Page 43 of Hale
Gritting my teeth, I pick up the razor and toss it into the sink. Aunt Becky steps aside and I storm over to the dresser to hunt for a shirt.
“I know you two are hurting over your parents and then after what happened with Rylie but…” she trails off.
I whip around and frown. “But what?”
“Butthatcan’t happen.”
“Me helping my sister? Me comforting her? And why the hell not?” I demand, my fury making my entire body tremble.
She shakes her head at me. “I’m not stupid. Whatever was going on in there was far from innocent. It was written all over both your faces.” Her nostrils flare. She’s disgusted with me.
“I have a girlfriend. I’m not fucking my sister,” I snarl as I storm over to my bag. No, I just wanted to. “I’m leaving.”
She lets out a heavy sigh. “That’s probably for the best. Put some space between you two. You’ve spent too much time together.”
I don’t answer her as I pack a bag.
I don’t even get to say goodbye to my sister.
Rylie
“Rylie,” Aunt Becky says, her voice soft from the doorway. “We need to talk.”
I watch through the window Hudson’s taillights until they disappear. The moment they’re gone, I feel empty. An ache forms in my chest. I want to call him, but I knew this conversation would happen after she busted us.
My heart flutters at the still-fresh memory of holding his hot, rigid cock in my hand. I wanted to explore every part of him. Taste every inch. The sickness that simmers below my surface is bubbling more and more each day. Tonight, it splashed over onto Hudson.
We kissed.
We touched.
Tonight was ours.
“So talk,” I bite out.
She lets out a heavy sigh and sits on the bed. Despite her wearing her frilly pajamas, she resembles Mom and it makes my heart clench in my chest. When she’s being nice and caring, she’s a lot like my mother. In some ways, it makes me happy. In other ways, it makes me sad. It’s a reminder my mom is no longer here. Neither is Dad. It’s just me and Huds. Until the end.
“I need you to tell me what happened.”
I tense and cross my arms over my chest. “He helped me shave my legs.”
Our eyes meet and hers narrow as she studies me.
“It was inappropriate,” she clips out.
“He’s my brother.”
We have a silent standoff before she softens again.
“Did he, um, touch you?” Her brows furl together and she swallows.
“He had to touch me,” I deadpan. “He was shaving my legs.”
She bristles and straightens her back. “You know what I mean. Did he touch you inappropriately?”
Nobody has to know.
“No,” I lie, keeping my features impassive. At least I hope she can’t see through my mask.
