social ladder a couple years ago, until the day Justin Tanner dumped me, I hadn’t realized quite how much I'd given up .

But I’ve learned to be okay with it. I have to be. I worked hard to heave myself to the top of that stupid ladder, and it gives me what I wanted—control. The privilege of being the one to call the shots. I say what goes and what doesn’t. Determine who’s in and who’s out. I have the ability to ensure that no one ever messes with me again. Ever. I’m a fool-me-once kind of girl. Which, given that I have been fooled once, means I am now a “strike-before-they-do” kind of girl.

Coincidentally, I also have perfect aim.

“He try to hit on you?” Gavin asks. “The famous Maytag Kid?”

I refrain from laughing at his question, because let’s be honest, here: Dylan’s reaction to me was the furthest thing from attraction I’ve ever incited from a guy. But all I say is, “I can handle Dylan Braun.”

Gavin glances at me, then back at the road. “Well, you let me know if he gives you a hard time or anything, alright?”

“I said I can handle him.”

Still not entirely sure how, but I will. I sure as hell would never ask my boyfriend to handle my problems for me. Not that Dylan is a problem, I guess. But he is a guy I’m going to have to learn to deal with. Or rather, that I’m going to have to find a way to be nice to, even though I’m ninety percent sure he has zero redeeming qualities. And is the only person I’ve encountered for a really long time who isn’t intimidated by me.

And that’s the part that could become a problem.

Hooks is loud and packed and borderline stifling. It’s mostly all high school kids—not just from Sandy Haven Prep, but from Ocean Heights, too (the local public school). Hooks isn’t the kind of place that delineates between the haves and have-nots. It’s just a no frills, old-school diner. As in, it’s been around since before even any of our parents’ time. This place is steeped in memories as much as in the remnants of cigarette smoke from the seventies.

“Yo! Lutz! Thiels!” someone calls from one of the crowded tables along the back wall, and I pretend I’m not aware that all eyes are on us as Gavin and I saunter coolly along the scuffed black and white linoleum between the packed booths to the rear of the diner. But I am always aware of the way people watch me: guys ogling, girls sizing me up—or rather, sizing up my outfit, my hair, my mood… I’m aware because I’m the one who orchestrated this whole dynamic. And the day I’m no longer aware of it is the day I risk toppling from my perch on the top rung of the ladder.

People do the customary scooch along the always tacky cherry red pleather, making room for us in the already crowded booth. They’re mostly Gavin’s friends—people I know but wouldn’t choose to hang out with if I wasn’t dating him and I wasn’t playing this part. I spot my best friend, Sebastian, sitting in a booth a couple tables over with the polar-opposite-from-him science nerd his parents hired to tutor him and who, in some weird third-dimension-level twist of events, he is now apparently dating. A pairing made even more notable by the fact that Seb Murdoch does not do dating. He hooks up. A lot. Not once has he done the boyfriend-girlfriend thing before. Seb’s the sweetest guy on the planet, but his brain is too scattered to keep track of the last place he left his iPhone, let alone keep track of the same girl for more than twenty-four hours. Until now, apparently, with Caroline Heinz. And I’ll give them my blessing as long as he gets his head out of his ass one day soon already and grows the balls to share his secret with her. The one only I know about right now. Long story for another day. Just, suffice it to say, if he doesn’t let Caroline in on it, their relationship is going to run a similar course to the Titanic’s. Sans the cheesy string quartet music as it sinks into oblivion.

I zone out everyone’s over-enthused greetings as I study the two of them. Caroline looks out of place. And uber aware of the hordes of popular kids surrounding her. And Seb just looks uber aware of her .

He didn’t even notice me come in.

And yes, full disclosure: I’m jealous. Not because I’d ever want to be anything more than friends with Seb (we kissed once in middle school and it was on par with how I imagine kissing your cousin), but because he’s still always been “mine” in a way. And even though he’s still there for me, he doesn’t feel like “mine” anymore. I’m kind of shocked at how un-tethered I’ve felt since he started getting all paired up and cozy with Caroline Heinz. It wouldn’t even be so bad if I disliked her. Then I could at least blame her for how embarrassingly affected I am by Seb’s growing distance. But I can’t hate her. I secretly respect girls like Caroline, who refuse to conform, even when doing so would mean lessening the ridicule they’re subjected to. God knows I don’t have the guts to be un-apologetically myself the way Caroline Heinz does.

“Sooooo…” Victoria Ledworth semi-squeals, jolting me out of my thoughts, her eyes darting from Gavin, then back to me. “Is it true? That you met Dylan Braun today?”

Oh, my flipping God. This again.

“She had dinner with him just a little while ago at the Braun's,” Gavin confirms for me. “Right, babe?”

I nod dismissively, sliding the menu from between the salt and pepper shakers and pretend to study it. Like I don’t already know the entire thing by heart.

“Oh my God, I’m so jealous. That guy is level ten gorgeous. And basically un-tamed.” She sighs. “It’s so hot.” Then she straightens suddenly. “Wait. Is he as hot in person as he is in those Volt ads?”

I flinch at the word “un-tamed”, because it makes him sound like a dog. The guy seems like a total asshole, but that doesn’t slot him in the same category as a house pet, for God’s sake. House broken or otherwise.

“I didn’t really notice.” I sigh, pretending to be riveted by the dessert specials. “But sure. I guess he was above average in the looks department.”

Understatement of the century.

“As good looking as the ad where he’s shirtless and sprawled out on that couch in the underground parking garage?” Taylor Karinski asks. “Where you can see every single dip of his freaking Sex God abs?”

I look up from the menu and pierce her with a well-deserved smirk. “Well, he had all his clothes on when I met him— during our joint family dinner. So, I really couldn’t say.”

She and Victoria both laugh nervously.

Good. Maybe they’ll back off from the topic now. Maybe they all will.

“Did he seem scary, though?”

Okay. So maybe not.

“He was shoveling potato salad in his mouth,” I sigh. “So, no.”

Taylor looks disappointed at this. Whether at the part about him shoveling potato salad in his mouth or him not seeming scary, I’m not sure.

“Does Killer Boy start school next week?” Deacon asks, looking almost as invested as Victoria and Taylor.

Those “killer” slurs are going to get annoying really fast. Especially for Killer Boy himself. I wonder if that will be the thing that tips him over the edge.

“No idea,” I say. And then, “Did you guys order already?” Hoping it will divert the conversation.

It doesn’t. They keep speculating and gossiping about Dylan; some girls pulling up those ads on their phones and re-watching the videos, like the guy is a legitimate celebrity instead of a freaking kidnapping victim.

Only I guess he did kind of switch lanes just weeks after initially being “found” and thrust into the limelight. He willingly jumped over from the “kidnap victim wanting to protect his privacy” camp to the “attention-seeking celebrity” camp when he cashed in on the chance at even bigger fame by signing on for those nation-wide, football field-size billboards, marketing his “killer” reputation more than the famous clothing brand itself. Which, on second thought, really doesn’t fit his personality, now that I've met him.

Initially, I assumed he was the kind of guy who liked attention and wanted a slice of fame to counteract all the horse manure he had to wade through for fourteen years. But having interacted with him, none of that fits with the closed off, subdued island of a guy he seems to be.

When my chocolate mint milkshake gets delivered to the table, I nurse it quietly as the conversations unfold around me.

A few minutes later, a tiny creamer cup suddenly comes soaring over the bench-seat across from ours and lands in my milkshake with a minty green splash.

“Slam dunk, baby!” Seb’s voice calls out, and I lift my head to find him perched on the bench-back of his booth two tables over, the corners of his lips curling into his legendary all-American Golden Boy grin. “Been calling your name for the past five minutes, but you were zoned right out,” he calls, reaching over Caroline’s shoulder to grab a fry off her plate and biting it in half. “What’s up, Scarly?”

“Green milkshake all over my halter top, asshole,” I dead-pan. But Seb knows me better than anyone. He gets that my bitchiness is mostly for show. And that I don’t really give a crap about a bit of green splatter. We used to play wrestle-tag in the mud flats by Marram Lighthouse when we were kids, and I’d get more caked up than him and Xave combined, if it meant making myself a harder target to pin down.

He laughs. “What’s that? You said you want some sugar to go with that creamer?” His grin stretches wider as he reaches across the table to grab a handful of sugar packets before I have time to react. Then he launches them one after another towards me. Three of them land in my milkshake, smack dab alongside the creamer.

“Seriously, Seb?” I roll my eyes, fishing the offending condiments out of my glass and plopping them onto Gavin’s ketchup-smeared plate. “What are you? Like, five?”

“You’re welcome.” He winks, grinning from ear to ear. Seb Murdoch’s dimples have allowed him to get away with everything short of murder since the day he learned how to smile. He hops off his perch and saunters over, grabbing Caroline’s hand and pulling her along with him.

“God.” I shake my head, blotting splattered milkshake off my top with a napkin. “You are such a dork.”

Seb is two-hundred-and-twenty pounds of sinewy muscle, brimming with equal parts charm and mischief, and lusted over by every girl in town. There is nothing dorky about him, except maybe his frenetic, puppy-dog personality. But I like to bring him down to earth every once in a while, just to keep him humble.

Or maybe Caroline does that for him now.

Seb leans in, picking up my shake. “Tell you what,” he drawls, all twinkling eyes and mischief. “Because I like you, Scarlett Thiels, I’m gonna step up and do whatever it takes to make sure there are no more milkshake mishaps this evening.” He brings the glass up to his grinning lips and knocks the whole thing back, chugging the entire contents of my milkshake in three long gulps. He slams the glass back on the table, sliding his tongue along his frothy upper lip.

“Future crisis averted.” He winks. Then shakes his head rapidly. “Whoa,” his eyes widen. “Ice-cream headache.”

“You owe me another shake,” I say, without missing a beat. “I only had three sips of that.”

“So did I,” he grins. “But you don’t see me whining about it.”

“Bite me, Murdoch.”

Seb wiggles his eyebrows playfully. “Anywhere?”

I sigh, shaking my head. Good to know his strait-laced girlfriend isn’t stifling his signature flirty personality, at least.

Seb slides himself into the bench seat, squishing his whole body against mine, domino-ing the rest of the booth’s occupants into each other in the process. Then he pulls Caroline onto his lap with one arm and drapes the other one along my shoulders, squeezing me into a sideways hug. “How are you, anyway? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Yeah, because he’s been spending every free second outside of school and football practice with his tutor. At this point, I’m sure he’s the one doing most of the “tutoring”. Only not in any subjects related to academics.

“You haven’t missed much, lover-boy,” I tell him, tracing the rim of my empty milkshake glass with the end of my straw.

We talk for a bit, and Caroline even makes an effort to join in. But the entire time, I can’t help feeling like an outsider. A third wheel watching from the sidelines as Seb leans into her every few minutes to kiss her cheek or say something in a low voice that lights up her face and makes her suddenly look way less self-conscious. They’re oddly perfect for each other, and it makes me ache with a weird blend of envy and melancholy. Which makes no sense since I wanted this relationship with Gavin specifically because it’s superficial.

When Seb suggests we head to Xavier’s house after we pay our bills, I tell him I can’t—that I made plans to have a girls movie night with my mother. Which is a lie. Obviously. The truth is, I don’t feel like being around him anymore when Caroline is present. I’m flat out jealous and I hate it. It’s not a feeling I’m all that familiar with, and definitely not one I’m okay shuffling into my carefully curated deck of emotions. I just want to be alone right now. Take a break from the performance that is my daily life for a few hours.

I can tell Gavin is disappointed. He wants to go. Not because he’s close with Seb or Xavier, but because he’s got an ongoing case of FOMO. Honestly, it’s probably the main reason he swooped in the second I broke up with Justin, and the Queen Bee boyfriend position suddenly opened up.

We barely talk on the car ride back to my place.

“You want to go park someplace for a bit?” Gavin glances over at me, then back at the road.

He means do I want to go fool around in an empty parking lot in his car. Subtlety is another one of Gavin’s lacking traits.

“No, I should get back.”

He nods, turning up the music. And that’s pretty much the extent of our conversation until we pull into my driveway, and he gets out to walk me to the side entrance. As soon as we get within touching distance of the door, I lean down and start unstrapping my pink Valentino shoes.

“What are you doing?” Gavin peers down as I grip his arm for balance.

“Taking off my shoes.” I toss them on the woven mat centered along the wide doorstep.

“Why? Your legs look killer in those shoes.” Gavin wiggles his eyebrows at me in a way that would probably be cute if I was into him, but instead just looks ridiculous.

“Yeah, well, not killer enough to justify my toes feeling like they’ve been squeezed in an angle vice for the past hour and a half.”

He laughs, like I said it to be funny, and then pulls me up against his body. “You sure you have to bail?” he pleads, his lips grazing my ear. “You know Xave’s house is always a good time. We can just go for an hour, then come back here and hang.”

I shake my head, pulling away from his embrace. “Sorry. My mom and I made girls’ movie night plans a few days ago. It’s kind of a thing.”

“Alright,” he says after a beat. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He kisses me, cradling his hand around my head, fingers weaving through my hair as he settles in for a full-on make-out session. But I pull away after a couple of seconds and he makes this kind of humming sound in the back of his throat as he finally pulls back.

“You’re so smokin’ hot.” He grins.

I smile, brushing my hair back over my shoulder. And with that, he turns and walks away, leaving me alone on the narrow porch.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

Just then, the door opens and my mom steps outside. “Oh! Scarlett. You’re back early.” Her gaze glides from me to Gavin’s retreating car and back again. “Everything okay?”

Cromwell, our small fluff ball of a dog suddenly comes hurtling through mom’s legs, making her stumble forward. We both laugh as he dashes down the steps and out onto the lawn, yipping after a seagull that swoops out of his reach. Mom turns back to me. “So? Is everything okay? I thought you’d be out for a while. It’s still pretty early.”

“Everything’s good,” I assure her. “Gavin just had a family thing he had to go to.”

“Oh, well, that’s—” She stops short as she shifts to look at something over my shoulder. “Oh! Hi, honey,” she says. “I didn’t see you there.”

I turn. And there, slouched in one of the Adirondack chairs on the small, terraced seating area by the Braun’s house a few feet away, is Dylan. He’s leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees—far enough away that I get how I missed him earlier, but not far enough that he wouldn’t have overheard the entire conversation between Gavin and me. And then the proof of my lie to get out of hanging with him for the rest of the night, thanks to the brief exchange just now with my mother. Clear proof I was lying to my own boyfriend, because there is obviously no girl’s movie night keeping me home.

It gets my back up, because it feels like he’s stolen a glimpse at a side of me I don’t want anyone to see. That lie was the kind that hides a weakness, and I pride myself on never showing weakness. Especially to a guy. Especially a guy like Dylan Braun, who, like I said, already has so many red flags flying high.

My eyes narrow on him. “What are you doing out here?”

No one ever uses that seating area; a few flat stones by the Braun’s mud room door, with a couple of chairs and some planters. Pretty sure it’s meant to be decorative. And the guy’s got a stunning back yard to brood in, with three long tiered decks, two different outdoor fireplaces, lush couches, and views down to the rolling ocean and the horizon beyond that. Yet he chose to lurk a few feet from my house, right by the door.

He doesn’t answer, of course. Just raises his ducked head enough to assess me coolly with eyes that are unfairly stunning. That didn’t change, unfortunately, in the hour and a half since I last saw him.

“Scarlett!” mom gasps. “Don’t be so rude!” To him, she says, “You can sit wherever you like, Dylan. I have a few bags of rice chips if you’re hungry. Or rosemary and pine nut muffins… Or fruit flavored soda water, if you’d like one.”

What is it with everyone trying to push stuff on this guy? Trying to appease him or buy his affection or something. Do they not realize a couple of muffins, or skateboard, or a damn car, even—will not make up for the fact that the last fourteen years of his life have been horrible? They can’t undo that. Nothing they say or do will ever make that okay.

Also, what the hell is a rosemary pine nut muffin? Because it definitely doesn’t sound like the way to win over a seventeen-year-old guy. Or anyone, actually. Except maybe a flock of pigeons.

I wish he’d tell them that. Not about the muffins (although, I’d be open to his opinion on those, too). But about the way they all act around him. I want to see him raise his voice and yell at everyone to stop placating him and treating him like a fragile five-year-old or a guest of honor just passing through. I want a glimpse of the raging, out-of-control boy from all those news articles.

He saw me with my guard down. Maybe I want the same opportunity.

“Would you like me to run in and grab you one of those fruit soda waters?” mom pushes eagerly.

“I’m good,” he says, his voice so soft it’s barely audible. He leans over to scruffle Cromwell behind the ears and his features soften just the tiniest bit. He looks… different. Less closed off, maybe.

“Well, we’re just inside if you need anything,” mom tells him.

He looks up and nods. The layer of ice slides back into place, hardening his expression and returning that frosty tint to his gaze.

“Oh, by the way.” Mom glances between us.

I brace myself, because no sentence my mother utters that begins with “Oh, by the way,” is ever a good thing. Sure enough, she hits us with a low-grade bombshell.

“I was just talking to Phil about Dylan starting school next week,” she beams. “And since Dylan doesn’t have his license yet, I told him you’d be happy to drive him to school and back every day, Scarlett.”

Dylan’s eyes flicker to mine, those long lashes blinking just once as his tongue worries that stupid lip ring. And still, I can’t get a read on what he’s thinking.

When neither of us responds, mom adds, “It’ll be a great way for you to get to know each other, right?”

Right. Because that’s exactly what we were both looking for: a daily forced proximity situation where we’re expected to “get to know each other”. Thank you for that, Phil and Mel.

But all I say is, “Sure thing.”

Then Sadie’s voice calls out from somewhere inside.

“I’m going to go tuck her in,” mom says. She wishes us goodnight, then turns and heads back inside. Cromwell scampers up the steps, too. Only he stops to get a good sniff of my shoes on the way. Cromwell’s got fancy taste; he can probably smell the ridiculously steep price-tag with his keen little sniffer.

I turn to Dylan, so tempted to bite out a cutting comment that would let me regain the upper hand. Not that I feel like I’ve had the upper hand with him since I met him a few hours ago. But I promised myself I’d be nice. That I wouldn’t stretch the limits of my morals to the point of being mean to a guy who’s been through hell and back, just because I don’t trust him. Or like him. So, instead I settle for: “Just so you’re aware, I leave for school every day half an hour earlier than it takes to get there.”

He responds in that bored-out-of-his-skull monotone voice, “Just so you’re aware, your dog just took a piss all over your vice angle shoes.”

My eyes narrow in confusion, and then I whirl around just in time to see Cromwell lowering his leg, then trot inside the house. There’s a yellow stream of urine dripping down the sides of my thousand-dollar Valentino shoes, pooling along the edge of the doormat and trickling down the steps.

When I turn back around, Dylan has gone back inside.