"I didn't fuck her!" I shout, pushing him back.
"That's fucking clear, asshole, or you wouldn't be acting like this." Abel sneers at me, throwing his hands up. "I'm done. I'm over this. Fuck her, get her out of your system or hell, fucking date her. I don't care at this point. It's obvious you're obsessed with her, why the hell can't you just admit it?"
"Because we don't know who she is yet!" I yell. How the fuck can he think like this? "She's a fucking enigma." I turn and storm two feet away before pivoting back and pointing at him. "Why the fuck are they so interested in her? Does she know?"
"I don't think so," he replies, cooling visibly. He runs his hands through his hair, grabbing at a good sized chunk of it and gripping tightly as he thinks. "No, she can't know. If she knew then..." Then what? That is the question. How could we tell? We haven't been around her long enough. Two months—most of it spent watching her from afar—is not enough time.
"And that's my point," I state. "You can't be sure. None of us can."
He groans. "Fuck's sake, why the hell do you have to make everything in life so goddamn difficult?" he asks. "If you want her, take her. End of story. Who the fuck cares if she knows about them? Tie her ass down, spank her until she gives you the answers you want and then fuck her into a wall. If she betrays you, we'll make her pay. Don't fucking worry about that, but man, you've got to stop with this bullshit. Brax is pretty done with it. He likes her. Hell, I like her. I respect the fuck outta her. Knowing where she came from, the shit in her file. She shouldn't be nearly as strong as she acts. If anyone deserves a good fucking time, it's that girl.”
Everything he says is true. She's far stronger than she should be. There's a core of steel that's kept her sane throughout her years with Patricia Manning. The file on that woman had been twice as thick and even worse than what my own mind could've imagined, and that ... that was a scary fucking reality. Because I could, without a doubt, come up with some fucked up scenarios myself. The fact that she came through all of the shit in her childhood and not only is she brave and smart, but willing to stand up to guys like us, is more than worthy of respect. It's downright problematic. I'm not used to strong women. None of us are.
Gold diggers? Yeah, sure. They're a dime a dozen. Rich little princesses without a fucking brain in their heads? We see them every fucking day. But girls—women—like Avalon? They're a rarity.
I hate to admit it, but I don't want her for a good fucking time. If that were it, I would've fucked her ages ago. No, with her, I'm half fucking terrified that one night isn't going to cut it. I doubt it'll be enough.
While I'm arguing with myself, hating the truth in Abel's words, he takes a step towards me and clasps me on the shoulder with a shake of his head. "Just don't do anything stupid, man," he tells me. "Like it or not, we're in this house with her for a week and I don't want to have to deal with shit hitting the fan if she gets pissed off at you. I'll always back you, you have to know that—but when it comes to her ... things are a little bit different."
He leaves me like that, with those parting words, as he trudges back inside. And all I'm left with is a cavernous hole in my chest and confusion in my brain. To fuck her or not, that's the question. The answer, I have a feeling, will soon reveal itself, because no man—not even me—can resist temptation for long.
43
Avalon
My room in the Eastpoint Estate is the largest bedroom I've ever seen. Easily twice the size of my dorm room if not larger. The entire back wall is covered in a row of windows that overlook the ocean. I take a step towards it and pause when I notice the black plastic bags sitting on the king-sized bed that dominates one half of the room.
Curiosity has me walking towards it rather than immediately going to the windows, dumping my backpack on the floor, and reaching for the first bag. Inside is a collection of fabric. I reach into the mouth and pull out something silky; it takes my brain a moment to play catch up. It's not silk. It's a bathing suit. A dark navy blue one that might be conservative if it weren't for the fact that the entire back is missing, made up of only enough fabric to cover my ass and a string to keep the front in place. I dig back into the bag and find three more just like it—in varying styles and colors.
In bag number two, I find soft, beachy dresses and cover ups, and in bags three and four, I find more clothes—shorts, tank tops, and t-shirts. Funny enough, they're all perfectly matched to my size. That sneaky bastard, I think with a shake of my head.
I change out of my clothes and select a black and gray two piece with crisscrossing straps across my chest and back. After, I spend the next hour roaming the room and opening everything I can get my hands on. It still blows my mind that there are people in this world that have enough money not just for one nice home but dozens. Homes that they don't even use but one week out of a year. The closet is barren save for a few hangers, and the drawers are full of extra sheets, towels, and blankets. The bathroom has a deep jacuzzi tub and a separate walk in shower with white marble tiles across all three walls.
After an hour and no sign of Dean returning, I decide to give up on playing the good girl and head out. After all, I never promised that I'd stick around and wait for him. It's not my fault if he comes looking for me and I'm not there. I find my way back to the main floors of the mansion by following the sounds of people, and when I step back onto the main foyer, I realize that even more people have arrived.
Day one and spring break appears to be in full swing. Girls in bikinis much more risqué than my own and guys in board shorts race through the house, beers and Solo cups in hand. I don't know where the alcohol came from, but it seems like whoever planned for this knew they would need it in abundance. Interestingly enough, I don't spot a single staff member. No cooks. No maids. No butlers. Just a bunch of college kids wrecking some millionaire's vacation home as they get drunk and fuck on the banister of the upper stairwell.
I roll my eyes and head towards the back of the house. Stepping out into the sunlight is a wash of hot air and that same salty sea breeze, and if I ignore the people crowding around the pool and the guys to the side of it playing beer pong, the scene, alone, is quite beautiful. I'm drawn to the half wall of stones cutting the pool area off from the ocean and beach.
Glancing over, I see that it's actually not a half wall at all, but an extension of a cliff and beyond it is a full drop off. "Beautiful, isn't it?" A shadow falls over my side as an unfamiliar voice speaks.
Turning my head, I meet a pair of ice blue eyes. "Yeah, it is," I agree.
He sticks out a hand. "I'm Jeremy."
I look down at his hand and then back at his face. "Avalon."
When he realizes I'm not going to take his hand, he lowers it and grins sheepishly. "Sorry, didn't mean to bother you," he says. "Just thought it'd be nice to admire the view with somebody."
Tilting my head at the guy, I scan him from head to toe. He's not bad looking, with a fit physique and classic washboard abs, but it's clear he's not from Eastpoint. No one else from Eastpoint has had the balls to approach me, and I doubt any of them would risk the Sick Boys' wrath just to look at a view with me.