I stare down into his eyes. “You still want me?” I whisper.

  He nods, his mouth hanging open as he breathes hard. “God, yes.”

  I linger, rolling my hips and taunting him, but he’s ready to go. He dives behind me, reaching for the glove box, and I kiss his neck and trail up his jaw and to his temple.

  But then he goes still, and eventually, I stop kissing.

  Looking behind me, I see his hand clutching a condom box upside down. As if it’s empty.

  He throws it down onto the floor and shuffles through the contents of the glove box, looking for a condom that must’ve spilled out. Papers and napkins and tools I don’t recognize slide onto the floor, but when he stops, he’s still empty-handed. Nothing.

  He has nothing. No protection.

  I tense. “There were two left,” I tell him.

  He glances up at me, a pained look in his eyes. He swipes his hand through the compartment again in vain.

  I drop my arms from his body. “Trace…”

  He shoots up, letting his head fall back and locking his hands on top. “Shit,” he murmurs to the roof.

  My stomach drops a little. We were together three days ago. He had two condoms left in that box. His brothers don’t use this truck.

  I try to catch his eyes, but he won’t look at me. “Are you serious?”

  Without waiting for him to answer, I climb off, plopping back into my seat and setting the knife down.

  “Come on,” Trace says in a gentle voice. “Please don’t be mad, Krisjen.”

  He reaches for my hand, but I take it away, buttoning my shirt the couple of notches I undid earlier to look like sexy serial killer bait on the dark road in the middle of nowhere.

  He hesitates, but the mood is gone. He zips up his fly and fastens his belt, our little role-play switching back to reality. I’m eighteen again, graduated and no longer in Catholic school, and he’s twenty, trying not to make an enemy out of one of his sister’s best friends, because he knows he’ll be running into me a lot in life.

  “Please don’t make me feel bad,” he says softly. “I didn’t think you were exclusive to me, either. You’re not in love with me, are you? I’m an idiot.”

  I close my eyes but almost laugh, because he is an idiot.

  And I’m not in love with him.

  But now I can’t lie to myself anymore. I am absolutely not special to him. I’m probably just the only one who texted back tonight.

  I did like him, though. He goes along with my role-playing fantasies where I overpower someone trying to overpower me.

  I bow my head, rubbing my tired eyes.

  “Krisjen, seriously.” He takes my hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think we were like that.”

  “Don’t apologize,” I tell him, pulling my hand back. It just makes me feel more pathetic. “You’re right. We’re not getting married.”

  I meet his eyes, saying his name in my head. Trace Jaeger.

  And Milo Price. My ex-boyfriend. The two men I’ve slept with.

  I always thought it would be only one. When I was twelve, I imagined my true-love experience would be passionate kisses on seaside cliffs as my dress blew in the wind. He would be a poet. And secretly a duke. With a castle. Like, I literally thought that’s what would happen, because I had lofty ideas and never figured in my desperation for attention.

  But that’s not what happened. I was a sophomore, invited with some friends to junior prom, which ended at a party where I gave it up to my boyfriend on a stranger’s bed, and it was all over in eleven minutes.

  I’ve slept with two men.

  And counting.

  Trace won’t be the last.

  “Other guys will do what you do to me,” I murmur.

  “Exactly like me?”

  “Probably harder.”

  He snorts, sitting back in his seat. “Well, you know you can still come over when you need a break from your future husband five or ten years from now. When you need it good and dirty.”

  He’s trying to make me smile, but I don’t. I look out the window instead. Ten years from now…God, will I still need him in order to feel alive?

  An image flashes in my head, but almost immediately I realize it’s not my mother. It’s me. With her hair. In her clothes. In her life.

  He tries to take my hand. “Come here.”

  I resist.

  “Come here,” he whispers.

  But gently, I pull my hand away before he can take it.

  Trace is a people pleaser. He hates anyone being mad at him. Comes from years of dodging four older brothers who are all tornadoes.

  Macon, Army, Iron, and Dallas.

  His sister, Liv, dates my best friend, Clay, but Liv is pretty calm compared to the rest of the Jaegers. Which I’m sure also comes from years of dodging five older brothers who are all tornadoes. She loves them all, though.

  Their parents died within two months of each other more than eight years ago. The oldest, Macon, was forced to leave the military to come home and raise his siblings. Trace’s older brothers are pretty much his only memories.

  “We could go on a date,” he says. “You have my money.”

  “You mean your allowance?” I pluck the folded bills out of my breast pocket—a twenty on the outside and, knowing him, it’s probably a one on the inside. I hand it back before pulling my underwear on.

  He returns the bills to his pocket. “I’m a man who makes his own living, thank you.”

  Mm-hm. “I’m not letting you take me on a date out of guilt.”

  “Well, I’m still up for sex, too,” he adds, flashing his adorable smile. “I mean, this was all your idea, and you got me pretty worked up.” He gestures to the hard-on in his jeans. “The part where you robbed me was pretty hot.”

  I force a frown, but only because I’m mad that I want to smile. He’s trying hard to make me feel better, and for some reason, I feel an urge to let him know his effort is appreciated.

  Turns out, I’m a people pleaser, too.

  “I was trying to be tough like your sister and Clay,” I mumble, teasing.

  I thought I was doing well, but now, I don’t know.

  He touches my face. “I’m glad you’re not violent,” he says quietly. “I like that you’re soft with people. Don’t change that.”

  It’s nice of him to say, but being that way doesn’t seem to work out for me. Being gentle just makes me an easy target.

  “Don’t change, okay?”

  Yeah, okay. Whatever.

  “Just take me to your house.” I push up my sleeves and fasten my seat belt. “I need to pick up my car.”

  “Krisjen…”

  “It’s fine, Trace.” I don’t look at him. “We’re not a couple. We never were.”

  I lied to myself. I did it to myself.

  I’m pretty sure I was officially a booty call from the start. One night last spring I followed Clay across the tracks into Sanoa Bay, the original settlement of St. Carmen.

  Officially, we’re all St. Carmen now, but the Bay—where Trace and his family live—doesn’t like to hear that. They’re possessive of their land, and they want to rule separately.

  They’re wild.

  We hide everything.

  They’re poor.

  We’re not.

  They’re Swamp.

  We’re Saints.

  Clay fell in love with Liv, the bad girl from the wrong side of town, and I fell into insanity with one of that bad girl’s brothers.

  But it was never love like it was for Liv and Clay. Trace doesn’t think of me after I leave his bed, and if I’m being fair, I don’t think much of myself, either.

  He turns the key, starting the engine, and in a moment, he’s pulling onto the road and heading left, toward the swamps.

  We cruise past the gates of my house, and I glance to see the upstairs lights still off before Trace turns right onto the dark lane and then takes a another left, across the bridge and over the wetlands.

  I take out my phone and DM my brother.

  Running to the Bay to grab my car. Be back soon.

  Marshall is almost thirteen. He usually has his headphones on so he won’t hear Paisleigh if she wakes up.

  A text rolls in. How did you know I had the old iPad?

  I laugh to myself. Because you’re smart, like me.

  I took all of his tech when I put them both to bed two hours ago, but I didn’t ask for the one device he thought was still a secret. Maybe I should have. If my parents had been stricter with my bedtimes, maybe I’d be in college right now like all my friends.

  But I also know Mars is going to do what he wants to do. I’m strict enough that he knows I care about him getting a good night’s sleep, but not so strict that all he learns is how to hide from me. There will be bigger battles than iPads and cell phones.

  If he’s anything like me.

  Love you. Give Jason a hug for me.

  Leave my pillow alone, he fires back.

  I laugh out loud, and I see Trace look at me out of the corner of my eye. My brother has a pillow with Jason Momoa’s face on it. It’s a good-looking pillow.

  My phone vibrates with a text. And nice flowers, Mars taunts. Mom dug them out of the trash.

  And I promptly threw them back in, I tap out my reply. Good night. Sleep tight. I love you.

  I tuck my phone back in my pocket, turning the volume up on Trace’s radio as he speeds me away from those white roses in the garbage at my house.

  I love getting flowers, but not from strange men.

  I’m tempted to reach out to my father and grandparents to let them know that my mother is trying to marry me off, but I’m not sure they’d care.

  And I’m not asking my father for anything. He doesn’t want to support his family, so I don’t think he’ll care that my mom is trying to find a way to do it instead by making me marry someone rich.

  Droplets of rain spatter the windshield, but I crack my window, inhaling the scent of the wind. The gentle lights of St. Carmen and the soft glow of the gas lamps on Main Street disappear in my sideview mirror as Trace exits the overpass. We bounce over the tracks, the road turning pebbly and loud under the tires as he coasts into the wild landscape of the Bay.

  Old shacks that have been here for a hundred years serve the area’s best gumbo and fresh seafood, and we pass unkept land, the dark porches of hidden houses just peeking through the brush.

  I rub my hands together in my lap.

  There’s a part of me that’s asleep until I come here. Maybe it’s the heat, which I feel just a little bit more, or maybe it’s the land, chaotic and overridden as if the trees are trying to take it back.

  Over hundreds of years, Seminoles and Spaniards claimed, fought, lived, warred, and then eventually built together.

  And when more Europeans came and wanted the swamp and the beautiful views of the sea, the Bay became one nation unto themselves—one wall against the world.

  Communities stop working together over time once they no longer have to, but the Bay is unique. After five hundred years, they’re still fighting to survive. That one common goal has kept them together.

  St. Carmen has passion, too, but it’s not nearly as fun.

  Trace speeds down the dirt road, passing a few homes and businesses along the main street, and then swings the car around in a U-turn, pulling up in front of his house. Half a dozen trucks and other vehicles are parked outside, the downstairs lights illuminating the windows.

  We hop out, and I look next to the fence, seeing my Rover still parked where I left it.

  “Son of a bitch!” someone bellows from inside the house. “I could’ve been killed!”

  I inhale a deep breath. Iron Jaeger. One of Trace’s older brothers. I know his voice by process of elimination. He’s the only one I rarely hear yell, and I know all the others’ voices. If it were Macon, the oldest, I’d probably just turn around and leave.

  Guys come barreling out the front door, running down the walk and out into the rainy dirt road. Their girlfriends wait by the cars, laughing and shielding themselves from the weather.

  Music inside makes the house vibrate as the Seminole flag blows over the garage door. Ivy and moss climb the exterior of the ancient pink stucco of the dilapidated Spanish mission-style mansion, and I inhale like I always do, because you can eat the air here.

  Stepping through the arch of the heavy wooden front door, I hear one of the shutters on the second or third floor flapping against the house. Screams pierce the air, and I wince as more people rush toward me.

  I leap, Trace pulling me into his arms and out of the way. The music cuts off as they squeeze past me, out the door.

  “What the hell is going on?” I mumble.

  But Army Jaeger, the second-oldest, answers instead. “An alligator slithered into the pool.”

  He pulls on a T-shirt. His black hair is soaked, drops of water sliding over the giant octopus tattoo that spills over his shoulder and onto the left side of his chest. I used to think he rarely wore a shirt because he knew how good he looked without one, but I eventually figured out that he simply liked to save time. When his brothers aren’t causing him enough trouble, he’s taking care of his infant son. At twenty-eight, he’s the only one with a kid.

  “Iron fell in when we tried to haul it out,” he adds.

  Of course he did. One of the Jaegers is always on the verge of getting killed.

  “Is everyone okay?” I ask.

  But he just waves me off, grabbing a baseball bat from behind the coatrack. His short dark hair gleams with water. “Yeah, just keep your eyes peeled. We lost it, but it could be hanging around. We’re going to search for it.”

  Awesome. I look over, seeing Iron throw back his beer, muscles tense and his clothes soaking wet. His black hair is slicked back. He started growing it out this summer, and his tan is still deep everywhere I can see. The vein in the side of his neck bulges underneath a tattoo.

  But then another Jaeger steps up. “Great,” Dallas says in a snide tone. “Trace calls, you come running.”

  Dallas’s green eyes are always looking at me like he’s imagining me on fire.

  I turn my attention back to the remnants of the party and the damage in the living room. “We drove, actually.”

  Trace lets out a chuckle and tosses a flashlight to his brother. “Be careful.”

  Dallas takes it, pushing his hair back over the top of his head and slipping on a ball cap. He’s a year older than Trace. Twenty-one. And he doesn’t like me.

  He doesn’t like me a lot.

  Army, Iron, Dallas, and Trace. That’s four.

  Army’s infant son, Dex, bawls upstairs.

  “Why’s that kid still up?” Dallas barks.

  “Because y’all are too fucking loud,” his father growls, heading out the door.

  A girl calls after him. “Army, seriously. Should I wait in Liv’s old room or what?”

  I look over at the half ponytail on top of her head and the bright red lipstick that matches her tight skirt and shirt. I cross my arms over my chest, covering the paint stain from helping Paisleigh with her art earlier tonight.

  But Army just tells her, “Stay out of my sister’s room.”

  He bolts through the door with Dallas as Iron starts to follow, swallowing down the rest of his bottle.

  “How are you?” I ask him.

  He doesn’t look at me, just shakes his head and sighs as he sets the beer down.

  My grandfather is the district judge who always seems to have Iron in his courtroom for one arrest or another. Breaking and entering, theft, and, most recently…assault. Iron loves to get into fistfights. Something he still hasn’t grown out of at twenty-four years old.

  Unfortunately, his luck ran out this summer. His last arrest resulted in bail, a court date, and finally a plea bargain. He’ll serve time. He has to surrender in a week.

  I’m not responsible, but I also feel like I shouldn’t be in his house.

  “Iron, you coming?” Dallas calls out.

  Iron casts me a look, his eyes softening with the hint of a smile. An hourglass with a snake wrapped around it is inked on the side of his neck, and several more tattoos cover his body. I’ve never looked at length, but I know he has a palm tree with Sanoa Bay’s latitude and longitude on his forearm, and a huge alligator on the bottom left of his back.

  He shrugs. “Nothing better to do, I guess, right?”

  I half smile back, always liking him. Maybe even more than Trace. Iron is completely different around women and children. I once saw him stop and park his motorcycle, take an old lady’s groceries, put them in his saddlebags, and drop them at her house so she wouldn’t have to carry them. It was kind of funny, because she thought he was stealing them at first and tried to hit him. Now, they’re on a first-name basis, and she has him run her husband and his wheelchair to physical therapy for her once in a while. Not on the motorcycle, of course.

  Engines start up outside as Iron, Dallas, and Army leave. Trace stays behind, and I have no idea where Macon is, but the garage was closed when I got here. If he’s home, that’s where he is.

  No parents.

  Just five brothers.

  All in the same house.

  I think some of them want to move out, but they wouldn’t know what to do without each other on a daily basis.

  “Drink?”

  I glance at Trace as he twists off the tops of a couple of beers. The same hourglass with a snake wrapped around it rests against his skin, forged in iron, and secured with three thin leather bands around his right wrist. All of his brothers wear the same bracelet. It’s the Tryst Six family crest. Tryst after their mother, Trysta, and Six because there are six children. Not sure who came up with the name. I’m pretty sure they didn’t give it to themselves.

  Trace holds a bottle out to me. I hate beer. I’m sure I told him at some point.