Authors: Katie McGarry
“Isaiah,” I say and my heart twists. “He’s the guy with the tattoos.”
“Is the other one your boyfriend?”
I mean to chuckle. Instead it comes out more of a snort and a hiccup. Ryan laughs at me, but I’m so weightless I don’t care. “Noah? No, he’s helplessly in love with some insane chick.
Besides, Noah and I aren’t friends. We’re more like siblings.”
“Really?” The disbelief oozes from Ryan.
“You don’t resemble each other.”
I wave my hand frantically in the air. “No.
We’re not related. Noah can’t stand me, but he
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loves me. Takes up for me. Like siblings.”
Love. I purposely knock the back of my
head against the ground in frustration. Isaiah said he loved me. I search the cobwebbed
corridors of my emotions and try to imagine loving him back. All I find is a hollow
emptiness. Is that what love is? Emptiness?
Ryan narrows his eyes for a deep-in-thought expression, but six beers in an hour tells me he probably spaced out. “So you don’t have a boyfriend?”
“Nope.”
Ryan cracks open another beer. I start to protest as he has infiltrated my stash, but decide against it. I want weightless, not puking. I have to return to Scott’s in three hours and coherency will be required.
“Why is Isaiah mad at you?” he asks.
“He loves me,” I say without thinking, and immediately regret it. “And other things.”
“Do you love him back?” That’s the fastest Ryan has responded since his second beer.
I sigh heavily. Do I? “I’d throw myself in front of a bus to push him out of the way.” If it would save him. If it would make him happy.
That’s love, right?
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“I’d do that for most people, but it
doesn’t mean that I love them.”
“Oh.” Oh. Then I have no idea what love is.
“What other things?” he prods.
Other things? Oh yeah, Ryan asked why
Isaiah is mad at me. I shake my head back and forth, causing the straw to crackle. “You wouldn’t understand. My problems…” My
mom. “My family isn’t perfect. We have
problems.”
Ryan chuckles and sips his beer.
I rise on my elbows. “What’s so damn
funny?”
Ryan tilts back the beer and I watch his
throat move as he swallows. He crushes the empty can in his hand. “Perfect. Family.
Problems. Gay brothers.”
We’re obviously not talking about me and
Isaiah anymore. “You’re drunk.”
“Good.” Even inebriated, the ache I saw
earlier while he was carrying me out of the Jeep darkens his eyes.
“Is that why you got defensive with the
football asshole?” I ask. “Because you have a gay brother?”
Ryan tosses the can near the other empty
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ones and rubs his eyes. “Yes. And if you
don’t mind, I’d prefer not to talk about it. Or talk at all.”
“Fine.” I can do silence. My arms fall over my head as I plop back onto the straw. Isaiah would let me talk. I could rattle on about anything…ribbons and dresses, and he’d
placate me when I questioned whether I was too harsh with Noah. Sometimes I think about what life would be like if I gave Echo a break.
I mean, she does make Noah happy and Isaiah likes her. Sometimes she’s cool.
“You’re talking,” says Ryan. “In fact, you’ve been talking since you finished your first beer.”
I blink and close my mouth, not having
realized that I had verbalized a thing.
A black bird flaps its wings overhead,
creating a shadow on the ceiling. Images of a deadly archangel coming to destroy us all enter my mind. The bird grows more agitated and the other birds fly to a beam on the opposite side of the barn. He takes off into the air and smacks the wall, dips down, flies across the barn, and rams into the opposite wall. My heart thunders with every hit. I watch with wide eyes and shaking hands. “We have to help him.”
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I jump up and stumble toward the barn
door. Struggling for balance, I force one of the doors open with a loud creak. I lean against the frame and wait for the bird that’s damaging itself over and over again to escape. “Go! Get out of here!”
“Shut the door,” Ryan says. “Birds are
stupid. If you want it out, you’re going to have to trap it and drag it out.”
I gesture wildly into the open night. “But the door is open!”
“And the bird’s so panicked that it’ll never see the opening. All you’re doing is inviting your uncle to come in here and find us. Unless you’re ready to go home, close the door.”
The bird smacks itself into the wall again and flutters to a nearby beam. He ruffles his feathers over and over again, then finally draws in his wings to rest. My stomach rolls in torture. Why can’t the bird see the way out?
“Who’s Echo?” asks Ryan.
“But the bird…” I say, ignoring his question.
“Doesn’t understand you’re trying to help. If anything, it sees you as a threat. Now, tell me, who’s Echo?”
I take a deep breath and close the door. I
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want the bird to find freedom, but I’m not ready to go back to Scott’s. Thanks to my impaired state, I half walk, half trip back to my bed of straw. Damn bird. Why can’t something be easy? “Noah’s girlfriend.”
“That’s a screwed-up name,” he says.
I giggle. “She’s a screwed-up girl.” I stop giggling and remember how Noah looked at
her: as if she was the only person on the planet, the only person that mattered. “But Noah loves her.”
That must be love: when everything else in the world could implode and you wouldn’t care as long as you had that one person standing beside you. Isaiah has it all wrong. For many reasons. He doesn’t love me. He can’t. For starters, he doesn’t look at me like Noah does Echo. Besides, I’m not worthy of that type of love.
The bird hides its head under its wing. I understand that feeling of wishing the world would go away. If I had wings, I’d hide
underneath them too.
“It’s just a bird, Beth. It’ll find its way out eventually.”
Something deep and dark and heavy inside
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me tells me it won’t. The poor bird will die in this damn barn and will never see blue sky again.
Straw rustles and Ryan drops beside me,
stirring dust into the air. He clumsily rolls onto his side to face me. His warm body touches mine and his eyes have a strange intensity.
“Don’t do that.”
My heart trips over itself. Ryan kept his hat off and I like it more than I should. His hair kicks out crazily in the back and it gives a boyish charm to a face that belongs to a man.
“Do what?” I ask, ashamed that my voice
comes out a little breathless.
His eyebrows inch closer together and he
moves his hand near my face. He stops and so does my breathing. Ryan stares at my lips and then caresses my cheek.
“You do that a lot.” His finger slides steadily to the tip of my mouth. My skin tingles under his touch. “Look sad. I hate it. Your mouth turns down. Your cheeks lose all color. You lose everything about you that makes
you…you.”
I lick my lips and I swear he watches. His finger pauses before tracing another teasing
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path across my cheek. My pulse quickens
and heat spreads through my body. His
touch—oh God—feels good. And I want good.
So much.
But I don’t want him. At least, I don’t think so. “Are you stalking me?”
His lips burst into a bright smile and he withdraws his hand. “Welcome back.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Ryan does it again—his smile. The one that makes my stomach flip.
“I like you,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow. He must have snorted
some crack earlier, or maybe he’s doing that steroid crap. What do they call it? Juicing.
Yeah. The kid is definitely juicing. And drunk.
“You like me?”
He shakes his head and it’s a strange clumsy mix of yes and no at the same time. Ryan is sloshed. “I don’t know. The way you talk. The way you act. I know what I’m going to get from you, but then I don’t. I mean, you’re unpredictable, yet I know whatever reaction you’re going to give me is real, you know?”
Officially cutting him off, I slide the few remaining beers from him and conceal them in
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the hay while trying to keep his eyes on me.
His declaration of “like” has placed him in the category of beyond intoxicated and there’s no way I can lug him home. “You mean you like knowing that our conversations will end with me telling you to go fuck yourself?”
He laughs. “Exactly.”
“You’re weird.”
“So are you.”
He has me there.
“Is there anything you don’t pierce?” Ryan stares at my belly button. My shirt must have ridden up, exposing the red jewel dangling on my stomach. On my sixteenth birthday, Isaiah paid for my belly button piercing. At seventeen he paid for the tattoo. Both times he came up with the “consent.” Isaiah is crafty like that.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Ryan’s eyes flash to mine and I see he
understands the innuendo. I laugh when his cheeks turn red. “What are you, Ryan?”
“Did you just ask
what
I am?”
I nod. “Why would a jock be holed up with me in a barn, drinking beer, when he could be screwing half the female population at school?
You aren’t fitting the profile.”
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His eyes search my face and he ignores
my question. “What’s your tattoo mean?”
“It’s a reminder.” It means freedom.
Something I’ll never have. My destiny was built for me before I sucked in my first breath.
“You’re doing it again,” says Ryan. And he touches me again. This time on my stomach, yet his eyes hold mine. His finger lightly explores the edges of the jeweled ring. Tickling me. Entrancing me. Taking my haze higher.
And that’s exactly where I want to go—higher.
“What would you say, Ryan, if I said I didn’t want to be alone?”
His fingers slip to my side and his warm
palm clings to the curve of my waist, inching me and my body slowly toward heaven. “I’d say I don’t want to be alone either.”
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THE LANTERN LIGHT FLICKERS, creating
shadows over Beth’s face. There’s no
mistaking the suggestion in her smoky-blue eyes or the invitation of her fingertips as they trace the curve of my biceps. With her black hair sprawled out against the golden hay, she reminds me of a modern-day version of Snow White—lips as red as roses, skin as white as snow.
Would a kiss bring Beth to life? Tonight
she’s shown me brief flashes of the girl hidden behind the facade. Maybe I can draw her out more. Maybe if I kiss her…no, not kiss. I’m no prince and this isn’t a fairy tale.
Attempting to find sanity, I rub my head.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Yes.” No. The thoughts in my brain crest and dip like waves in the ocean. Each thought
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harder to hold on to than the one before.
“It’s all right.” Beth’s voice becomes
smooth, as if she’s casting a spell. “You’re thinking too much. Just relax.”
“We should talk,” I say in a rush before the thought drifts away, but my hand draws
another lazy circle on her stomach. Her
muscles come alive under my touch, a shudder of pleasure, and I crave to please her.
“No, we shouldn’t,” she answers. “Talking is overrated.”
And I nod in agreement, but the thought
floats back to the surface: we should talk. I’ve fought it all night; hell, I’ve fought it since I met her, but I like it when Beth talks because she becomes real—she becomes more. I like more. I like her.
What I really like is how her smooth skin glows in the lantern light, how soft it feels against my fingers. Beth licks her lips again and my head tilts in expectation. Her mouth glistens now and I memorize the perfect shape while imagining her lips brushing against mine.
The hay rustles beneath Beth as she lifts her head. My senses are flooded with the scent of
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roses.
“Kiss me,” she says.
Just one kiss and her black spell, the one that she’s woven, the one that’s constantly
weighing her down, will be broken.
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MY TANK RIDES UP further when Ryan strokes the bare flesh of my stomach. He angles closer to me and I’m immediately overwhelmed by
the size of his body. My blood tingles with excitement. “You’re soft,” he whispers.
I knot my fingers in his hair, guiding his head to mine. “You talk too much.”
“I do,” he agrees and his lips finally meet mine.
It’s an innocent kiss at first. Soft lips meeting; a gentle pressure that creates a slow burn. The type of kiss you give to someone that means something. This isn’t the type of kiss to be wasted on me. But still, I prolong it by taking his lower lip into mine and I touch his smooth face.
For this one second, I’ll feel. I’ll let myself pretend that Ryan cares for me. That I’m the
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girl worthy of this type of kiss, and right as I sense the emotion becoming stronger, gaining traction, I break away.
Ryan swallows and stares down at me. I
press my lips to his innocently one last time, then slide my tongue between his lips. Sparks sizzle in the air as we immediately part our mouths, hungry for more. It’s a lightning storm of fiery kisses and sounds of bliss. Each of us feeds off the other, only building a greater storm—a thunderhead on the verge of
explosion.
My hands roam over his back, clawing for
the hem of his shirt, eager to explore the glorious muscles underneath. Ryan follows my lead and picks up the pace. Cooler air pricks at my back as he sweeps an arm beneath me and pulls my tank over my head.