Page 12 of Little Stranger

Malachi knows this too. One morning, Mom knocked on my door, and he had to roll off the bed and hide under it while she talked to me again about trying to get him to therapy—as if we were plotting against him. And then thanked me for going on dates with both Adam and Parker, and asked which one I felt more suited to.

I could’ve smacked her when she said she’d seen me kissing them.

He didn’t talk to me for nearly two weeks after that, and it was horrible and lonely and boring.

Then I went to Abbi’s for a sleepover and woke in the middle of the night to find Malachi climbing in her window. He shoved his hand over my mouth and made me leave with him. We ended up in my bed, and he fell asleep, but I lay awake for hours, the urge to touch him stronger than ever—hard and pulsing right between my legs while he lightly snored in my ear.

With only myself as a witness, I kissed his cheek while he slept, laced our fingers together, and—when I let curiosity win out—gently let my hand slide from his chest, down his defined abs, so I could dip my fingers under his waistband.

I didn’t touch him—not really. I grazed my fingers over the soft skin, felt him twitch as I wrapped my fingers around his girth, and yanked myself away when he shifted. But I wanted to touch him more. I wanted to touch him and not worry about the consequences.

Is that bad? That I touched my brother while he slept? Am I out of order and latching on to him?

My phone buzzes, and I let out a huff when I see who it is.

Parker: Where is it you’re going on your trip? Think you can sneak away for a few hours?

Me: I’m eight hours away.

Parker: When do you get home?

Me: Monday. But I’m busy all week.

Parker: I guess I’ll see you when I see you.

I shut off my screen and shake my head, looking out the window as the city lights and buildings turn into trees and woodlands.

Malachi sits beside me, all the camping stuff packed into the trunk and sleeping bags rolled up between us. We’re going away for the weekend to some spot Dad is desperate to visit in the mountains, and we had no choice but to go too. Family time and all that shit.

You’d think with our parents being rich, with a fancy home and numerous cars, they’d have an RV or at least take the truck to fit all the things into, but nope—Dad wants to try camping the normal way, crushing us with things in the back in the process.

I’m exhausted—I didn’t sleep well last night since Malachi went out with his friends and didn’t come home until this morning. He climbed into my window at six in the morning, smelling like booze and cigarettes, his eyes bloodshot as he staggered towards my bed.

He turned on my lamp and signed to me, but it was so messy that I didn’t understand him. He stood in the middle of my room, swaying and running his hands through his hair in annoyance as he kept trying to communicate with me and failed.

I just helped him out of his hoodie and pants, gave him a glass of water, and slept on his chest while his arms encircled me. He was gone when I woke back up hours later to Dad hammering his fist on my door and demanding I pack for a long weekend of camping.

The. Worst.

My phone buzzes again, and my jaw rolls.

Malachi: Hold my hand.

I reread it three times, then glance at him, but he’s looking at his phone.

Malachi: Don’t make it obvious.

Me: Why do you want to hold my hand?

Malachi: Do I need a reason? Give me your hand, or I’ll tell Mom you touched my dick while I was asleep.

I choke on air, and Dad peeks over his shoulder. “Are you okay, angel?”

“Yes,” I reply. “Perfectly fine.”

Me: You were awake?

Malachi: I’m always awake. Give me your fucking hand.

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