“I’ll follow you down.”
I have six missed calls, which I don’t bother checking until we get back to the boat. Remington hopped into the shower, not before offering me to join her. I drew the line there. It had to be somewhere, after all.
Two from my mother. She could wait. Two from Shelly—she probably ran out of food and cigarettes—one from Guy, a friend I see once in a blue moon for the odd beer just to prove to the world that I’m still alive, and one is from the private investigator I hired to bring Remington’s brother down.
I don’t return any of them, but make a note to check on Shelly soon. I haven’t been there in a while, and since she probably wouldn’t leave her house even if it were on fire, she’s come to depend on me. But reaching out of this boathouse and facing the real world is inviting reality back into my weekend, and I’m not ready for that yet.
I grab a notepad hanging on the small, old fridge and scribble Remington a message saying I’m going out to pick up some pizza. There’s nothing to eat here but canned food and chips.
As I drive the short distance to the pizza parlor, I wonder how the hell I am going to explain to Remington what I’m about to do to her stepbrother. It was a relief to hear the bastard didn’t go as far as getting into her pants, but I know she is still attached to him. Does she love him? Maybe. Hopefully not. One thing is for sure—I need to tell her before shit goes down.
Because I don’t want her to be there when said shit hits the fan and everyone gets dirty.
When I get back to the boathouse, she is sitting at the settee in one of my shirts I keep in the small closet there and scrolling through her phone with her thumb. I open the door, and she doesn’t notice me. Her eyes are down, and from that angle, she is your typical teenager.
The typical teenager that I dry-fucked in the middle of the desert today. Fantastic.
I dump the pizza box onto the table instead of announcing my arrival, but it’s mainly because I’m mad at myself, not her. Her eyes shoot up, and she blinks.
“Something wrong?” she asks.
I don’t answer. I set up the table with whatever silverware we have here and take out two cans of Cherry Coke. She said she doesn’t drink soda, and I laugh. She asks me what’s so funny as we both plop down to our seats at the table.
“I’m addicted,” I admit.
“To fizzy drinks?” She smirks.
“To everything. Pop, cigarettes, alcohol…” I leave the sex part out. I shouldn’t be going this route. That would be encouraging her, and I’m not that type of dick. “You?”
“I don’t have any addictions,” she admits, and I believe her because Remington Stringer isn’t the type to be controlled—not by drugs, and not by her stepbrother. “I don’t smoke, I drink a beer every once in a while, and I normally opt for water or O.J.”
“That’s healthy,” I note.
“I’m a sensible girl.”
“A sensible girl wouldn’t share a kiss with her teacher,” I say dryly, picking out olives from my pizza instead of looking at her. It’s still difficult to come to terms with what I did.
“It’s not just a kiss that we shared. There was more there,” she insists, looking into my eyes.
“More what?”
“More everything. More us.”
And that night, when she goes to sleep on the little couch and I can’t bring myself to leave, I make myself comfortable in a sleeping bag underneath her and think, you’re right, Remington. We share a lot.
Your stepbrother has tainted us both.
But it ends soon.
Sunday morning, we take the boat to a secluded cove on Lake Mead. When he takes off his T-shirt, exposing that long, sculpted torso and cut as shit V, I can’t help but break his no pictures rule. I dig my camera out from the bottom of his waterproof bag, which earns me a disapproving look…one that I ignore. I bite my lip, then saunter over to him, pouty lip and puppy dog eyes in full effect, and he groans dramatically.
“Whatever it is, the answer is no,” he growls.
“Come on,” I whine, batting my eyelashes. I wrap an arm around his neck, stand on my tiptoes, and bring my mouth close to his ear. I can smell him and almost taste the salt from his sweat. “Just,” I whisper, inching even closer. “One. Little…” I nip at his earlobe, and he sucks the air between his teeth. “Selfie!” I yell, extending my arm to snap a quick picture before he can stop me. He breaks out of his trance, and I laugh like a fucking hyena at the expression on his face. Suddenly, his face morphs into a sinister grin, and my laugher dies off into a nervous giggle.
“You’re going to regret that, little girl,” he says tauntingly. He plucks the camera out of my hands before tossing it into a pile of towels. Then he charges me, and I panic because I have nowhere to run.
“Pierce!” I squeal, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I think how out here, alone and away from school, being with him feels as natural as breathing.