I nod.
“We were worried about this transition, but you seem to have your head on straight. How did tonight go?”
“It was fun.” I will my thoughts away from Caleb’s hands on my body and focus on my brief moments with Riley. “Nice to get into the school spirit again.”
He looks down at his book and removes his reading glasses. “We know his family. He’s had a rough…” He shakes his head. “Did you know him when you went to school here?”
“No,” I lie. I’m not sure why it slips out of my mouth, because the truth will probably come out eventually. “Not well.”
He nods. “All right. I’m done with the inquisition. Len and I drew straws to see who would stay up waiting for you. I’ll admit I’m relieved to see you back in one piece before midnight, so I can go to bed.”
We both chuckle, and I follow him up the stairs. I wave goodbye at my room and close the door quietly. I hesitate to turn around, wondering if tonight, Caleb will be sitting on my bed again. If he’ll come calling more now that he’s…
I finally turn, but my room is empty. The window is closed. What was it Robert had said?
He had a rough…
Rough what?
My phone buzzes in my hand. I’d forgotten I even had it.
Caleb: Dream of me.
The fucker slipped his number into my phone.
I drop it onto my nightstand and get ready for bed quickly, more than exhausted. When I dream, it isn’t of him. It’s a nightmare.
My mother clutches my shoulders, holding me close.
It isn’t loving. She shakes me hard, my head snapping back from the strength of it.
“What did you do?”
Tears fill my eyes. The world becomes blurry. She keeps shaking until someone rips her hands off me. I fall backward, my head smacking off the edge of our kitchen table.
“Margo, tell me!”
I can’t stop crying. My whole body trembles with the force of my sobs.
My head hurts.
My heart hurts.
Why?
“Why?” Mom screams.
I jerk upright, clutching at my chest. Sweat drips down my back.
That felt entirely too real.
I get up and lock myself in my bathroom, turning on the shower. Steam covers the mirror in seconds, and I’m grateful I don’t have to see my own expression. What would my face convey? Shock? Horror?
It had to be just a figment of my imagination.
The hot water burns away the crawling feeling of the nightmare. As I scrub my scalp, I realize I’m searching for something. My finger finds a scar on the back of my head, slightly raised and jagged.
I shiver.
Once I’m clean, I wrap myself in towels. One for my body and another for my hair. I climb back into bed and stare at the wall, waiting for sleep to come. It doesn’t. My eyelids grow heavy, but my mind is spinning like a top. I get out of bed and peek out my window. Slowly, like I’m still trapped in a dream, I unlock it and slide it open an inch.
And then I wait. But the devil doesn’t come.
12
The weekend brings new challenges. Namely: Caleb.
And paint.
“We need to work on our project,” he says, leaning against my bathroom door.
He caught me by surprise, bounding up the stairs before Robert had a chance to warn me.
I have one eye of makeup done. One.
He comes in and pushes my hand holding the mascara wand down, then raises his other hand. He blocks first one side of my face from his view, then the other.
I raise my eyebrows.
“You look nice without makeup on,” he says. “You smear black shit all over your eyes. And really, it’s not needed. Is it an insecurity thing?”
I push his hand away. “I like it.”
His gaze roams my face.
I expect him to smirk, but instead he shakes his head.
“Whatever floats your boat, Sheep.”
I grimace, letting him watch from the bathroom door. I lean close to the mirror and apply the mascara to my other eye, then eyeliner. Satisfied, I zip the bag closed and brush past him.
He grabs my wrist. “Slow down.”
“I don’t really like it when you call me a sheep,” I say. “Especially not in my own…”
“Home?” He leans in. “You can call it that, you know.”
I shake my head. Can I? Not yet. It’s a house that I sleep in. Eat in. Have nightmares in.
“Let’s paint, then.”
Robert hovers for about five minutes until I shoot him a death glare. He raises his hands in surrender, chuckling, and mumbles something about being in his office. He lent us small easels that stand on a table. Spread across the kitchen island are Caleb’s and my brushes and paint, laid out in neat rows on newspaper.
I stare at the blank canvas for a few seconds, then set my charcoal pencil down. I lean my elbow on the table and find Caleb watching me. He’s in a similar pose.
“Why are you in an art class?” I ask. “You’re smart. A sport god, apparently. And—”
“And those things don’t correlate with art?” He smirks. “It’s a hobby. Just like lacrosse.”
I suppose he already knows where his future lies: with his father’s company. Even though they apparently sold it, he still has an inheritance. A role he could grow into. It’s okay for him to have hobbies.
“I can’t do this. I can’t paint you.”
“Could you paint yourself?” he asks.
I think about that. Would I be able to show everything that I am? Good and bad?
My silence answers for me, and he frowns. “Why not?”
“You want to know why I wouldn’t be able to paint myself? I wouldn’t do it with any amount of accuracy.”
He shrugs. “I could. I’m going to paint you and show every inch of you.”
His gaze slides up and down my body, and fuck me, I get wet. One orgasm, and he owns my body.
“The good, the bad, and the ugly.”
I shake my head, trying not to make it obvious that I’m pressing my thighs together.
“But you have to go first.”
I twitch. “So I have to show you how I see you before…”
He grins. “I’m not in the mood to paint today.”
My sigh comes out slowly. “What are you in the mood for?”