“Didn’t realize you’re into the whole tag-team thing.” His voice is flat, apathetic.
I focus on remaining still. On breathing.
“Is that what you and all the drama geeks get up to backstage? You find a nice quiet spot behind the curtains and get yourself good and fucked?”
I want to say something scathing, like I’m surprised that’s not his thing, since his dad was into threesomes back when he was Kodiak’s age. Although, the version of Kodiak’s dad I know is a really good guy, and doesn’t seem like the type who would bang two girls in a hot tub. However, there’s a really, really old video floating around on the internet that proves it’s true.
There are also about a thousand pictures of my dad with his tongue in different women’s mouths. Apparently he didn’t sleep with all the puck bunnies, he just made out with them in public. Including my mom. Having a famous parent can be a real pain in the ass, and far more informative than is normal.
My throat is tight, and anything I say is going to come out a pathetic whisper, if at all. So instead, I clench my fists to keep from fidgeting and try not to focus on Kodiak’s hurtful words, or the memories being close to him incite.
“You got words for everyone else, but none for me?” he taunts.
I stare straight ahead, unwilling to look at his horrible, beautiful face. I weigh my response before I speak, trying to inject some steel into my spine, so it doesn’t come out a weak whisper. “Why would I give you my words when all you do is twist them into something ugly?”
“Still living in the past?” Real emotion hides under his ire, a waver in his voice that I recognize: anxiety.
I let the things I want to say sit on my tongue like bitter pills and finally ask, “Why are you doing this?”
“To remind you nothing has changed, Lavender,” he grinds out.
The boy I used to love never would’ve embarrassed me or talked down to me like this. And his current actions prove that what happened two years ago wasn’t a mistake. He meant to hurt me then, and he means to hurt me now.
He pulls into the driveway, and I yank on the door handle, but it doesn’t open, because the child locks are still engaged. “I hate you.” I spit the words like nails.
He leans over the center console until he’s so close, his face is clear and beautiful and so, so hideous in its perfection. His pale green eyes burn with emotions I don’t understand, and the flecks of gold shine like refracted sunshine. “I don’t believe that. Otherwise you wouldn’t have gotten into this car with me.”
I can feel his humid, minty breath on my lips.
He drapes his arm across the back of my seat, and his fingertips brush my neck. I jerk back and slap his hand away.
Kodiak frowns and grabs my wrist, prying my fist open.
I hate the way my body responds to the contact, a shiver working its way down my spine, soothing but igniting at the same time.
“What the fuck?” He twists my hand so I can see what he does. “You really haven’t changed at all, have you?” There’s something in his voice that doesn’t quite match, an emotion I can’t put my finger on—maybe because he’s touching me and I hate it as much as I crave it.
Four crescent-shaped marks line my palm, and I’m mortified all over again when thin lines of blood well from the fresh cuts. I yank my hand away. “Let me out.” It’s barely a whisper.
“Lavender.” Dismay lurks in my name.
I find my voice, finally, and its strength is fueled by my anger. “Let me out. Now.”
“I should’ve known better,” he gripes and hits the unlock button.
I throw the door open and clamber out, slinging my backpack over my shoulder.
Kodiak cuts the engine and gets out of the car, calling my name again.
I give him the bird without looking back. He doesn’t deserve any more of my words.
Chapter Three
Too Far
Kodiak
Present day, age 21
LAVENDER STALKS UP the stairs to the front porch, jabs in the code, and disappears inside the house. The door slams behind her.
She leaves a bloody smear on the doorknob.
I glance down at the back of my hand, also streaked with her blood. It takes me back to when we were kids and makes my stomach turn.
Instead of acting like a normal human being, I humiliated her. Again.
Publicly this time.
And she took it out on herself.
Nothing ever changes with Lavender. Except that’s not entirely true. She’s definitely not a gawky, gangly teenager anymore. That much is obvious.
I scrub my face and debate my options, which are limited. I knew this was coming. Just before high school, my family moved across the country. Since then, I’ve spent more than half a decade avoiding every possible situation in which I might inadvertently run into Lavender. It was easier when we weren’t living on the same street, going to the same school. And I was managing fine, until the holidays two years ago when she showed up drunk, dressed like goddamn Wonder Woman.
At the time, I’d stupidly thought I could handle seeing her after years of nothing. I’d obviously been wrong. The last time I’d seen her—prior to the Wonder Woman fiasco—she’d been a middle schooler, and I’d been on the verge of starting high school. A lot changes between the ages of twelve and seventeen, and that was extra true for Lavender.
It was my only huge slipup in all those years. But I never fully recovered from it—obviously still haven’t, considering I just drove her home and made her feel like shit because I can’t control my mouth.
For years, I managed to have something important to do during get-togethers with the Waters. I’d cry anxiety, skip the dinner/family/social garbage, and tell my mom I had to study, or a paper was due. I found ways to spend time with Maverick without subjecting myself to Lavender. It was better that way—for both of us, but mostly for her.
My mom knew there was something else going on. She always knows. And because everyone believes Lavender is fragile like glass, she let me get away with it. Until two years ago. The aftermath from that was a downward spiral that took months to come out of. Thankfully, I was in college already, away from home, so I could mostly wallow in my own self-loathing without parental observation.
There’s no avoiding Lavender anymore, though. Not with her living in the same house as my best friend, away from her parents.
I’d grown complacent with time, secure in my self-control. But today is a reminder of exactly what I’m facing again, and it pisses me off. I don’t need this bullshit—her weakness, her dependency on everyone around her.
She’s going to be there every time I turn around, with those blue eyes and those pouty lips. A constant reminder of all the ways I’ve fucked up. It’s a nightmare.
I’m betting River is the reason she’s here. I know twins have a thing, but the way he is with her is borderline psychotic—more so than the way things used to be with her and me. And that was pretty messed up.
I don’t have the energy to deal with more of Lavender, so I grab my hockey equipment from the trunk of her car and slip the keys in the mail slot. Then I walk to the house three doors down, where I live with Quinn Romero, one of my fellow hockey teammates, and BJ Ballistic. Our fathers have been friends our entire lives, and it made sense for them to pool resources and buy a house for us to live in while we’re here.