Starlee's Heart (The Wayward Sons 1)

“YouTube?”

“Only for homework.”

“Holy shit,” she repeats again. “What kind of crazy house was that?”

I’d never had to explain my life to anyone before. Not really. The other homeschool kids online didn’t ask. We all had a reason for being there. I feel Katie watching me expectantly and I say, “I was home-schooled and my mom was pretty strict. She didn’t want a lot of outside influences.”

“Influences like TV?”

I shrug. “We watched the news, but mostly I just read.”

“Huh. Well, look it up when you get a chance. There’s like this whole thing. I get the feeling the boys tolerate it for Sierra’s sake, but she’s a true believer.”

“Okay.” A believer in the supernatural? Is she a witch?

“Whelp,” she says holding up the bleach, “I guess duty calls. Or maybe doodie. Get it?” She winks and makes a face.

“I don’t want to get it.”

“Nope. No, you don’t. Bye girl, see you later.”

It’s been such a long time since I’ve had a new friend—someone outside my mother’s approved and curated list—that I’m not exactly sure what to make of Katie. I definitely don’t know what to make of what she said about Sierra, but it kind of makes sense. I’m aware that people get into TV shows and movies. I had a Harry Potter phase myself and when I was in school, One Direction was big. I guess I vaguely recall some girls talking about the show, but I’d never been allowed to watch anything scary—Mom worried it would trigger my anxiety.

I walk down the pathway toward 119, considering that maybe Katie’s just friendly to everyone like that, but it felt nice to have someone to just…talk to. About normal stuff like work and boys, I hadn’t had that in so long. Well, I kind of had it with Sara but I’m not sure that counted.

As the rooms pass by I feel my nerves increase. Leelee probably thought he’d be finished by now but I can see the room and the door is wide open. Maybe I should come back later.

Or maybe I should stop being a wimp.

What can this boy do to me? We’re in a public place. He’s not my friend or classmate. We’ve never spoken. And who cares if he’s the stereotypical jock? Katie said he may not be that bright. Why am I scared of a big, dumb guy?

Because, my brain bully whispers, he may be mean. He could hurt you. He may make fun of you. Something, anything he says may send you down a spiral.

“Shut up,” I say aloud, like my therapist taught me. I straighten my back, determined, and I clutch the linens to my chest.

I step into the doorway of the room and see tools spread around the floor. The bed is together but slanted to one side—the mattress leaning against the wall. Jake’s on his knees, halfway under the bed. He grunts from exertion, muttering a few curse words under his breath.

As usual, I’m a ghost in the room. Blended into the walls until I make myself known. I don’t this time, not while he’s working. I look at his long, tan legs and scuffed-up tennis shoes. He has on a black T-shirt and I see the Wayward Sun logo on the back. The hem is inched up and his back is as tan as his legs.

He grunts again as the bed lifts to a level position and he eases himself from underneath. His hair is a mess, sticking up at his forehead. He runs a hand through it and I see the tattoo, similar to the others. I haven’t said a word but his eyes flick toward me and his eyebrows raise in surprise.

“Hey,” he says, dropping a few tools in the box near the foot of the bed.

“I, uh, I have linens for the bed.” I hold them up as evidence, like I need a reason to exist. “I’ll come back later.”

“I’m almost done,” he replies. “Just give me a second to put the mattress on the springs and you’ll be set to go.”

His voice is deep, smooth, and as much as I want to flee I also find myself wanting to hear it more. Unfortunately, he doesn’t say anything, just moving a few more tools before going to the mattress leaning against the wall. It’s big and unwieldy and even with his long arms he struggles to line it up, and the lamp on the bedside table wobbles precariously.

“Here, let me help,” I say, dropping the linens on the small desk in the corner.

“I can get it,” he says.

“I’m sure you can, if you also want to take out that lamp.”

He peers around the thick, padded mattress and grimaces. “Okay, you get the end and just help me line it up.”

I nod and find myself needing to squeeze past him to get to the end of the bed. He holds his hands high, like he’s making an effort not to touch me. I appreciate it, especially after the altercation with the backpacker. The image of his dirty hands on mine flashes in my mind. I swallow, willing it away.