Wrath (Sinful Secrets 4)

“I just…got you these,” he says, not looking at me. He sets two bags on the kitchen island, followed by two packs of gum and the Fun Dip. Then his gaze darts to mine. “In case you needed something,” he says hoarsely.

And he’s gone. He’s through the dining room door. Peaced out.

My brain trips. He bought this stuff for me? Does that mean the cherry Icee he was holding was for me, too?

I grab a pack of gum and follow him into the dining room, where I’m surprised to find him with his back pressed to the small swatch of wall to the right of the door.

He’s got his hands over his face, and his shoulders are heaving.

“Ezra? What’s the matter?”

He shakes his head.

“Nothing,” he says, but it’s muffled by his hands. He starts off toward the family room, moving with long strides.

He’s fast, but I swing my arm out, and my fingertips catch his hood.

He whirls toward me, looking stricken.

“Wait,” I say.

His eyes are so wide. He looks different than I’ve ever seen him…but also familiar. It hits me like a fucking space rock: This is how he looks when I wake him from nightmares. He looks freaked out. He looks…miserable.

What’s wrong? It’s on the tip of my tongue. But I can’t ask, because I’m positive that he won’t answer. I can’t handle any more rejection from him right now.

Instead I hear myself say, “You want to walk somewhere with me?”

He blinks, looking glassy-eyed, like I just snapped him out of a daydream. “Me?” He frowns. “I—”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.” His chest rises as he inhales. “Where’re you going?”

“Nowhere special. Just down to the cemetery. There’s an overlook there. Like a bluff or whatnot. Just…it’s a place I can walk to.”

He nods slowly, and I wonder if I’ve put him on the spot by asking. I start to tell him, “It’s not—” that important.

But he interrupts me. “I’ll be right back.” He’s already turning away as he says it. I note the socked feet as he goes and wonder with a pounding heart if he’s getting his shoes.

Nine

Josh

Does he want to go with me? Does he feel like he has to?

This isn’t a date, you moron. He’s your stepbrother.

My body doesn’t get the message. Everything feels like it’s buzzing as I stand at the bottom of the stairs, making my neck ache by looking up to watch for him. What if he doesn’t come?

He appears then, wearing his purple and white Denver ball cap and a flat-lipped little smile, plus some white sneaks with his sweatshirt and a black pair of basketball shorts.

I can’t even look at him for a full second before I have to move my eyes away. I realize I’ve got gum in my hand.

“Want some?” I ask as he steps onto the first floor.

There’s a second where his body is so close to mine. He holds his hand out, palm up, and I rip the pack open. When my eyes find his, the left side of his mouth is twitched up a little—like a mini smirk.

“Did you want me to unwrap it?” I bug out my eyes like wtf, and he grins so big his cheeks round out.

As the grin fades, he shifts his weight and says, “Nahh. It’s all good.”

He makes quick work of the wrapper, pops the gum into his mouth, and heads out the front door. This time, instead of leaving me on the porch, he waits till I step out and shuts the door behind me.

Down the steps and in between our cars. He’s walking by me, we’re walking beside each other, and I’m reeling at the nearness of him. The sweatshirt, his thick throat, the cap on his head. Always those eyes. And that mouth. He walks steady but not fast, his arm swinging a little. He blows a bubble with his gum as I smash a piece into my mouth.

“So where’s the cemetery?” he asks as we near the driveway’s end.

“Left here, one block down, another left, and it’s right there on Broad Street.”

We walk in silence. He adjusts his hat a lot. We’re both blowing bubbles sometimes.

“Thanks for coming with me,” I tell him. “You didn’t have to.”

He smirks. “Don’t get awkward, Mills. I wanted to come. Nothing like a cemetery.”

“This one’s really old. There’s lots of young people and little kids that all died before modern medicine.”

His eyes widen in horror. “Even better,” he says, sarcastic. “Nothing like a good, solid tragedy.”

“Exactly.”

“Is it segregated by SEC and race?” At first I take that as the SEC—like the South Eastern Conference, in college football—but I realize he probably means socioeconomic class.

“You better believe it.”

“Awesome,” he says.

“Mmhmm. If you follow the dirt and rock path straight back to the spot we’re going to, it’s mostly just these tall evergreen type trees and wrought-iron fences. You can focus on those things and not on the tombstones if you want.”