Page 20 of Pretty Girls Never Lie (St. Mary’s)

Thomas is so much older. His once chubby hand was clutching onto the teddy bear I gave him before he was ripped away from me in that same bed I considered mine once before.

WITSEC tried to work with the system to keep us together, and they did a good job at doing so for a couple of years, but after a while, it became difficult. No one wanted a young boyandhis overprotective teenage sister, so they separated us, and I’m afraid that he doesn’t even remember me at this point.

Another slash of hurt gives me whiplash. I almost didn’t budge when Zachary pulled me down the hallway away from Thomas, but I knew that I had to play my cards right, so I went willingly.

I was quiet—something I’m used to—even when Zachary pushed me into the bathroom instead of taking me down the steps to ‘go somewhere private.’ There is no greater thrill than touching your old foster daughter in the guest bathroom while your wife sleeps down the hall, right?

More tears escape the longer I think about it. I gather the hem of my summer dress, like pulling the cotton down over my thighs is going to take away his touch.

I didn’t say no when he trailed his fingers down my spine and pulled me into his chest, and I didn’t say no when he nibbled on my ear and put his hand between my legs.It’s just a game, Isla.My lip wobbles again, and I cry harder, despite my efforts to keep it together. There are so many casualties that come with this messed-up plan, and there’s a part of me that wonders if I should just leave it be.

Maybe it would be better if Thomas just forgot about me altogether.

The only problem is thatIcan’t forget abouthim, no matter how hard I try. I’m all he has, and he’s all I have.

“Shit,” I whisper. I wrap my arm around my lower belly to hold myself together. “This is so messed up.”

“What is? You sneaking out of the school late at night to go be with your boyfriend?”

I snap my watery gaze in Brantley’s direction and drop my arms by my sides from surprise. It only takes me a second to bounce back. “He’s not my boyfriend!” Turning away, I wipe my tears and fling them into the dark. “Go away.”

“Nah, I enjoy this view.”

Me crying? Hewouldenjoy it.

I grind my teeth together as moisture spills over my lower lashes. I soften my voice, and I'm damn near about to plead. “Please go.” I hate that I’m throwing up a white flag, but my stomach is in knots, and my limbs are still trembling. The energy it takes to argue with Brantley is depleted, and I’m not sure I have it in me to put up a good front.

“If he isn’t your boyfriend, then who is he?”

I spin around, forgetting that I’m trying to avoid showing Brantley that I’m upset. “It’s none of your business!” My voice rises, but by the end of my sentence, it’s more of a croak. I search the dark for him, but it’s too late to do anything rash because his hand grips my wrist, and I’m pulled into his chest so hard I lose my breath.

“You’re crying”—he wipes a tear and throws it off to the side—“so that makes it my business, Goldilocks.”

TWELVE

Brantley

I do not like the feeling I have from seeing Isla cry. It gives me an itch for violence, which is a thirst I’ve inherited from years of being next to my father, a thirst I don’t want to quench anymore. But watching Isla climb out of that car with tears in her eyes makes me want to burn the expensive vehicle to ash with him still inside of it.

It’s some kind of messed up psychological shit that’s making me this way, I think. I can’t go back in time and stop her father’s murder, but maybe if I fix one of her problems now, I can stop obsessing over her.

Guilt. I feel guilty. That’s what it is.

“Let me go, Brantley,” she demands through a held-back cry.

My chest is tight, and I’m acting irrationally. I reach up and grab the side of her wet face and speak the truth. “I can’t.” Her salty tears disappear with a swipe of my thumb, and her bottom lip trembles even faster.

She sniffles with a flicker of her jaw. I know she’s trying to avoid wearing her heart on her sleeve, but it’s so damn beautifulto see the real her. “Why? Enjoying my tears? Loving that I look so weak right now?”

I’m tight all over, and I tell myself to leave her be, but my body refuses to listen to my head. Instead of letting her go, I pull her in closer. “I left you crying once before. I don’t plan to do it again. Who is he?”

“No one.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Isla turns away, but she doesn’t take a step backward. Her shoes stay pressed up against mine. “Don’t you remember what you told me that night?”

“Unfortunately, I remember everything about that night.”

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