Page 12 of Vengeful Rotten Casualties

“Micki.”

6

LUC

16 years old…

I catch sight of the object of all of my fucking desires sitting on top of the hill behind the antiquated Kincaid estate that’s been in my family for generations, since we settled here in Eastpoint some hundred years back. She’s right next to the old oak tree that overlooks the valley below and the city beyond. I make my way towards her, moving as quietly as possible so as not to disturb her, but seconds before I reach her, she turns and looks back, smirking as if she’d known I was there all along. How she does it, I’ll never know.

“You’re never going to get better at being quiet if you stomp up the hill like a horde of elephants every time,” Micki comments lightly.

With a huff, I squat down beside her, letting my ass drop onto the grass covered mound, and cross my legs. “Not all of us are born with your perceptive skills,” I reply, “and I wasn’t fucking stomping. Anyone else would’ve been surprised to see me.”

A strand of blonde hair falls over her bare shoulder and she pushes it back as she continues working on whatever she’s doing in front of her. “I’m not anyone else,” she says.

No, she’s not.I know better than anyone just how special MiKayla Michaels is. She’s smart, friendly, and so fucking sweet, it’s a wonder that I haven’t started developing cavities every time I kiss her.

Unable to resist the urge, I reach out and snag that part of her hair as it slips over her shoulder once more. I take the strand between my fingers and rub it back and forth. The silkiness smells like heaven—a heady mixture of soap and vanilla. I lift it to my face and inhale.

“Weirdo.” I ignore her comment. She doesn’t pull away after all.

In front of her, she’s gathering a mound of dirt into a small mini hill, piling it on top of itself with her bare, dirt smeared hands. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“Passing the time,” she replies.

“Until?”

Her long-fingered hands pause over the dirt and grass and her head lifts. It’s then that I realize she’s not alright. There’s tension around the corners of her mouth and a puckered v in the center of her brows. “Micks?” I drop her hair and reach for her face instead, cupping her cheek against my palm. “What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t pull away from me like a shy girl might. Not my Micki. She sighs and rests her face more fully against my hand, seeking out my warmth. Her skin is like ice.How long has she been out here?

“He won’t let me see her.” I freeze. Micki’s words cause a dagger to stab right into the center of my chest. Guilt. I have no information to give her and no power to help her either.

I grit my teeth but keep my fingers soft and unfazed against her face. “I’m sure she’s okay,” I try to reassure her, but it doesn’t help. Nothing will until she sees with her own eyes.

“It’s only been a few weeks,” I try, “they just got back from a trip—”

“Months,” she corrects me, interrupting.

No one at my school would ever dare interrupt me. None of the girls would be able to do anything—areable to do anything—but twitter in my presence, acting like idiots without brains. Micki isn’t like the girls at my school. Shit, she’s not like any girl I’ve ever met in my goddamn life. She’s better. So much better. And she’s right.

“He says she’s been sick,” I try, but I know what bullshit that is. There’s a reason Micki hasn’t seen her mom—a reason my father has kept her locked up so tight and I’m afraid to wonder why.

“I don’t believe him,” Micki replies.

Yeah, I get that. My father rarely, if ever, tells the truth. Why would this time be any exception?

I suck in a breath as her big, luminous brown eyes meet mine, and before I can say anything more, she speaks again. “Something’s wrong,” she says.

Fuck.I grit my teeth against the words that threaten to spill out. Micki has a sense for shit like this. Whenever she says something is off or wrong, it usually is. I won’t insult her by pouring out any manner of baseless reassurances. My thumb curves up over her cheek, towards her lips.

“I’ll talk to him,” I say. As much as I don’t want to. As much as I’d rather skin myself alive than talk to my father, if it’s for her, I’ll do it.

“I don’t want to talk to her on the phone again,” Micki presses. “I want to see her.”

I nod. Of course, the only way she’ll be able to assure herself that her mom isn’t dead or dying is if she sees her with her own eyes, but knowing Micki’s weird sense of prediction—I have a feeling that isn’t going to be possible.

“I’ll tell him that you want to see her,” I agree.

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