Page 32 of Fighting the Forbidden

How’d he know that?

“Uh, yeah. Only a couple nights a week, though. My brother doesn’t like me taking too many shifts.”

His lip curls at the mention of Remy. “Yeah, how is Remington?” he asks in a snide tone that activates my little sister defensive shields.

I lift my chin. “He’s good.” An overprotective pain in my butt who uses my hair products without permission, but I’m not letting anyone talk shit about him no matter what.

“He still working at that dinky little pub off the Thruway?”

Anger flares hot and I glare at him. “Yes, he still owns and runs the tavern our grandparents left us when they died. Thanks for asking.”

His jaw slides sideways in an oh, shit expression. “That’s right. I forgot. I’ll, uh, have to stop in one day.”

You do that. “Sure.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” He reaches out and touches my shoulder. I flinch and jerk away.

He holds up the bottle. “You want a beer?”

“No thanks.” I raise my can of black cherry seltzer. “I’m good.”

He squints at the can. “Is that hard seltzer?”

Any idiot can see it’s a regular, fat can of traditional Polar seltzer—the same brand sold in every grocery store in New York—but I don’t feel like explaining why I’m not pounding alcohol like all my friends. “Yup.”

He leans closer, not even trying to hide that he’s angling his head to stare directly down my shirt. “Where’s Hayden’s room?” he asks.

“Huh?” I frown in confusion.

“Wade claims her room’s so pink it looks like the inside of…” his voice falters, “…uh, the inside of Barbie’s dream house. Is that true?”

I chuckle uncomfortably. “She redecorated it, yeah.” After her dad left, Hayden’s mom let her do whatever she wanted to her room. Hayden chose wild hot-pink wallpaper and painted all her furniture fuchsia. “I’m not a big fan of pink, but it actually looks amazing. Hayden has a great eye for colors, patterns, and stuff. I asked her to come up with a purple and red scheme for my room…” Wesley’s gaze is focused somewhere over my head. He’s not even listening.

Why’d he bother asking?

Wesley’s gaze wanders toward the stairs.

He seems to notice I’ve stopped talking and shifts his attention to me again. “So where are you planning to go to school next year?”

“I…I’m not sure yet.”

His head tilts in this pitying sort of way that tightens my jaw with annoyance. “What do you want to study?”

“Communication disorders and sciences.”

He shrugs and gives a blank expression. “Where?”

Good question. I don’t have enough money to go too far from home. “Uh, I’m thinking of going to Greene Point, then transferring to Cortland or somewhere for the last two years.”

“Greene Point? That’s basically thirteenth grade,” he sneers with all the assurance only a guy whose parents can afford tuition can muster.

I shrug like that didn’t sting. “I don’t want to go too far away.”

“Yeah, I get that. It’s nice coming home on the weekends.” He grins. “My mom does all my laundry for me.”

Of course she does.

“So, Molly.” He pushes away from the wall and reaches for me, his hand hovering close enough for him to graze his scratchy thumb over my semi-bare shoulder.

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