Catch Twenty-Two (Westover Prep 2)

“What?” Her throat works on a swallow as I watch her brain begin to shift gears. Her brow pinches in confusion as her lust for me fades away.

I hate what I’m about to do, but at the same time, I love the power she so readily hands over to me time and time again. She’s something I can control, and that’s everything right now when my world seems to be dominated by the will of others.

“I want to fuck you.” No truer words have ever left my lips.

“Zeke.” She drops her gaze, looking at my chin rather than being able to face the heat in my eyes. “I can’t do—”

I hook my finger under her chin and tilt her face back up to mine. “Don’t mistake me, City Girl. I can control my urges. Even though sliding balls deep into that no doubt virgin pussy of yours would feel amazing, the last thing I need is an obsessed girl following me around.”

My mother would slap my face for talking to anyone the way I just did her. I cuss as much as the next teenage boy does, but I was raised to respect women. I don’t swim in the guilt very long, however. I need to hurry this along so I can get out of here before my words and what my body does contradict each other.

“I’m not,” she argues.

“You are. You’re looking up at me like I hold your world in the palm of my hand. You have little hearts in your eyes. Like I said, you’re practically in love with me already.”

My hand trembles on my thigh when she scoots away from me, itching to reach out to her and pull her against my chest.

“I’m not,” she repeats, this time with a little more steel in her voice.

My lip twitches with pride, but I manage to keep the smile off my face.

“So, you’re willing to just be fuck buddies? I can arrang—”

“In your dreams,” she snaps. “There isn’t any situation where I’d ever let you touch me again.”

I blink at her as she glares at me, cocking a disbelieving eyebrow, and it serves to piss her off even more.

“I’ve known bullies my entire life, and you’re no different. Stay away from me Zeke Benson. I don’t want anything to do with you.”

Who has the power now? It certainly doesn’t seem like I still have the upper hand.

I sigh as she climbs out of my truck, slamming the door so hard behind her that the reverberation causes me to jolt. I don’t climb out and help her pull the groceries out of the bed, and I don’t offer to carry them inside for her. I’ll have to explain myself somehow to Mrs. Jacobson tomorrow, but it isn’t something I can manage tonight.

Guilt swims in my gut as my eyes follow her all the way into the house, burdened by the weight of the grocery bags in her hands. Before I end up going after her and apologizing, I crank my truck and haul ass back home.

On autopilot, I enter our small house, and sigh when I see Dad already sitting at the table waiting for his meal.

“How was your day, dear?” Mom asks when I step up to the kitchen sink to wash my hands.

“Fine,” I grunt, hating the world and everything in it. I’m too young to be filled with such animosity for the world, yet here I am right in the middle of loathing everything about my damn life.

“That’s nice,” she says, the distance in her voice making it clear she really isn’t concerned about my day. “Get to the table. It’s suppertime.”

I do as I’m told, in no mood to eat but unwilling to argue with her over it. Dad sits at the head of the table looking weaker than I’ve ever seen him. He seems smaller than I remember, almost as if he’s shrinking in on himself, like his spine can no longer carry the weight of his own body.

It’s exactly what I don’t want. There’s pride in working hard your entire life, but when it leaves you ragged and broken long before your time, I can’t help but wonder if it’s worth it. From where I’m sitting right now, watching Dad wince as he places a napkin in his lap, I’d have to say no. I don’t want this life, not even if we still had our own land and cattle. I don’t want to be utterly exhausted at the end of every day. I don’t want to grow wearier than I am now.

“How’s Mrs. Jacobson?” Dad asks, his voice barely above a whisper as Mom carries a casserole dish to the table.

“She’s fine.”

“And Frances?” Mom smiles down at me as she shovels food onto Dad’s plate.

He holds his hand up to stop her from placing another scoop down, and she frowns. His appetite hasn’t been the same for a while now either.