Filthy Foreign Exchange(2)
“So it’s like that, then? Dropping me for Clay of all people?” She stares up at me, chewing on her left thumbnail.
“No offense,” I say, surprised she’s buying into my empty threat, “but we have a show coming up soon, and I just don’t think we have enough time for the practice we need together.”
“I really want to do this act, Echo,” she throws back. “Let’s just try again tomorrow, okay? Plus, Clay’s probably going to be pretty busy, you know, helping your dad with the grounds work and other stuff Sebastian did.” She grabs her jacket. “We’ll get it—we always do. Just not tonight.”
“You want the act? Then we keep practicing now!” I shout as she heads toward the exit, thinking quickly of a plea to her pride. “Come on. Does Sebastian let you quit this easily?”
She pauses, then looks back over her shoulder. “As a matter of fact, Sebastian loves it when I call it a day. Why do you think I’m so comfortable in that net, hmm?”
She gives me a saucy grin before continuing forward, adding a little skip to her step.
“That’s my brother! Jesus, Savannah, I don’t want to hear that crap!” She’s already outside when I yell, “You know what? You win! Now I’m done practicing, too. That’s a wrap, you big nasty!”
She pokes her head back in. “Don’t knock it till you try it,” she says before blowing me a mocking kiss. “See you tomorrow. Good luck with your family…and your guest.”
I stay and continue to practice, despite my threat—and the disturbing image that pops into my head every time I hit the net, thanks to Savannah’s oversharing.
~~~~~
By the time my muscles demand I call it a night, the storm is long gone and the family car is parked in our driveway.
I creep silently into the house and find a tinfoil-covered plate on the kitchen counter: the dinner my mom saved for me, even though I’m sure my father said something along the lines of, “If she wants to eat, she can sit down, on time, with the rest of us.”
I smile to myself at the small victory. My dad may think he rules the roost, but he doesn’t call the last shot when it comes to my mom taking care of her babies.
After I finish off the still-warm chicken and potatoes as quietly as possible, I tiptoe past my parents’ bedroom, paying special attention to each step I take—or, more specifically, avoiding the floorboards that creak.
My father’s stern voice pierces the darkness. “We’ll talk in the morning, young lady.”
Damn, he’s good. I literally wobbled left to right like a drunk person, nailing the silent boards, and he still heard me.
“Yes, sir,” I spit out before hurrying up the staircase to my bedroom.
My grandfather, smart man that he was, built this house after he had children. With the master suite on the bottom floor and the kids’ rooms upstairs, there was no getting past the parents. But somehow, Grandpa had forgotten to take into account that our family has studied the art of Aerialism for generations. So once you’re up in your room, getting out of it undetected isn’t much of a problem—a caveat I know for a fact my older brother Sebastian has taken advantage of often (mostly because he’s used my balcony to do so nine times out of ten).
I head straight for a hot shower to prevent my overworked muscles from stiffening. The entire time I stand under the spray, I stare through the glass at the closed door on the far side of the room. Sebastian’s bedroom is connected to mine by a Jack and Jill bathroom, but my brother isn’t on the other side anymore. Tonight, and every night for this upcoming school year, he’ll be in England, his room vacant. The thought is the final blow to my day.
Once I’ve dried off and tied my robe, I open his door slowly, with tears in my eyes. I’m not sure why I’m going into his room—maybe to see the proof of his absence, na?vely hoping that will help settle my anxiety? It’s dark inside, of course, but the thin drapes are parted and the moon is full and bright after tonight’s storm.
My breath hitches, my feet coming to a complete and sudden halt when I spot the large body lying in my brother’s bed. It’s almost comforting at first; I find myself wishing it was Sebastian, but I know it’s not.
And I can only assume it’s Kingston. I have no clue why my parents didn’t just drop him at his dorm, or why I’m not turning around to go back to my own room. But now, as I stand so close, my curiosity is piqued.
From this angle and in this lighting, he could almost pass for Sebastian: short, dark-brown hair; muscularly outlined back; sleeping on his side. But whereas Sebastian sleeps under the covers, our houseguest has the sheet and comforter shoved down past a tight, perfectly rounded ass that’s filling out his black boxer briefs in a way I find startlingly sinful. He also has his arms shoved under his pillow—another difference that makes it hard for me to pretend.
I creep a bit farther into the room, checking out his luggage: designer and monogrammed—all matching of course, and reeking of luxury and fine leather. Fancy, but mismatching horribly with the black (and admittedly sexy) combat boots that—
“Umpf,” I grunt despite my desperate efforts to remain quiet, reaching out for anything to brace myself on. But it’s no use. I fly forward, having tripped over one of the not-nearly-as-sexy-now boots.
“I was told you were the graceful one.”