Page 45 of Better Watch Out

I’d expected it to take longer, but I also underestimated the collective might of northern New York road crews.

“I could leave.” I say the words and hate the bitter taste they leave on my tongue. Three days ago I would’ve jumped at the chance to get away from my stepbrothers as quickly as possible. But now…

Well, the bitter taste in my mouth is enough of a hint, even for me, as an indication of how I feel regarding that idea.

“You could leave,” Fletcher agrees, his hands coming up so he can press his palms to my thighs. Gently, he runs his hands up to my hips, then back down to my knees. But still he just lays there, on his back and naked under the blankets separating us. As I watch, he tilts his head back with a sigh, but it can’t be deliberate.

It’s toovulnerable. Too much like he’s baring his throat to me in some sign of submission that goes beyond spoken words. But the moment he does, it’s like there’s a magnet attached to me. I lean down, brushing my lips up his neck until I can lick at the line of his jaw. He shudders under me, shifting just enough so I can tell he’s not as unaffected by this as he might want me to think.

He’s easier to talk to when he’s still sort of pretending to be out of it, even though I’m sure he’s not as drowsy as he’s letting on. My hand comes up, fingers carefully and experimentally wrapping around the base of his throat. He swallows and I feel the movement against my palm, leaning back to look down at him.

“Icould leave,” I say again, unsure of how to feel about the words the second time around.

Fletcher opens his mouth to say something, looking like he’s trying to choose his words carefully, but then Boone rolls over, opening his eyes as he growls in irritation.

“Yeah, we get it, okay?” Without warning he tugs me down into the empty space between them, wrapping his arms around my waist and yanking my back to his chest so we’re pressed flush together. “You could leave, but you’re not going to.” With a gesture I’d call sweet if it came from anyone else, he buries his face against my shoulder, groaning once more. “So stop sitting there and having some dramatic standoff until he asks you to stay.”

“Hey,hey!”I slap at his arm around my waist, and he retaliates by biting my shoulder lightly, surprising a yelp out of me. “We were not having a dramatic standoff, and I wasn’t expecting him to tell me to stay!”

“You weren’t?” Fletcher rolls over to face us, his eyes open and glittering in the morning light. He looks us both over, reaching out to thread his fingers through Boone’s hair. “You’re pouty this morning,” he observes. “Are you trying to tell us you’re getting attention-starved? That you’d rather be the one bound up in Christmas lights?”

“If that’s an option, I totally volunteer to be the one tying him up. I promise I’ll try not to strangle him.” It’s so easy to be light and playful when Boone is around, I’ve come to find. But it’s also easy to just bethiswith both of them.

Though I don’t know exactly whatthisis.

“You will stay, right?” Boone’s voice is soft in my ear, and it sobers me up quickly, causing the smile to slide off my lips.

“Would you let me leave?” I find myself asking, a question for a question. His arm around my waist tenses, and when I glance at his face I see his dark eyes are open and on Fletcher’s, like he’s searching there for his answer.

“We can’t make you love us if it’s not what you want.” Fletcher reaches out to turn my face back to his. “We can’t change what we are though, either. Not even for you. We’ve done worse than kill your so-called friends who made you want to die. That’s just the only thing you know about.” The admission sends a shudder down my spine.

“We’ll tell you the rest, though,” Boone promises almost eagerly. “All you have to do is?—”

“Ask another day. Not today,” Fletcher interrupts. He tugs on Boone’s hair briefly, before tangling his fingers in mine. “Like I said, Conor. We can lock you up, we can wrap you in Christmas lights. I could even let Boone drive off with you and not let you see civilization for months.” It’s a threat that has me shuddering, but not in the right way.

Not in what most people would consider thenormalway, at least.

“But we can’t force you to love us. So you can’t ask if we’ll let you leave, since it’s not just your physical presence we want.”

His words send my stomach twisting into origami knots, and I twine my fingers around Boone’s on my hip, holding him there like he might leave.

Or rather, likeImight leave.

“You want me to love you.” It’s not a question. It can’t be now, with what they’ve said and, more importantly, what they’ve done. They’ve killed for me, lied for me, and done everything they can to show me how they feel in their own fucked up way.

“What if I can’t give you an answer to that yet? What if I tell you I need time to figure it out?” I’m not sure that’s my final answer, and when the words come out, I realize quickly that it’s not. But I still want to hear their response, anyway.

“This is going to be where I tell you that I’ll fuck you until you can’t even think straight, let alone walk away from me.” Boone chuckles. “And then comes the part where Fletcher gives me thatlook, you smack me, and we don’t get anything accomplished in this conversation.” He bites my shoulder lightly to make his point and I reach up to tangle my fingers in his hair almost like Fletch had.

“Then you can’t, and then comes the point where I ask if you want me to drive you to the airport today.” Fletcher’s words are slow. Careful. I can feel Boone tense behind me, and even behind his always-guarded expression, I think I see something in Fletcher’s eyes that I don’t expect.

Vulnerability.

Before I can answer, there’s loud knocking on the door and our impressive doorbell rings, waking Sitka and sending her into a fit of howls and yodels that sound like a very confused ambulance. I sit up as Boone rolls away, glancing down at them in confusion.

“Surely that’s not Dad and Cheryl, right?” I ask, scrambling to my feet. I yank on my sweatpants and a t-shirt I find on the floor, making my way down the stairs before the other two are up or dressed. With excuses ready on my tongue, I grab Sitka and open the front door, prepared to see either my dad or Cheryl standing there with their arms full of things they picked up at flea markets and gift shops on their drive here.

Instead, Detective Ramirez and Detective Harper stand on our doorstep, again in their slick coats and aviators.

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