Page 80 of Sinful Like Us
“Trynot to wake Eliot and Tom,” Charlie whispers, letting us inside the lavish and sleek apartment. Dark, no lamps or lights turned on, I skulk ahead of everyone and reach Beckett’s bedroom.
I tie my wavy hair back with a velvet scrunchie.
Don’t let up.
Confidence.
I pull back my shoulders and gently open the door. Quiet, I tiptoe on the dark hardwood and into the cleanest, most organized space. Books sit in neat rows on a polished shelf, pencils perfectly lined on a desk, and a fern is situated in the precise corner, near ironed curtains where navy fabric is pleated in straight lines.
Beckett sleeps soundlessly beneath a tucked-in, blue comforter. He holds the pillow beneath his head, colorful floral tattoos sprawling down his right arm. Donnelly inked every single one of Beckett’s tattoos, and all are flowers from roses to daisies to lilies and poppies, as homage to our mom and aunts.
It reminds me that he loves our family so greatly, despite having such little time to spend with us.
I walk closer to the bed. He looks peaceful.
And I hate to wake him. But I must.
“Beckett,” I whisper. “Beckett.” I reach the bed and lightly jostle his arm.
He jolts and flinches, eyes snapping open. But he instantly relaxes when he sees me. “Sis,” he exhales, rubbing his tired face. “What are you doing here?”
“You’re coming with us, little brother,” I remind him.
Horror freezes him, eyes like saucers. “No.” He notices Thatcher, Farrow, Moffy, and Charlie filling the bedroom, then his head whips back to me. “No. Jane, I told you I can’t go—”
“And I told you that if you used, we’d force you.”
“You can’t.” He uses his elbow to prop himself up.
“Are you naked?” I ask.
His face scrunches likewhat the fuck.“No—”
I fling the comforter off his body.
“Jane.” He’s just dressed in gray Calvin Klein underwear. And for his privacy, I keep my gaze above his neck, thank you very much.
“Get up. Get dressed. Pack a bag. Let’s go. You have an hour.” I perch my hands on my wide hips.Please, Beckett, make this easy.
He glares. “I’mnotgoin—”
Charlie flicks on the lights.
Beckett squints, hand shielding his eyes. “I’m twenty-one. I control my life, and all five of you need to get the fuck out of my room.”
None of us move a muscle. No one speaks.
Beckett lies back down, smoothly like silk resting on an idle lake. Even in his anger, he’s graceful.
I peek over my shoulder. “Thatcher.”
My boyfriend rips the rest of the bedding off, piling sheets and the comforter on the floor. Farrow comes closer and snatches the pillows, dumping them too. Charlie rolls in a suitcase, and Maximoff is careful with Beckett’s clothes as he opens each drawer. He tries to maintain the crisp shape of each folded item.
They pack his things.
Slowly, Beckett sits up against the headboard, aghast. He rests his elbows on his bent knees, fingers interlaced on his neck. Staring down at the bare mattress. If I pushed him over, he’d be in a fetal position, and it makes me terribly sad.
“Beckett, please,” I whisper. “We just want to help you.”
