Sinful Like Us (Like Us 5)

His brows are rather scrunched.

Tony interjects, “Wait.” He licks his lips, a laugh on them, and he talks directly to me. “You came here to discuss being on the rag?”

I cringe.

On the rag might be my all-time least favorite phrase, and before SFO, Maximoff, or my brothers jump down his throat, I answer quickly—and hotly, “Yes, we did, Tony, and we’ve called this meeting to let you all know that we’re running out of feminine products.”

Thatcher stares off a little, and I bet he’s mentally counting to determine my next period. He can easily keep track of my cycle since we have sex so often.

Quinn scratches his unshaven jaw. “Shouldn’t you have planned for that?”

We’ve discovered the source of his confusion, ladies and gentlemen.

“Like we all planned to be stuck in this house?” Joana says, hurt in her voice. “Like I planned to miss my fight in London?”

Quinn grimaces. “Sorry, Jo.” His apology to his little sister sounds sincere.

“We’ll fix this,” Oscar says to his sister. “What do you girls need?”

I interlace my fingers. “Well, this trip was supposed to be one week. And the only person who packed tampons was the girl who knew she’d have a period here. The rest of us brought one emergency item.”

I purposefully omit names. Even if Sulli wouldn’t mind, the men don’t need to know she started her period at the beginning of the trip.

I continue, “And since we’ve been in Scotland for almost three weeks, some of us are now having periods that we didn’t anticipate—”

“If I were a girl, I’d just bring a box of tampons everywhere with me.” Tony is the loudest, most obnoxious man I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting. At least it feels this way stuck here with him. I’m sure once I return to strangers heckling me in Philly, I’ll feel differently.

Thatcher glowers at Tony. “Cut her off one more time, and—”

“And what?” He chuckles. “You’re gonna hit me again, Banks? Let’s do it. Right now—”

“Do you ever shut the fuck up?” Farrow glares.

Tony smiles more. “You think you’re such hot shit, Farrow, why don’t you go outside with me then? I’ll show you and Moretti who’s the better fighter.”

Farrow raises his brows. “You were literally knocked out unconscious seven days ago.”

“It won’t happen twice.”

Joana steps forward. “How about I kick your ass instead?”

Beckett has been sullen all day, but I catch my brother beginning to smile.

Tony flashes a dry look at Jo. “I don’t punch girls. Sorry.”

Akara interjects fast. “We’re getting off track, guys.”

Tony gesticulates towards me and the girls. “If they didn’t bring enough tampons, then at least one of them should be on the pill. That stops a period, right?”

“Thank you for bringing up the pill, Tony,” I say between gritted teeth. “That’s my second point. Some of us have run out and are now spotting. Which has created a greater need for feminine products.”

“We can snowshoe to the supermarket,” Donnelly suggests like that is reasonable. It’d be an eight-hour hike for tampons.

Thatcher checks his watch. “We’ll have to leave tomorrow at first light.”

A smile tugs my cheeks, and I do my best not to smile at him in front of Tony. Thatcher being in his element always attracts me.

Akara nods. “We’ll send a team of four. Briefing is in five…” He catches me shaking my head.

“There’s no need,” I announce. “The girls and I have already devised a strategy. It involves toilet paper and hand towels.”

I feel badly that I’m not the one suffering. My period shouldn’t come for another week. Luna is spotting, and Jo started yesterday. But they agreed to a makeshift pad plan.

Luna pulls the ties of her Thrasher hoodie—and the hood squeezes around her face, only her nose poking out. “We just need you to conserve the toilet paper.”

“One fucking square when you shit,” Sulli adds crudely.

Akara breaks into a smile, but it fades when Will jokes with Sulli, “Just one square?”

Sulli bites her lip. “Yeah, just one.” She hasn’t slept with her boyfriend. Yesterday, she confessed that she was feeling more insecure than usual. He touched her prickly leg and jerked away a little.

She told me, “He’s been so sweet. Maybe this is all in my head. Him, thinking I’m too hairy. It’s just made me feel weird, and I don’t know how to fucking get over it.”

I suggested she talk to Will and ask him about the moment, but she’s nervous to broach the topic.

“Are you sure you don’t want us to snowshoe?” Donnelly wonders with a frown.

“Positive,” Luna nods. “Don’t sacrifice your life for a tampon.”

“More like your comfort, you know?” Donnelly shrugs.

“We’re fine,” I chime in. “We’d rather not send anyone out into a blizzard.” Conditions have only worsened lately, and this fact sinks a weight into the room that no one can lift.

We’re quiet.

Only the crackle of fire heard above the mad, angry wind.

The rest of the day, I’m practically bursting at the seams—my thoughts churning, my emotions rattling. And as midnight hurriedly approaches, only a few hours from the New Year, I know what I must do.

I need to word-vomit all over someone.

I must talk and talk and purge every last thing that throttles my senses, and there is only one person I desire to be on the receiving end.

But unfortunately, survival takes precedent.

I carry a clipboard and walk along the upstairs hallway. With freezing temperatures and broken heaters, we’re all camping around the living room fireplace tonight, and every door must be shut to combat drafts.

I check each tightly closed door and cross rooms off my list. I’ve also been reminding everyone to gather their belongings for the night and head downstairs. All the while, my body hums in anticipation of seeing Thatcher.

I blow out a measured breath. Nerves swarming me, but I refuse to be too nervous to speak this time.

I peek into a cracked bedroom. Empty. Just as I shut the door, Luna waddles past me, dressed in so many layers of clothing that her oversized galactic sweatshirt looks like a crop top.

She throws up a Spock sign. “Beware of the frostbite.”

I smile. “Do you need any extra blankets?”

“Nope. I should be good.” She waves, descending the staircase. “Thanks though.” Once she disappears, Thatcher suddenly ascends the same steps.

I press my clipboard to my swelling body.

He locks onto my eyes with this primitive look, as though we’re two lions protecting the pride. Without saying a word, he stops a foot away and plucks the clipboard from my arms. He scans the list swiftly. “The third floor still needs cleared.”

“Oui.” I almost forget what pushes at my soul.

“I’ll take it.” He passes back the clipboard, his assertiveness melting me. Come on, Jane.

“We have to talk.” I clasp his wrist in haste and open the nearest door.

I pull him into the tiny broom closet. His head almost collides with the low bulb, and I can feel his uncertainty swallow up the air.

He tugs the string light while I shut the door, and a warm glow bathes the dusty space. Cobwebs in corners of wooden shelves, which contains random items like wax paper rolls, a mop bucket, and a broken bagpipe.

“Ever since the house meeting, I can’t stop thinking.” I start gushing. “Maybe it’s because of Tony, because his opinions are so gross and ridiculous, and how he views women is absolutely appalling. And I’m not so sure if he’ll understand why what he says hurts people and how what he thinks is wrong.” I barely take a breath. “Or maybe it’s because we’re stuck here without internet, and I can’t let callous things said about me seep too deep if I’m not able to see them.”

I pause.

Dear Diary, he looks tragically confused.

I inhale. “If you need me to shut up—”

“Never,” he says deeply, and I’m glad he cut me off there. “Never stop talking, Jane.”

He’s my everything and more.

I lift my chin to meet his serious brown eyes. “I’ve been thinking,” I continue, “about how I’ve been so insecure about my worth if I don’t find a passion, even more so now that I’m tied to you.” Emotion burns my eyes.

His chest tightens. He’s barely breathing too, but he nods me on.

I’d be pacing back and forth if the closet were bigger. I’m happy to be forced to stand perilously still in front of him. His comfort blanketing me.

“If I knew at seventeen what my future held, that I’d be passionless, ambitionless, and the world would attach my value to a man, I would’ve screamed at the top of my lungs. The realization—to think—that all I could be good for is to be your girlfriend, to be a sister, a cousin, best friend, daughter, and nothing else, it’s terrifying. It’s scared me to know that my purpose in life is just love.” I wipe a hot, escaped tear. “Love.” I repeat the cofounding word. “When this is all said and done, where am I supposed to end up? Married? With children? Giving love to you and them?”

“We don’t have to get married, Jane,” Thatcher says suddenly, seriously—staring down at me while I look right up at him. “I’ll never make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

My heart thumps strangely. “You wouldn’t want to be married one day?”

His jaw tics. “I would want that, but if the choice were marriage or you, I’d rather just be with you.” He holds my waist, his hand sliding around my hip to the small of my back. He’s not letting go of us, and I don’t want to either.

I know, deep in my heart, that we’re already bound together. And maybe our story won’t end like a Shakespearian comedy. No wedding in our future.

No marriage.

Possibly, that’ll do.

I nod and breathe and say, “I’m absolutely positive about one thing. I don’t need a passion.”

Thatcher Moretti is smiling. “You don’t.” He agrees.