Bad Boy Blues

“I forgot that you could see the stars up here,” he murmurs.

His voice almost sounds like a low, satisfied sigh. Like the sight of stars is something he hasn’t had in a long time.

While he seems at peace, his words are playing havoc on my body.

They halt my breath and make my heart race. They awaken the butterflies.

I remember the falling star from last night. I remember the wish I made, and now, he’s here. A potential danger to everything I’ve been working toward for the past few months.

“And you couldn’t see the stars where you came from?” I ask.

Zach looks away from the sky and at me. “No.”

Monosyllabic answers.

Great.

They’re designed to stoke curiosity. Rationally, I’m aware of that. Irrationally, I’m wondering about his whereabouts for the past three years.

“Ooo-kay.” I nod, hardly believing him. “Where did you go off to again?”

Silently, he studies me. “Why? Did you miss me?”

“Oh yeah, definitely. Like I miss getting shot in the head.”

Zach smirks, his black eyes glittering. “You know, I wasn’t real sure about coming back. But if it makes you happy, then I’m all for it.”

“Sarcasm.” I raise my eyebrows. “Gotta love it.”

“I aim to please,” he says, making the goose bumps wake up on my flesh.

I ignore that and get to the real question that’s been nagging me all day. I don’t care where he went, all I care about is why he came back and when he’s going to go away again.

“Why did you come back?”

I’d think my question got lost in the wind with the way he remains silent. But that’s another special thing about our town with a line. Even the air is dead. Nothing moves, just like him. His face is blank. Expressionless. But there’s something in his eyes, his stare.

It’s burning, like that cigarette trapped between his lips.

Then, that stare moves. His lashes flicker as he takes in the loose curls of my hair. I have an urge to reach up and touch them, but I resist it. I fist the fabric of my skirt to keep my hands occupied.

“Still blue, huh?”

I raise my chin. “Always.”

His lips twitch as he repeats on a whisper, “Always.”

I don’t know why he’s looking at my hair like that, with such intensity. Maybe he’s thinking up something mean to say. Whatever the reason, he doesn’t stop and when his lashes dip, I forget about the question I asked him.

What were we even talking about?

“Do you still use blue glitter pens?”

I used to, back in school. I was the poster child for the color blue. Blue backpack, blue clothes, blue glitter pens, and, when I grew up, blue hair.

I nod. “Yes.”

He nods back, looking… nostalgic. “Of course you do.”

I should say something. I really should. But I’m in a trance. I think this is what being hypnotized feels like.

Right now, all I can do is track his stare as it slides down the line of my throat, which feels jam-packed with rocks, making it difficult to swallow. When he comes down to my chest, I realize that the last time he saw me, I was a C cup. I’m a D now.

I have every intention to tell him to stop ogling. Asshole pervert. I don’t want him to stare at me. I don’t want him to make my skin shiver.

But my words won’t come out. They are stuck to the back of my mouth and my teeth are gritted.

God, make him stop.

But he keeps taking me in. My tucked-in waist, rounded hips and thighs, my bare toes. My curvy body that has only grown in his absence.

“Why did you come back?” I ask again. This time with a desperation that wasn’t there before.

He brings his gaze back to mine, and through the cigarette in his mouth, says, “Maybe I missed you.”

Forcing myself to break his stare, I look down. My Mary Janes are lying on the ground, one on its side and the other some distance away from it. Abandoned. Marooned and astray. Kind of like me, right now.

I need to get away.

Shaking my head, I bend down and pick up my shoes. “I’m leaving.”

“Nice uniform, by the way.”

I stop.

Hugging my shoes to my chest, I return his stare. His jaw is clamped. I can see the tic in his facial muscles.

Is he pissed off that I work for his family now?

Tough luck.

As if I like this arrangement. As if I’d ever set foot inside the house where he grew up.

“Thank you,” I say, smiling falsely and smoothing a hand down my skirt. “I think so, too.”

Zach looks away from me as he lets his finished blunt fall to the ground and crushes it under his boots.

“Never thought doing dishes and mopping floors were part of your life goals.”

I knew he was going to say something insulting. He’s Zach.

But still, I flinch.