Enemy Dearest

“You’re seriously going to turn me in? I didn’t steal. I didn’t break anything. I didn’t hurt anyone. I only went for a swim …”

I fold my arms across my breasts, which I’m quite certain are standing at full attention, and toss him a frown.

“You trespassed on private grounds,” he says. “Last I checked, the police don’t take kindly to illegal activity in this part of town.”

This part of town …

Of course. The southwest quadrant Meredith Hills is the “rich” section of this godforsaken town. Anything south of LeGrand street and west of Sunderland avenue is the place to reside. It’s an interesting layout too—the streets almost designed likes spokes in a wheel, all of them poking out from the Monreaux residence, as if it’s the capitol complex of this great-and-powerful city.

I roll my eyes. “Spoken like a true Monreaux.”

August chuffs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I lift a shoulder. “You’re your father’s son. That’s what that means.”

I’m bluffing. I know nothing about his father besides the fact that he’s a wealthy, powerful, and resourceful man and people tell stories and give warnings. I don’t know what he’s truly like behind closed doors—and I never intend to find that out.

August takes a step closer, though I attempt to pay him no mind. I also try to ignore the throbbing pulse in my ears and the nausea swelling in my belly. I have no idea what he’s capable of, but I’d be wise not to put anything passed him.

I gather my bra and panties and stuff them into the pockets of my dress before sliding my feet into my faded flip flops. “Get over yourself. I said I was sorry and now I’m leaving.”

Making my way toward the fence line, my steps falter—I’m going to look ridiculous climbing it in nothing but this soggy sun dress. But I force the thought from my head, ignoring the weight of his stare on my backside growing heavier with every step.

I don’t care what he thinks.

The Monreauxs might own this town, but at the end of the day, August and I are nobody and nothing to each other. We’ve gone nearly two decades like two passing ships in the night. No reason we can’t continue on that way.

“Hey …” he calls after me, his voice cutting through the dark.

I keep going.

“Hey, I’m not done with you.” His words are edgier this time, louder.

I pick up my pace, sprinting so fast I hardly feel the ground against my feet.

The fence is just a few meters away, almost in reach when the shattering of glass stops me in my tracks.

I glance over my shoulder as he collapses onto the edge of a pool chair, shards of his beer bottle broken at his feet.

Did he smash it … on purpose?

A hundred Monreaux stories dance through my head all at once, rumors indistinguishable from facts swirling together in a sea of uncertainty. Most of the time people like to exaggerate for the sake of telling an interesting story, but Mama always says every lie is rooted in truth.

All I know is most people say that family is as dangerous as they are powerful, as unpredictable as the stormy sea. Dysfunctional yet loyal to a fault. And thick as thieves. Locals stay away from them for good reason.

I once overheard someone claiming that getting into bed with a Monreaux—figuratively or otherwise—is like playing a game of Russian roulette. Odds are you’ll come out of it alive, but you’ll never be the same after.

Unfortunately, those odds weren’t in my Aunt Cynthia’s favor when she dated August’s father decades ago. She didn’t come out of it alive—which is exactly the reason my parents forbid me from going anywhere near this family.

I steal one last glimpse of the wickedly handsome Monreaux boy, at his broad shoulders and chiseled jaw and messy hair, at the shiny fragments broken glass surrounding him, and I make a running leap for the fence.

Within seconds, I’m dashing home, to the side of town where people keep bars on their windows and police sirens double as bedtime lullabies. Where air conditioners break and water bills sometimes go unpaid. Where no one hires house sitters because vacations are the kind of thing you only do when you win a little bit of cash from a scratch-off card or your tax refund is a little more than you were anticipating that year.

By the time I get to our little gray bungalow on North Fifth Street, the soles of my feet are on fire, and my lungs burn in sympathy. I toss my tattered flip flops in the garbage can by the back door and sneak inside.

My father is working nights, and Mama’s asleep in her room, the TV blaring and ceiling fan whirring. They’ll never know about my little escapade tonight, thank goodness.