She goes to a really good school.

  I kiss her head. “Touché.”

  She continues drawing, and I ask Bateman, “Is she upstairs?”

  He nods, his eyes flashing toward the ceiling.

  I grab my phone and head up the staircase, that job at Mariette’s feeling like heaven right now.

  I scroll through my notifications as I head up, spotting a few pictures of Liv and Clay at breakfast this morning. I smile. Liv’s in town. I didn’t expect her back before the holidays. She went up north to Dartmouth for college. Clay loves her to death, but it’s really fucking cold up there, so Clay stayed home for school.

  But I think the real reason is that she’s reconnecting with her parents. Years ago, they lost her younger brother to leukemia. Now they’re divorcing, but it’s only made all of them closer. She doesn’t want to lose that.

  And I also see a follow request from Jerome Watson.

  I close my eyes, exiting out of social media.

  I pass my brother’s closed door and stop at the doorway of my mom’s bedroom as she comes out of her bathroom, dressed in a pretty white dress with short sleeves, a square neckline, and a tight fit around her body.

  It’s mine.

  She pops her head up, carrying some toiletries to an overnight bag. I guess she plans on being gone tonight, too.

  “Oh, you’re here,” she chirps. “Good. Sit down.”

  I shuffle to the chair at her vanity, seeing all her jewelry in a pile on top. What is she doing?

  “I’m taking your brother to church,” she tells me. “You come, too.”

  She hasn’t attended since my father left nearly a year ago. She wanted to avoid the stares and fake sympathy. I know why she’s going now.

  Jerome Watson will be there.

  “Why don’t you marry him?” I ask her.

  At forty years old, she’s only eight years older than him. They’re closer in age than he and I are.

  “Because I’m not having any more kids,” she retorts.

  And I’m certainly not having any anytime soon, either. “I’m not going to church. And I’m not accepting his friend request, so you can stop encouraging him.”

  She zips up the leather satchel, removes her glasses, and walks over, reaching around me to get her perfume. “He will make sure your brother and sister stay with me instead of your father and that paid-for piece of ass,” she bites out, not missing a beat. “He will make sure I don’t grow old in some assisted-living center surrounded by early bird specials and denture cream. He will secure the lifestyle you’ve always known. You’ll have everything, Krisjen.” She peers down at me, spraying a shot of Guerlain, and cocking an eyebrow. “You’re coming to church, and he’s going to bring you home. You may stop off for lunch, and then later in the week, you’ll invite him over for a barbecue, where you’ll laugh and play with your brother and sister and show him what a good girl you are before you present him with those caramelized onion, roast beef, and goat cheese focaccias you make so well.”

  She leans down, planting her hands on my armrests. I turn away as she gets in my face.

  “Then you’ll move on to a few dinners, where I will let him bring you home later and later and your dresses will get tighter and shorter, and then, finally, I will let you know when it’s time to let him seduce you, because he’s going to want a test-drive before he commits.”

  I fold my lips between my teeth to keep my chin from shaking.

  “You’re going to do what you have to, and you’re going to blow his mind, do you understand?”

  I swallow hard. I refuse to give her a fight.

  “Now, I’m not crazy,” she states. “I know I sound horrible, and when I was your age, I probably would’ve wanted to kill my mother for saying the things I’m saying to you, but that ‘follow your heart and persevere’ bullshit rarely works for most of us. You have to grow up and fuck people you don’t want to fuck, because there is one thing that’s worse on this planet, and that’s being poor. I guarantee, no matter how much you hate him, you’re going to hate Paisleigh growing up in the Vista View Apartments a lot more. We need you, do you understand?”

  Fuck…

  “You let Milo fuck you because you wanted a popular boyfriend.” She goes back to her bed and slips her feet into her heels. “May as well get some purses and shoes out of the next one.”

  Every muscle in my body tightens as she disappears into the bathroom again, and I get that fantasy of shoving everything I can into a backpack and hitchhiking out of here flashing through my mind. Anywhere. Seattle. Montana. Alaska.

  But I would never leave Paisleigh and Mars.

  I don’t want my parents to die, but sometimes I have other fantasies that include them mysteriously disappearing. Prayers or running away aren’t going to save me, though. I’ll just have to figure a way out of this. I’m smart.

  I leave her room, grab a quick shower, and change my clothes.

  I can’t be here today. I need my dad.

  If he would just pay her off and show up for his kids…He doesn’t even have to show up for me. I’m grown.

  They need him, though. If he acted fairly, I might have options.

  And the irony of that isn’t lost on me, either. Begging for one man to save me from another.

  No. I’ll figure it out. I need to think. And not in church.

  I jog downstairs and pick up a banana out of the fruit bowl. I wrap my arms around Paisleigh. “Wanna spend the day with me?”

  She nods quickly.

  I dig my wallet out of my backpack, grab the keys to my dad’s old car, and quickly sweep her into my arms.

  “Just get her clothes and lunch ready for school tomorrow and then you can go, okay?” I tell Bateman.

  He narrows his eyes. “Are you sure?” But he sounds a little excited by the prospect of an unexpected day off.

  “Yes.” And I practically run with Paisleigh out the door before my mother comes downstairs.

  I put my sister in the back seat of the Benz, strap her into the booster, and then unlock the top, putting it down on such a sunny day.

  “Yay!” She giggles. “And turn up the music!”

  “You got it, princess.” I start the car, my dad’s old cassette tape still in the player. Olivia Newton-John blasts over the speakers as we cruise to the only place I feel safe, shouting the lyrics as we cross the tracks.

  3

  Iron

  I enter the house, tossing my keys into the dish next to the door. I grunt at the semi-hard-on still going in my jeans. I fucking swear she was doing that on purpose. Pressing into me, holding on to me so tight, breathing on my neck…I almost ran a red light, not paying attention.

  Aracely stands in the living room, wiping down one of the end tables. She sees me, tosses down the cloth, and saunters up to me. The flyaways from her messy bun fan across her face, and her winged eyeliner makes her brown eyes look even sexier. She still kind of does it for me. Too bad she’s fucking crazy.

  “Did you slash her tires?” I ask.

  “Well, how else could you be the hero?” she coos. “Did she hold you nice and tight on the back of that bike like I used to do?”

  And then she strokes the can of furniture polish in her hand exactly like she used to…stroke me.

  I chuckle. I broke up with her when we were teenagers so I wouldn’t have to deal with her every day, yet here we are. “I used to think your antics were fun,” I tell her, “but then I turned eighteen and grew the fuck up.”

  “And yet you’re the one going to prison,” she shoots back, pulling out something from her back pocket. She holds up a pair of white cotton panties. “Found them in the couch.”

  “They’re not mine.”

  She reaches out, yanking me by the ear.

  “Ow!” I pull away. “Celli, dammit…”

  She gets in my face. “I would’ve expected something a little fancier for a St. Carmen girl.”

  She means Krisjen.

  She tosses the panties at me, and I catch them, firing back, “A St. Carmen girl knows it’s not the wrapper that sells the candy.”

  She scowls, walking away, and I can’t help but smile after her. I’m going to miss her.

  We pay her to clean up a couple of times a week, but I think she’d do it for free, honestly. She’s determined to be a part of this family.

  She’s already dated Dallas and me, but I have no doubt someone’s going to marry her eventually. Just not me. She’s way too possessive. Even six years after we’ve broken up.

  Although, I’m sure it’s more because I gave a Saint a ride home. The women in the Bay are territorial. They don’t like the rich girls coming over here and stealing their men. Even for a night.

  But, I wonder how wealthy Krisjen actually is. I don’t expect her to pay me for repairs. We’re friends. Kind of. But why wouldn’t she have the money? Something’s going on.

  I head into the kitchen, sticking the underwear in my pocket, and open the fridge, taking a swig out of the orange juice container.

  Army zips up Dex’s lunch bag and screws on the cap of his water bottle. “Did she question you about the underwear?” he asks me.

  I can hear the laughter in his voice.

  I smile, nodding and putting the juice away. “I’ll make sure Krisjen gets them back.”

  Or not. From the sound of it, we won’t see her again. Or at least I won’t before I leave.

  Army slams the dishwasher shut, starts it, and pulls on his T-shirt. “All right,” he calls out. “I’m dropping the kid off at Jasmine’s and heading in with Dallas and Trace. You can ride with me unless you want to get a head start on the pools at the Bay Club and Fox Hill.”

  “I’m not going in.” I pull my phone off the charger, checking for messages. “I’m done,” I tell him.

  I feel his eyes on me.

  I refuse to look at him.

  “Iron…” he says.

  But I ignore him. “Is Macon in the garage?”

  “Iron…”

  I hesitate, then look over my shoulder. “What?”

  He stares at me, and I know what he’s going to say without him uttering a word. “You know what.” He shakes his head. “It’s your funeral.”

  I walk to the door and pull it open, seeing Macon down in the garage working on a green seventies Wagoneer. Its owner is a regular customer. A collector in St. Carmen who trusts only Macon with it.

  This is what he does most of the time now. He runs the business side of our landscaping and pool-cleaning services, but he rarely leaves the house to do it. Army is the boss everyone sees. He’s a lot easier for people to talk to. Macon hasn’t crossed the tracks in months. And before that, very rarely.

  I close the door and walk down the three steps, as Dallas passes the open garage with the day’s cooler he just filled up with the hose. I hear the tailgate of the truck fall open, and Dex’s cry as Army carries him down the street to the babysitter.

  Macon’s phone rings, and I dart my eyes between him and his cell that he’s pretending isn’t there. A half-empty bottle of bourbon sits on top of the toolbox behind him.

  I square my shoulders. “The developers are going to come whether you answer that phone or not.”

  He doesn’t look up.

  I step closer, wiping the sweat off the back of my neck. “Look, I found some issues with Krisjen’s car,” I tell him. “I’m going to stick around here today and work on it.”

  “No, you’re not,” he says, still twisting the wrench. “We need you on the job.”

  “They’ll be fine without me.”

  He tightens the bolt, the muscles in his arm flexing enough that I almost take a step back.

  “So it’s not bad enough you’re leaving me shorthanded for three years,” he says, “but you can’t even pull your weight until you go?”

  “I have eight more days of freedom I’d like to enjoy.”

  He looks up. “Oh, you had your fun,” he points out. “Losing your freedom was the price, remember?” He tosses the tool down and turns, digging in a drawer and pulling out some needle-nose pliers. “Tell her to take it to a mechanic in St. Carmen. She’s not wasting our time just because you think you’re going to get laid.” And then he stops again, scowling. “And I’m sick of these girls hanging around. You understand? At least Aracely pulls her fucking weight. Y’all stop bringing them home.”

  He goes back to work, while I just stand there, watching him, whatever argument was on my lips disappearing altogether. There’s no use talking to him. There never was. He got saddled raising us eight years ago, and he’s been angry at the world ever since.

  I can’t say I remember him being any different before then, though. All I wanted when I was sixteen was for him to smile. Or say that I did something well. But he was always a ghost.

  I don’t even think he cried at our parents’ funerals.

  “Macon…” I murmur.

  He removes the engine cover, turning it over and placing it on his workbench.

  I speak a little louder. “Will you look at me, please?”

  He dumps the bolts inside the cover and turns back to the car as if I’ve already left the garage. He hates me.

  I take a deep breath and tip my chin back up. “Krisjen has no money,” I tell him. “She needs me to fix the car.”

  “I’ll fix the fuckin’ car,” he growls. “Like I don’t have enough to do. Just get to work, because soon enough you get to sit on your ass all day, and you’re still gonna need money from me.”

  I swallow the fucking rotten taste in my mouth, because he’s not wrong. He’s never fucking wrong, and I’m always a piece of shit.

  According to every interaction I’ve had with him the past eight years, I’m all but useless.

  I feel stupid enough. If I could go back and change it, I would hope I wouldn’t get into that fight. I wouldn’t have gotten drunk, let my temper get the better of me, and hurt the wrong person so badly over something I don’t even remember that I put him in the hospital.

  I knew it was a mistake. I always do, but it’s like I can’t stop myself.

  I’m not worried about going to prison. I’m worried it won’t change me.

  “I fucked up.” My eyes start to burn with tears I fucking hate myself for. “I fuck up.”

  But he doesn’t spare me another glance.

  I reach into my pocket, tossing Krisjen’s keys on the table. “The alignment, the brakes,” I tell him, “the radiator is leaking, and I’m guessing the oil is as thick as mud.”

  A snarl hits his lips, and I almost smile, but I don’t.

  When I head out of the garage, Trace is climbing into the bed of the truck and Army’s crossing the street, minus Dex.

  “Give me the keys.” I hold out my hands.

  Army smiles, shaking his head, because he knows Macon won. He tosses the keys, and I catch them.

  “Don’t laugh,” I say.

  “Hey, nothing to be ashamed of,” he teases. “I’m older than you, and he still scares the shit out of me.”

  “And that’s nothing to brag about.”

  “No, but staying alive is.”

  Army starts to turn, but I spot Dallas back by the truck, stealing glances at us and trying to get the beer into the cooler before Army sees.

  I pull Army’s arm, distracting him to give Dallas time. “Hey.”

  Army stops and turns back, facing me.

  “You need to handle Aracely,” I tell him.

  He looks confused. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “She wants to be.” I pull off my T-shirt and stick it in my back pocket. “She’ll listen to you. Tell her to stop doing dumb shit, please.”

  He smiles. “Like taking advantage of a St. Carmen princess?” he muses, because he knows she slashed Krisjen’s tires. “Like we all like to do from time to time? Since when do you give anyone a ride home?”

  “I’m a gentleman.”

  He cocks an eyebrow.

  “Well, I’m the most gentlemanly.”

  He snorts. “Probably true.”

  “Well, no one wants me to be a gentleman,” Dallas says, coming up to my side. “That’s for sure.”

  He grins at Army, our older brother’s eyes shifting between us as Dallas hangs his arm across my shoulder.

  “Look.” Army sighs. “I know you’re the middle children and all, but your rebellious stages are long overdue for a fucking conclusion, so wrap it up, because I’m exhausted.” And then he flicks Dallas on the forehead. “And get the goddamn beer out of the cooler. It’s eight o’clock in the morning, and I’m not an idiot.”

  He walks off; Dallas and I head for the truck.

  “Can we start drinking now?” I gripe.

  “Noon.” He gives my shoulders a squeeze. “It’ll give you something to look forward to.”

  He climbs into the back with Trace, and I open the cab, tossing in my shirt. “God, it’s so fucking hot still. I think I’ll camp out on the beach tonight. I can’t deal with his shit for the next eight days.”

  “Macon’s on my case almost as much as yours,” Dallas chimes in. “You can stick around and buffer before I have to deal with him by myself for the next three and a half years.”

  “What the fuck is his problem all the time?” I say under my breath.

  “It changed the moment he had to become our father instead of our brother,” Dallas says.

  But I disagree. He was never a brother like Army is.

  “He needs to fucking let it go,” I say. “Anger isn’t going to keep me from prison.”

  “He isn’t angry.”

  I turn to Trace, whose voice chimes in. He hangs his elbows over the side of the truck.

  “He’s worried,” he tells me. “What the hell does Macon have when we’re gone?”