Page 18 of Beneath the Dirt

“You forgot something.” His hand stretched in front of me, my necklace his dad took dangling from it.

Water splashes onto the floor as I plunge upward with every intention of snatching it from him, but his gaze derails my plans. I remain propped up on my knees while his eyes are glued to my bare tits. The mix of feral hunger—and guilt—injected in his stare is too delicious not to mess with.

My fingertips gently caress my neck, running soft lines up and down, before my hand runs down my sternum. He tries to look away, and he’s almost successful, until my palm slithers under one breast, circling it in a tease before making my way over to the pointed peak of my nipple. Absolutely reveling in how bothered he’s becoming.

A deep hum fills his throat as he tries to drag his attention from my tits to my face. The moment our eyes meet, the lust that was just filling his gaze disappears. Concern now wreaking havoc on his defined features.

Fuck.Goodbye to the Harlan that secretly wants to touch me,and hello to the Harlan who ruins all my fun, when he gets into big brother mode. Since his attention isn’t on my tits anymore, I’m fully aware that he can see the cut his dad left on my cheek.

“I’m surprised he gave it to you,” I break the silence, trying to deflect. My chin tilted in the direction of said necklace.

“If byhimyou mean my dad… he didn’t.”

Confusion spreads on my forehead, crinkling it. His dad took it from me. I watched him leave with it still in his possession. How else would Harlan have gotten it?

Harlan steps forward, twirling his fingers, signaling me to turn around. Still wondering how the hell he didn’t get it from his dad, I lower myself back into the water and gather my hair in one hand, letting it drape over my shoulder as I turn, exposing my back to him.

Harlan slips my necklace back on, and the cool chain mixed with the warmth of his skin creates an oddly comforting sensation.

Though as his fingers linger on my shoulder, and slowly trickle down my spine, the trepidation buzzing from his fingertips lets me know that he’s only accessing the previous trail of hate that his dad left on my skin. The scene Harlan’s taking in is enough to make the most avid of smokers swear off cigarettes immediately.

A breath hitches in my throat. The memories will never fade. Not when my skin heals. Not ever.

“Maybe I have to burn the sinner out of you. Stay still, you wretched little…”

Harlan clears his throat, snapping me out of my daze. “Turn around,” he commands dryly–mean sounding—but I like it coming from him. It’s so different from when his father acts and talks like a prick. From Harlan, it somehow adds to his allure. It’s almost like the invisible halo hovering over his head is slipping, and he’s just waiting for someone—like me—to yank it off and give him permission to exist without its confines. To be free.

“Let me see your face. Now, Araceli,” he snaps, only adding to the fantasy I have of how I wish he’d be.

“Geesh. Chill your balls.” I throw my hands up as I follow his command.

He mutters something to himself as he heads to the medicine cabinet to get rubbing alcohol and a Band-Aid.

“Pills,” I breathe, trying to jog his memory of what I asked him for when his tongue was buried in Tori.

Harlan shakes his head, dragging the small stool by the sink over near the tub to sit on. “I couldn’t get them.”

He works in silence, first cleaning then covering my cut. A disappointed sigh leaves my lips, but it’s overshadowed by the one that leaks from Harlan’s mouth as he leans over to toss out the bandage backing. The contents of my purse that must’ve spilled out when he startled me coming into the bathroom are now at the forefront of his attention, and the invitation to Heathen’s Cross is in a death grip.

“Where did you get this?” He shakes his head, causing the loose waves of golden hair to cover his eyes instead of frame them as they usually do.

“From the person who invited me. Now hand it over.”

“You’re not going,” he deadpans as if he has the power to order me around. Hell, not even his dad, with his arsenal of consequences he likes to hang over my head, or the man upstairs he subscribes to, has any authority over me. Why would this moment of command from Harlan—unexpected and hot as it may be—be a determining factor in me going?

“Why not?”

He peels his attention from the invitation to me. “He’ll kill you.” The bold tone in his voice takes me aback.

“You know, you’re the second person who has said that to me today. I’m well aware how much your dad hates Halloween. I mean, for fuck’s sake, he’s built a church and a whole fucking festival around his hatred for the holiday,” I remind him. “But it’s not enough to convince me not to go. I’m going. Like it orfucking not. You can either stay here and be your dad’s good little boy, or you can finally grow a pair and come with me. It’s up to you. Either way, I’m going.”

Harlan’s fist tightens, crushing the paper in his grip. The veins on his hand lift to the surface. Each thick, raised blood vessel telling a story, and speaking for him to let me know that I struck a nerve. Who knows, maybe something I said has what it takes to get that invisible halo to fall like I’ve been waiting for.

Pushing through whatever his inner quarrel is, he shoots me a conflicted look. Vexation still ripples through his body, and his blue eyes contradict his anger, pleading with me.

“You know why he hates it, Araceli. It’s when—”

I cut him off, wagging my finger at him. “My mom died, yes, I know, but clearly that wasn’t enough of a reason to make him not slap me, in his church no less, today, now, was it?” I challenge him with my rhetorical question, and my gaze falls to his arm. With his sleeve rolled up to his elbow, the reddish-purple mark on his forearm is impossible to miss. “Didn’t your mom die around this time of year also?” I ask, already knowing the answer. It’s a harsh approach, sure, but it only proves my point on just how awful his father is, even more.

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