Mine Would Be You (108)

All I know is that I don’t want to fucking be here. In this house that isn’t really a home.

The sound of gravel crunching causes me to whip my head up, my eyes narrowing as I look between the two of them. Nyx’s tail starts wagging, like it always used to do when someone would drive up into the driveway.

“Who is that?” I mutter, turning on my heel and going back through the front door to see a sleek black sedan pulling onto the dirty driveway, dust already staining the car.

Shane sighs behind me, “That would be the financial advisor he hired.”

I stare at him incredulously, “You let him hire a financial advisor?” The breeze passes by me, blowing my curls slightly around my face, and I roughly pull it back in frustration.

“I didn’t let him do anything Sheyanne.” He says roughly, shaking his head at me and leaning against the dirty white sliding of the house.

Dad has finally caught up, his limp slightly worse now, but he leans in the open doorway. His eyes are focused on the now parked car and the man who steps out of it.

He’s in pressed black slacks and a perfectly ironed white button up, a suit jacket hanging off his arm, with glossy black shoes on that are going to get dirty as soon as he takes two steps over the dusty gravel. I can see the glittering watch on his wrist from his rolled-up cuffs and the polished cufflinks to match. I raise a brow, leaning against one of the pillars that holds up the porch covering, as he grabs not only a brief case but a suitcase.

“What is this? A live-in intervention for you?” I ask, turning to look at my dad. Every second I spend here somehow gets worse.

“That’s exactly what this is.”

The man now rolls two suitcases towards the front porch, his dark skin unreadable in the setting sun behind the sunglasses covering his eyes.

I don’t care if he can hear me or not as I stare at my dad for the hundredth time today, “He’s living here?”

“Yes.”

I look at Shane, “With Shane and I?”

“Yes.”

“With you?”

“Yes,” he says firmly, done with my questions by the tone of his voice and I don’t open my mouth to ask another one.

I turn, to see whatever his name is standing at the foot of the steps, looking around at the grounds of the place. He takes his sunglasses off, hanging them off the white button up shirt. His eyes flicker from the fenced in acers, to the barn, to the house, and finally to the three of us.

He makes eye contact with me, the obviously angry one, for a brief second. No clear emotion flickers in his deep brown eyes and I keep my own face impassive as I silently study him, before turning back around and walking straight passed my dad and Shane and into the house without a second glance back.

I fucking hate Flagstaff, Arizona.





Two | Sheyanne



Liam Landon.

The name echoes repeatedly in my head.

At least that’s what I thought I heard from leaning against my closed bedroom door. I haven’t gone back out there yet, but I can hear the soft voices of them in the living room, discussing god knows what.

The room around me is the same ugly blue-gray color I painted it all those years ago, illuminated lightly by the setting sun and the bedside table I turned on. The hardwood floor is cold under my feet, cooling my heated skin from the emotions coursing through me. The espresso colored furniture is all the same, my vanity, my dresser and my nightstands. Each have a few pale scratches in them down the side or on the tabletop from overuse and even now, all my posters hang on the wall. Some of the ends are curled in and ripped, but it seems as though once I left no one ever stepped foot in here.

Which is fine with me.

I stare out the window, where I can see straight to the barn and the few horses out and about in the pasture. After a few deep breaths I turn around and wrap my hand around the knob, willing myself to get this over with. A financial advisor. A live-in intervention. Alzheimer’s.

This is fucking absurd.

Nyx is waiting outside my door; his tail immediately starts wagging when I exit. The voices stop immediately as if they can sense me, like I’m the wicked witch of the west. I pause in the hallway, leaning against the doorway with my arms crossed.

Shane, my dad and Liam all sit at the old wooden dining room table and slowly their eyes all turn to land on me.

I blink, “What’s your name?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

He holds my gaze, lifting his chin a fraction of an inch. “Liam.”

A smirk tugs at my lips, “Leo?”

“Liam.”

I narrow my eyes slightly and tilt my head, “Oh, Leon, perfect, nice to meet you.”

“It’s Liam,” he says again, calmly somehow, but his deep brown eyes, deeper than Shane’s, darken further. He leans back in the chair, easily crossing a leg over the other in one smooth motion.

Shane glances between us and I can practically feel his teeth grinding from here, “Don’t worry, she’s like that all the time.”

Ah yes, I do have that effect on people.

I stride across the floor, unbothered by the annoyed glances trailing over me and take a seat at the table, right next to Shane. And I look right at Liam, not caring if he sees me looking over him.

Liam doesn’t seem much older than me, maybe a few years. His dark brown skin is flawless, only a shade lighter than my dad’s, there is barely a blemish in sight on his face or his forearms where the white under shirt of his suit has been rolled up. Those brown eyes are big and searching, but there’s something calculated about them, intelligent, sharp. I flicker over his face, the sharp jawline, his full lips and the crisp cut of his short black curls suits him perfectly. The shirt hugs him, not too tight, but I can easily see the ripples of lean muscle underneath.