Flock (The Ravenhood)

Sean: Thinking of you.

What are you thinking?

Sean: All kinds of thoughts.

Care to get specific?

Sean: You’re beautiful and completely unaware of just how much. And you taste so fucking good.

What are you doing to me?

Sean: Not nearly enough. Come to the garage.

I’ll be there in an hour.

It’s been days since the waterfall and he’s barely touched me intimately since. He’s wrapped up in me constantly when we’re around the guys but leaves me every night with a chaste kiss, his mixed signals driving me up the wall. It’s as if he’s waiting for…something I can’t put my finger on. But instead of complaining about it, I’ve played along because, honestly, I’m enjoying the ache and anticipation. I’ve never been much of a fast girl, but my attraction to him makes my inhibitions hard to hold. The boys of my past have nothing on this man. Nothing. And these days, when I look at my reflection, I see the noticeable afterglow of the weeks spent draped in his attention. It’s a high I’d almost forgotten about, a high that’s more addictive to me than any drug could ever be. My heart has some scar tissue, but it beats steady, constantly letting me know that playing his game leaves it vulnerable, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear the warning. For now, I’m playing blissfully ignorant, all too ready for another hit.

“Can you put the phone down while we dine?”

I tense in my seat, feeling Roman’s stare and shove my phone into my pocket before lifting my fork.

“Sorry, Sir.”

“You are clearly distracted this evening.”

Because I’d much rather be in the now with Sean. I don’t know why Roman insists we dine together. Conversation is forced, our shared meals unbearably uncomfortab

le, at least for me. It’s hard to gauge what makes Roman uneasy because the man is impenetrable stone. He’s always annoyed, but that seems to be his only discernable emotion—if he’s even capable of emotion. The longer I’m in his house, the more like a stranger he feels to me.

“What were your parents like?”

I’ve never asked about them before. Not even when I was younger. Even when I had my youth to fall back on for false bravery, I knew better than to ask. They were both deceased, that’s the extent of what both Mom and I know.

Roman draws a perfect bite of pasta onto his fork. “What specifically do you want to know?”

“Were they as outgoing as you?”

His jaw clenches and I congratulate myself but steady my features.

“They were socialites, and my father kept regular attendance at the golf course.”

“How did they die?”

“They drank.”

“Poison? They go out in a Shakespearean way?”

“You find death amusing?”

“No, Sir.” I find this conversation amusing.

“They died not far apart. Three years. They had me when they were in their forties.”

“You got a jump on them in that sense, huh?”

My mother was twenty when she had me, and Roman was older by twelve years. He’d dipped into the honeypot.

“I never planned for children.”