to hide a mild thread of panic.
“It’s important to me. If it concerns my future, I want to know.”
“I’ve done that before, and I swore I’d never do it again.”
“So it wasn’t good—the dream.” My hands drop to my sides.
“I never said that. It was fine, I just…I think we’re going to be late.” He picks up my hand, and we start in towards the English building.
“Just promise me something.” I step in front of him, blocking his path.
“What’s that?” His dimples dig in on either side, and I get the urge to drag him into the thicket again.
“One day you’ll tell me everything.”
He takes in a ragged breath. “Trust me, Skyla , there will never be a day you will want to know everything. Sometimes it’s just better to let life surprise you.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Oh Wicked Night
Drake drives Brielle and me over to Ellis’ party in his newly acquired death mobile. I’m starting to think maybe Mom and Tad aren’t so hot on Drake after all. This thing is rife with engine problems, torn upholstery, stinks like a cigarette burial ground, and I swear it hobbles. It has three-car pileup written all over it.
As soon as we hit the driveway, I bounce out of the car.
I tug at my skirt as I make my way up the driveway. Instead of showing off my French maid costume in front of Mom and Tad, and trying to escape their clutches as they attempt to strangle me with my fishnet stockings, I changed over at Brielle’s.
Brielle’s mom, Darla, lent me a pair of four inch spiked heels with metal studs running down the back. They’re totally cute, but hurt like hell to walk in. Darla kept saying they were her favorite pair of FM’s , and when I asked what FM’s were, both Brielle and Darla laughed.
It’s annoying when I don’t know things. They’ve totally lived their lives cloistered on an island—they’re the ones who shouldn’t know things. I’m from L.A. for God’s sake. I’m almost positive I was exposed to every vile thing possible before I was nine, and somehow an entire group of people sequestered from society know more than I do.
Ellis’ front yard is littered with gravestones, unearthed caskets, and about a dozen groaning corpses that I’m not entirely sure aren’t Fems . I’m expecting anything tonight, and a part of me feels ready—the other part suggests I find either Gage or Logan and hide.
“Knock knock ,” I say. The front door sits wide open, so I step on in. The house is empty. The hollow click of my heels creates an echo as I traipse over the glossy marble floor in the direction of the kitchen. The thick scent of something baking permeates the air. It definitely doesn’t smell like Ellis’ house.
I meander on, until I find Ellis himself pulling a gallon of milk from the fridge. It doesn’t take long for Brielle and Drake to wander in behind me and make themselves at home on the couch.
“Wow, what’s this?” A glass pan of brownies sits cooling on the stove. “You bake?”
“Yes, I bake. All good men bake.” He’s wearing a football uniform with a tire track across the front of his chest and things that actually look like bloodied entrails hang out of his jeans. “You want one?” He offers me a brownie.
“Sure, I guess. Hey, wait…” I tilt my head suspiciously. “You put your stash in these.” I think I just nailed precisely why Ellis Harrison bakes—why he does anything in fact.
“What are you on? I don’t share my stash in its natural form, let alone grind it up and waste it on a dozen different people. I just thought it’d be nice to have something around, plus my mom bought the mix.”
I wave my hand over the dish. “Ooh, still warm. They’re so my favorite when they’re warm.”
He pours us each a glass of milk in tall cobalt glasses before cutting long rows several inches thick into the pan. We each pick up a strip and indulge.
“These are really good. You should go into business,” I muse.
“Check out at
“It’s important to me. If it concerns my future, I want to know.”
“I’ve done that before, and I swore I’d never do it again.”
“So it wasn’t good—the dream.” My hands drop to my sides.
“I never said that. It was fine, I just…I think we’re going to be late.” He picks up my hand, and we start in towards the English building.
“Just promise me something.” I step in front of him, blocking his path.
“What’s that?” His dimples dig in on either side, and I get the urge to drag him into the thicket again.
“One day you’ll tell me everything.”
He takes in a ragged breath. “Trust me, Skyla , there will never be a day you will want to know everything. Sometimes it’s just better to let life surprise you.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Oh Wicked Night
Drake drives Brielle and me over to Ellis’ party in his newly acquired death mobile. I’m starting to think maybe Mom and Tad aren’t so hot on Drake after all. This thing is rife with engine problems, torn upholstery, stinks like a cigarette burial ground, and I swear it hobbles. It has three-car pileup written all over it.
As soon as we hit the driveway, I bounce out of the car.
I tug at my skirt as I make my way up the driveway. Instead of showing off my French maid costume in front of Mom and Tad, and trying to escape their clutches as they attempt to strangle me with my fishnet stockings, I changed over at Brielle’s.
Brielle’s mom, Darla, lent me a pair of four inch spiked heels with metal studs running down the back. They’re totally cute, but hurt like hell to walk in. Darla kept saying they were her favorite pair of FM’s , and when I asked what FM’s were, both Brielle and Darla laughed.
It’s annoying when I don’t know things. They’ve totally lived their lives cloistered on an island—they’re the ones who shouldn’t know things. I’m from L.A. for God’s sake. I’m almost positive I was exposed to every vile thing possible before I was nine, and somehow an entire group of people sequestered from society know more than I do.
Ellis’ front yard is littered with gravestones, unearthed caskets, and about a dozen groaning corpses that I’m not entirely sure aren’t Fems . I’m expecting anything tonight, and a part of me feels ready—the other part suggests I find either Gage or Logan and hide.
“Knock knock ,” I say. The front door sits wide open, so I step on in. The house is empty. The hollow click of my heels creates an echo as I traipse over the glossy marble floor in the direction of the kitchen. The thick scent of something baking permeates the air. It definitely doesn’t smell like Ellis’ house.
I meander on, until I find Ellis himself pulling a gallon of milk from the fridge. It doesn’t take long for Brielle and Drake to wander in behind me and make themselves at home on the couch.
“Wow, what’s this?” A glass pan of brownies sits cooling on the stove. “You bake?”
“Yes, I bake. All good men bake.” He’s wearing a football uniform with a tire track across the front of his chest and things that actually look like bloodied entrails hang out of his jeans. “You want one?” He offers me a brownie.
“Sure, I guess. Hey, wait…” I tilt my head suspiciously. “You put your stash in these.” I think I just nailed precisely why Ellis Harrison bakes—why he does anything in fact.
“What are you on? I don’t share my stash in its natural form, let alone grind it up and waste it on a dozen different people. I just thought it’d be nice to have something around, plus my mom bought the mix.”
I wave my hand over the dish. “Ooh, still warm. They’re so my favorite when they’re warm.”
He pours us each a glass of milk in tall cobalt glasses before cutting long rows several inches thick into the pan. We each pick up a strip and indulge.
“These are really good. You should go into business,” I muse.
“Check out at
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