“…and so I was thinking I could be a sexy angel? But like, a devil’s angel, because when I die, I doubt I’m going to heaven,” she says with a laugh.
“Why would you say that?” I know for a fucking fact I’m not going to heaven, but I have my reasons. None of them I’d share with her.
She leans in close, pressing her forehead to mine. “I’m not a nice person, Summer. Haven’t you realized that by now? I’m spoiled and mean. Over-indulged and dumb. I’m not going to amount to anything in this world, but the bar is set pretty low, so what would anyone expect?”
I blink at her, taking in her words. They don’t feel like anything she’d think about herself. “Who told you that?” I whisper.
Sylvie pulls away from me, her eyes gleaming with approval, like she wanted to shock me. “The woman who birthed me, of course. She hates me. I have serious middle child syndrome, haven’t you noticed?”
“If she hates you so much, why does she take you to the doctor all the time, looking for the cure to your mystery ailments?” I ask, genuinely wanting to know.
“She’s not looking for the cure, Summer,” Sylvie practically drawls, glancing toward the window. “She’s trying to kill me so she doesn’t have to deal with me any longer.”
A gasp leaves me and she turns her head, her eyes narrowed into slits. “Don’t act all surprised. Isn’t it obvious? Whit is the golden child. The only boy. The heir apparent to the massive Lancaster fortune. And then there’s Carolina. The tiny dancer. She’ll become world renowned, queen of the ballet. She’s already on her way. Everyone adores her.”
“Sylvie.” My voice is a harsh whisper and I scoot closer to her, not wanting anyone to overhear us. “You don’t believe your mother is really—”
“You’re right, I don’t,” she interrupts, laughing so loud, she sends Miss Taylor into shushing fits. “I just wanted to see your reaction when I said it. Though I really do suffer from middle child syndrome. No one gives a shit about me. They never really have.”
I blink at her, trying to process what she said, what it all means. If she’s being serious or not. “Your brother cares about you.”
“Because he has to,” she retorts, watching me carefully. “You’ve accomplished something major, you know that right?”
I rear back from her, frowning. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve earned the approval from not just one, but two Lancasters.” When my frown deepens, she continues, “Me and Whit.”
“Whit doesn’t approve of me,” I say quickly.
“He approves enough to sneak you into his room.” Her smile is knowing. I’m sure she’s seen me.
“It’s nothing,” I tell her. “Meaningless.”
“He’s just using you?” she asks, raising her brows.
“We’re using each other,” I correct.
“Whit doesn’t attach himself to the same girl more than once. Twice, and usually that’s by mistake. He’s very much a one and done kind of guy,” Sylvie says. “Not that I pay too much attention to my brother’s sex life, because ew. But I do know what’s going on, because I can’t help but see it. And what’s going on between you and my brother? Is not the norm for him.”
“He treats me like garbage most of the time when we’re together,” I mumble, feeling stupid for even admitting it.
Whit won’t be happy that I’m talking about him to his sister either.
“He treats everyone like garbage. Including me,” Sylvie says. “Don’t take it too personally.”
Easy for her to say. I take everything Whit says and does personally, especially lately.
“I’m just a habit. I scratch his itch, so to speak.” My cheeks grow warm and I clamp my lips shut. I should quit while I’m ahead.
Sylvie giggles. “He must have a freaking rash then, because you’re scratching his itch on a regular basis.”
I wad up a piece of paper and toss it at her. Laughing, she bats it away. Miss Taylor shushes us, even says Sylvie’s name, but we ignore her.
When you’re with a Lancaster, you can ignore everyone.
Friday night and everyone’s at the football field—our last home game of the season. I don’t go, because there’s still no one for me to sit with. I haven’t made any friends beyond Sylvie, and I’m okay with that. Sylvie hates football, so she doesn’t go to the games. I think she does it on purpose. Spencer plays football so she stays away and it drives him crazy.
Their interactions make no sense to me, but I have zero room to talk, considering the fucked-up supposed relationship I have with Whit. So I say nothing.
It’s none of my business anyway.
There’s a soft knock on my door around eight-thirty and I climb off my bed, ready to answer it when the door swings open.
Whit stands in the doorway, watching me. He braces his hands on the doorframe, leaning away from the door and remaining in the hall. For anyone to see.
“Get in here,” I whisper-hiss.
“You gave me permission,” he says as if he needs to remind me, his tone nonchalant as he strolls into my room, slamming the door behind him.
I stay rooted in place, not moving when he walks right up to me, so close, his shoes brush against my toes. “Why are you here?”
“Why am I always here?” He reaches for me, his arm going around my waist, his hand sliding to my butt and pulling me into him, but I resist, desperate to keep space between our bodies. “What the fuck, Savage?”
“I’m not in the mood.” I rip myself out of his grip and return to my bed, tugging the covers over most of my body.
“You’re not in the mood?” He actually scoffs. “Please. Don’t pout. It’s not a good look for you.”
“I’m on my period,” I tell him, which is a lie. I had it last week. And the one night we were together when it was at its heaviest, I gave him a blow job and that was it. Not like he protested. He loves nothing more than having my lips wrapped around his dick.
He studies me, his expression fierce as he slowly approaches my bed. “So if I slipped my hand in your panties, I’d encounter blood?”
I roll my eyes. “I use a tampon, asshole.”
“Right, so I’d find that little string then?” He lifts a brow.
He has way too much knowledge of the female body. This should bother me. But I can’t judge him for his past sexual conquests, just like he can’t judge me for what I’ve done.
“It’s my first day,” I tell him, wanting to gross him out. “Heavy flow and all. You don’t want to risk it.”
“Risk what?” He sounds genuinely interested.
I make a face. “It’s really heavy.”
If he tries to dive beneath my panties, he’s going to find nothing. And he might be pissed that I’m lying.
“I’m curious though,” he says.
“You’re also gross.”
“It’s a natural bodily function.” He shrugs. “Are you freaked out by the sight of blood?”
“Of course not. I bleed out of my vagina on a monthly basis,” I retort.