Starlee's Heart (The Wayward Sons 1)

I exit the shop and walk across the front porch to the other door. It’s also screened and the main door is open, I guess to let a draft of air come in. I hear the sounds of a TV or maybe a video game. Barging in feels weird, presumptuous, so I knock, even though she told me not to.

Thirty seconds after I rap on the door there’s no reply, so I push open the door and say, “Hello?”

There’s still no reply other than the dog rushing to the door. It’s their chihuahua, and we’ve encountered one another before so I’m not afraid. I gather my nerves and open the door, stepping into the small foyer. The little dog continues barking and sniffing my feet. I bend down to let him investigate my hand and lick my fingers.

“Hey, dude,” I say, petting his skinny, wiggly body.

Once he’s checked me out he turns and runs to the back of the house.

The first thing I notice is a framed photograph of the cast of Supernatural—only a few people I recognize. Scrawled signatures are at the bottom. The rest must come later in the series. There’s also a large painting of the Winchester protective symbol—the ones the brothers wear over their hearts in the show. I look down to make sure a devil’s trap isn’t under my feet.

I turn the corner and step into a small living room. A bookshelf lines the wall and from a distance I can tell it’s filled with Supernatural items. There are several framed photographs of Sierra and the actors, each signed, and her smile wider than the sun. I want to judge, but can I? Sierra has a full life, a business, the boys, a hobby. What do I have?

I grip the computer in my hand.

“Charlie?” I call, feeling foolish. “It’s, um, Starlee. Sierra said I could come over.”

I hear footsteps in the hall and George’s sandy-brown head of hair appears. Then his shoulders. Wide and tan. Bare. Before my brain can process, he steps into the doorway shirtless, a pair of athletic shorts around his hips. The dog is in his arms.

I avert my eyes.

“Starlee! I was wondering what got Growley all crazy.”

“Growley?”

He holds up the dog. “He’s a hellhound.”

I nod, having no idea what he’s talking about, but if I had to guess, it’s something related to the show. “Is uh, your brother here? I need computer help.”

“Oh yeah, follow me.”

“I can wait here.” I look up. Shit, so much skin. Look down.

“Nah, follow me, because he’s plugged into his game and there’s no getting him off without a good reason.”

Wait. What does that mean? George thinks I’m a good reason?

That seems ridiculous, but I really need to get this assignment turned in, so despite the flagrant rule-breaking, I follow him.

He leads me down the hallway and I’m happy that his back is to me, although his back is disturbingly attractive. George is tall and lean, with wide shoulders. A thin scar runs down his side and his shorts barely hang on skinny hips. I notice how his fingertips touch nearly every surface they encounter, dragging along walls, feeling doorknobs. He’s talking the whole time but I ignore him, instead taking in the house…this safe haven for lost boys.

There’s a bedroom downstairs and from the colors and cleanliness, I assume it’s Sierra’s. There’s a bathroom and a small kitchen. George turns at a stairwell; the railing spindles painted a bright teal blue. I hesitate at the bottom, feeling like I’m crossing the line of all lines, going up to the boys’ private area. In every book I’ve ever read, that’s the first level of intimacy.

George stops halfway up.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Are you sure it’s okay for me to go up there?”

I feel like there should be some rules about guests or visitors but George shrugs. “Sierra knew what you were getting into when she sent you over.”

He’s so nonchalant about it that I can only assume one thing: these boys aren’t attracted to me in the least. That realization brings two warring emotions; relief and vague disappointment.

With that understanding, I follow him up the stairs to the landing, where a hallway splits the rooms. There are two bedrooms on each side and what looks like a bathroom at the end. There’s a strong scent of body spray, shampoo, and boy funk that clings to the air. I know I should be repelled, but I’m not.

I can’t help but look into the rooms as we pass; the first one is surprisingly tidy and I spot a guitar and a flannel shirt on the made-up bed. Across from that is a bit messier—rumpled sheets and clothes on the floor. A shelf lines the wall over the bed with trophies—cluttering the space.

The next two have their own differences. One looks like a bomb has gone off. Clothes, books, a container filled with pens and pencils—including sketch books and a few canvases. I catch the scent of something chemical. Paint? I think of George’s stained fingers. But he’s still moving, so I follow him to the last room. A flat screen fills the space of one of the walls. A single bed is pushed against the wall next to a dresser with open drawers. Two chairs face the screen, legs and arms visible.