Stain (Stain #1)(10)

I return my gaze to Noah. “Thank you,” I answer, and duck my head. “Your work is beautiful, too.” It sounds insincere. But I mean every word. He did an acrylic painting titled, “Black Static,” for last year’s young artist show that blew me away. That painting is what sparked my inspiration for my macabre side of art.

He chuckles. “Thanks.”

I look down at my feet, and dig the toe of my left sandal into the dirt. My social graces are severely lacking. I don’t have many friends, in fact, I only have one friend. And it’s taken Mallory nearly three years to begin to understand just how awkward I am. It’s not intentional. I’m not very good at entertaining people. Even holding a simple conversation takes effort. This is torture. It’s even worse for Noah, I’m assuming, since he has to deal with my weirdness.

“…you doing something?”

“…I should go…”

He grins crookedly down at me. “You should join us, but if you have to go…”

He trails off, leaving it open for me to either jump on the invitation or turn it down. I open my mouth to speak but Bria’s bark of laughter draws my gaze back to Noah’s left, and my eyes like magnets clamp onto Maddox’s face. I don’t expect to meet his gaze dead-on. Coldness greets me, so chilling I feel it in my bones. I shudder.

“Cold?”

It’s safer to just look at Noah.

“No.” Adjusting the shoulder straps of my bag, I’m unaware of how tightly I’m holding onto it until the woven straps bite into my palm. “Not really.” I slacken my hold a little only to feel the explosion of needle-like pain in my hand. A small part of me likes the sensation.

“Thanks for the invite, but I have to get back to church.” It’s a lie. But it’s better than the alternative. Even if I did do something completely out of character as to accept Noah’s invitation. I know I’ll be unwelcomed. The look on his brother’s face is a clear indication I’m not wanted.

“Okay, well, I guess I’ll see you at school?”

“Yeah.”

I turn away from them. “Bye, Aylee.”

Looking over my shoulder, I give Noah what I hope is a nice smile. “Bye.”





Chapter 4


Maddox


“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you had a hard-on for her.” With my gaze trained on her retreating back, I tip back the bottle of Heineken and guzzle down the little bit that remains. Doing what I’ve been doing since we entered the cemetery, I swing my arm back and hurl the bottle. It flies through the air and explodes against the tree in front of her. When she stops, I wait for her reaction, wait to see if she’ll turn around and reveal that startled, wide-eyed rabbit look I saw on her face earlier. I’m thinking she’ll say something, maybe even flip me off, but when she peers over her shoulder, it’s to look at me with those eyes. Eyes that are like the stained-glass windows at St. Peters on Main Street. My mom used to go to that church a lot, to pray to a God who didn’t give a shit about her. I broke in a few months after she died, trashed the altar, spray painted the cross, and shattered the windows with rocks. All simply because I could.

Eyes locked, she shows me nothing but her well-maintained mask of composure. It’s a pretty mask, made of golden skin touched with a hint of flushed pink undertones. She’s like a living doll with that heart-shaped face and sunlight-blond hair. It’s almost wrong of me to imagine her Cupid’s bow lips wrapped around a cock. My cock, to be precise. I can see her on her knees, between my legs, her cheeks hollowing as she struggles to take every inch of my nine inches between those lips. I’d guide her, too, help her out a little because I’m Mr. Fucking Generous. Bria would be there, too, showing her exactly how to take me in.

“Not everything is about sex, Max,” my shadowed self replies, with his typical chastising tone effectively breaking my nice little fantasy. My eyes flick back to where she’s standing just in time to see her turn and walk away like nothing happened.

“But then again, what can I expect from someone who makes a living out of it?”

A switch flips inside of me and suddenly my impartial indifference switches to annoyance. I know where this conversation is going. That little dig is the beginning of Noah’s shit stirring, and honestly, I’m not nearly drunk enough for the lecture. One of the major differences—and there are many—between me and Noah is he has morals. I don’t. It pisses me off that he wants to impose his self-righteous bullshit on me, though.

I scoff, “Not a whole f*cking lot, little brother.” Pulling my vibrating cell phone from my back pocket, I glance at the screen. I send a quick reply before putting it away. “Look, we about done here? We did the whole monthly grave visit shit you wanted. I’m ready to head out.”

“I thought we were chilling later?” Bria—not exactly a friend, but someone who did occasionally provide a great distraction—looks at me expectantly.

“Not really my problem, Bree.” Heading to the grave I was sitting on earlier, I set the empty case of beer next to the gravestone marked, “Laura May Moore, Beloved Mother.” Then finally answer, “Got shit to do.”

“Then why the f*ck did you call me?”

I shrug. “Don’t need you anymore. But you can tell Noah all about Two-4-One. Tell him how great you look in front of the camera, and don’t forget to mention how much you made last month. I think he’ll appreciate hearing how lucrative f*cking for a living can be.”