Chapter 13

Aro

I can look at you.

Does that mean he likes to?

Two days later, and I’m still obsessing about it.

I gaze down at the T-shirt, grinding a thread from one of the holes in the thigh of my jeans between my fingers before I take in my reflection in the fish pond.

He looked at me.

I guess I told him to when I thought he was avoiding acknowledging me that first night, because he thought he was so much better. But maybe that wasn’t why he wouldn’t look. Hawke is complicated.

The debris from the crash has already been cleared, but there are still some shards of glass here and there, and significant damage to the rocks. Koi swim just under the surface of the water, what’s left of the foliage broken and smashed.

Cones and a construction fence block off the entire area, but I hopped it and descended down the small walls to the water. The reflection of the moon shimmers on the pond.

It’s been a day since his cousin brought me more clothes, but I’m trying to wear as little of it as possible. The undergarments are new, and I told him I could easily get mine, but he doesn’t trust me to stay out of trouble.

I take in my appearance once more and then shake my head. Guys look at girls. It doesn’t mean anything. That girl I kicked in the face is pretty perfect.

Or was. Before I kicked her in the face.

And she’s not my girlfriend. Hearing him say that kind of delighted me. Probably more than it should. At least I don’t have to feel guilty about living in such close proximity to her man.

I jog down the path, away from the pond, to a fire pit in a secluded, wooded area. Climbing the three rock steps, I cross the circular gathering area and lean over the side of the rock wall, pulling away the shrubbery. Buried underneath is the black duffle—or one of them—from Hugo’s trunk. I pull it up, rise to my feet, and slip the strap over my head, the bag hanging at my side.

I should just leave it here, but the bag isn’t waterproof, and the park crew will be repairing the pond, and they could find it. I jump down from the platform and run back up the path. I really hope they don’t have cameras here. I wouldn’t put it past Hawke to be regularly scanning footage of every corner of town. He’ll lock me up for good if he sees I snuck out.

But a shape appears ahead, and I halt, my boots grinding over the dirt path.

Shit. I stare, seeing three figures walking toward me.

I back up, and they stop.

“Don’t touch me,” I say, gripping the strap of the bag.

The one on the right tries—and fails—to hold back a small laugh.

“Where’s my son?” the middle one asks.

I take another step back, staring at him. Son?

I take in the height, the black hair and blue eyes, and the stoic stare like everything’s an inconvenience and he’s far too busy. Jaxon Trent. Hawke’s father resembles him in more ways than just looks.

I recognize the one on the left. Jared. His older brother. Hawke’s uncle. Dylan’s father. He put Shelburne Falls on the map and practically invented Fallstown. The Pirates have lived under a lucky star ever since. Fuck him.

The one on the right looks familiar, but I don’t remember from where. Blondie looks like a frat boy and a little out of place with these two.

Frat boy…

And then it hits me. He looks like Kade. Blond, blue eyes, lean but muscular build, and a cockiness in their eyes, because there’s nothing they don’t win at. That’s why this guy looks familiar. He’s the mayor of Shelburne Falls. I’ve seen him on posters.

“How did you know I was here?” I ask, ignoring Mr. Trent’s question.

A gleam hits his eyes before they dart up to the tree, and I notice a security camera.

Jesus Christ. I scowl. “You’re all creepers. Your whole family.”

The blond one shakes with a laugh, and I dig my eyebrows in deeper. No wonder Hawke is a little voyeur.

They approach, but I don’t move this time. There’s three of them. I won’t get away.

“We can protect you,” Hawke’s father says.

“I can protect you,” Mr. Caruthers clarifies.

He’s not only mayor, but he’s a lawyer. I’m pretty sure he prosecuted my stepfather on one of his many run-ins with the law back in the day.

These are the last people I would trust.

They don’t give a shit about me.

“I was a foster kid, too,” Hawke’s dad says, inching closer. “I know how it is. You get used to nothing feeling like home, but then you’re not even sure what that ever felt like anyway, right?”

I look ahead, his chest coming into view.

“Maybe you don’t remember something warm and safe,” he continues. “You just reminisce about a time when you didn’t know there was anything better.”

Like my brother. Some snacks and some Disney are all he needs to escape. He isn’t aware of everything happening around him.

“You get pushed around by people like us—adults—and you realize that no one really wants you.” His voice is almost a murmur, and I wonder what memory plays in his head right now. “You’re just a job. They feed you. They don’t talk to you. You get used to distrusting everyone.”

My throat grows thick. I force it down.

“But I was lucky,” he tells me. “I got out.”

“You’re lucky, because you’re a man.” I meet his eyes. “You can make kids and leave. One pregnancy, and a poor girl stays a poor girl.”

I harden my jaw, breathing hard. Men walk out of their lives every day. My father did. My stepdad comes and goes when he feels like it, knowing someone will take care of Matty and Bianca. That someone always ends up being a woman.

Jaxon Trent nods. “I know.”

He comes to stand in front of me, and I hold his gaze, trying to control myself. Why am I so upset?

I want to go back to the hideout.

But Hawke’s dad goes on. “The problem with relying only on yourself is that someday you’ll burn out.”

I don’t blink.

“You’ll get tired of the fight, and you’ll give in.” He looks down at me. “You’ll let everything happen to you, because you just don’t have the energy anymore. You’re tired of everything being so hard.”

Yes. Exactly.

I can already feel it coming. I don’t know how, but he knows.

“Is he safe?” his dad asks.

I drop my eyes, nodding.

“Does he need me?”

I want to say yes. It surprises me. I don’t want Hawke hurt in any of this. Maybe I should just end it. Let him go.

“I could take you right now, you know?” he says. “To the police. He’d come out of hiding if I did that.”

“I know,” I murmur. In that instance, I know Hawke wouldn’t let me take the rap alone.

I should tell them where the hideout is. I should get Hawke out of this.

“If he was your kid, what would you do?” Jaxon Trent asks.

I’d do what you’re doing. I’d order my kid home or find them and drag them by the ear if I had to.

I promised him, though. He made me promise I wouldn’t tell anyone.

I shift on my feet, picturing his face at the police station when he knows I ratted us out. I don’t want to give up.

“Trust him,” I tell his dad. “He’s a good person.”

He bugs me a lot, and I’ve only known him a few days, but I know that much.

His dad sighs, and I see him glance at his brother on one side and the mayor on the other, but no one says a word.

I nearly glance at Jared Trent, suddenly remembering the stories of how he married the girl he bullied in high school.

They have no room to talk, quite honestly. They would do what Hawke’s doing.

“If I don’t get back soon, he’ll wake up and know I’m gone,” I blurt out. “He’ll yell at me again.”

Mayor Caruthers chuckles, and I look up to see a small smile on his dad’s face.

“And why did you come out tonight?” Jared presses.

But I clamp my mouth shut. Dream on, douchebag.

They’re quiet for a minute, and I know Hawke’s father is debating whether to make good on his threat to drag me in to the cops in order to force his son home.

“Please take care of him,” he finally says.

I look up, all of them standing there, and for the first time it hits me how truly better Hawke’s life is than mine. His dad loves him. Which is why he’s doing the hardest thing right now and trusting his kid.

It isn’t until I’m out of the park and circling High Street for the third time that I know for sure I’m alone—that no one followed me—and it’s safe to re-enter the hideout. Sneaking back up to the roof, I climb down into our place and shut the door. I run down the hall, peering around corners for any sign of Hawke, but it’s after two in the morning. He should still be asleep.

I stash the bag under the cushion of the recliner in the sitting area, plop down on it a couple of times to even out the lump, and then I jet back down the hall, seeing Hawke’s door is cracked. I don’t see any light coming from inside, though.

Tucking my hair behind my ear, I push the door open until his bed comes into view.

My skin crawls, feeling like I’m being watched. Like he’s up, ready to pounce and yell at me for going outside.

But his bed sits ahead, the headboard against the wall and Hawke lays in the middle, the sheet draped up to his waist.

“Hawke?” I whisper.

Is he really not up? I thought for sure I’d get caught.

I tiptoe into his room and stand at the foot of his bed, the glow from the hallway lighting up his form. The sheet sits just below his stomach, his torso bare, and I inch in, trying to get a closer look.

Heh. You can see his abs even when he’s not flexing. One arm drapes over his stomach, the other lays on the bed at his side, his head turned and his chin down. His lashes don’t move, and the steady rise and fall of his chest is like a metronome you can’t hear. He’s so peaceful.

I rise back up straight, about to leave, but I drop my eyes to the sheet and the way it hugs his legs. The upside-down V between them perfectly pronouncing every curve. Every muscle.

Every muscle.

Heat spreads up my neck, and I spin around, leaving the room. God, he’s got a nice body. Too bad he doesn’t know how to use it.

I head to the kitchen and make myself a sandwich, standing at the island and eating.

Vivamus, moriendum est. I stare at the words on the brick wall across the room in front of me. Stars glow outside the windows above, too high for anyone to see in and for us to see them, but I can see the stars from inside, and that’s good enough for me.

Hawke still hasn’t divulged what this place is exactly. What’s his plan? He’s known about it for a while and hasn’t really shared it with anyone other than a select few.

And me.

But someone else knows about it. Possibly several other someones. I stare at the inscription on the wall again, gauging the age of the paint, but I’m not sure. It’s definitely not new. Hawke didn’t paint it. He even said so.

Taking my sandwich, I stroll through the door to my left and down another hallway I haven’t explored yet. This may have been a speakeasy back in the day. Room after room, windowless, cool, and with the smell of oak and bourbon. The feel of wet hanging in the air. Dark.

How can the city not know that shops and eateries occupying this strip of building take up less space than what’s actually here? Don’t they have blueprints? Deeds with square footage?

Chicago isn’t far. I can imagine Al Capone and Bugs Moran using this as their black market storage for the illegal liquor they were bringing into the city.

But there’s furniture too. Pictures on the walls.

I stop and peer in closely at one of them—a girl, her blonde hair blowing in her face as she walks in a field. The sun wanes behind her, and I can almost make out her eyes behind her hair, but not quite.

These things are newer than the 1920s. People have been here since.

A small light glows ahead, and I walk toward the glass. I look through and crane my neck, trying to see as much as I can of the business on the other side of the hideout. On the other side of a mirror just like the one leading to the bakery.

Rivertown.

I smile. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I’d bet my life Hawke was in here, watching the cameras, and saw Dylan talking to me the other night. He showed up out of nowhere to save the day, just like Superman.

I laugh and take a bite of my sandwich, turning away. I’m not really mad, although it does aggravate me that he uses his superpowers against me.

But then realization dawns, and I stop. I cease chewing my ham and cheese.

If he has cameras everywhere else, then he has them inside here. I forgot to check.

Ugh. I run back down the hall, into the great room, and throw off the seat cushion, grabbing the duffle. Hugging it to my body, I spin around, looking everywhere. Every nook. Every corner. Around every piece of fucking furniture.

And then I see it. The small fiberoptic lens on top of the kitchen cabinet.

Another sits on top of the door frame, and there’s another on top of the window latch high above.

Oh, come on. Seriously?

But I’m madder at myself. I know better. I’m great at reading my surroundings and seeing threats. I toss the sandwich onto the counter and take my bag to my room, stuffing it under a chair and then scan every surface of the walls.

I know he has one in my room. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

A tiny glare hits the corner of my eye, and I shift back and forth, seeing it and then not again. Taking a chair, I climb up and slide my fingers into the light fixture, pulling out the little lens.

I turn it around in my fingers and then crush it in my fist. “I’m going to kill you.” I leap off the chair, yank open the door, and run to his room.

I kick the door wide, step inside, and pitch the fucking camera right at his sleeping form.

“Ow, shit!” he growls, jerking up in bed.

He grabs his cheekbone, and the lens bounces off him, to the wall, and then to the floor.

I breathe hard, glaring at him.

“Goddammit, what the hell?” he shouts, seeing me. Pulling his hand away from his face, he checks for blood, but there isn’t any. “Are you serious?”

“That was the camera in my room!” I shout.

I rush over and stomp on it, grinding it into the ground.

He grabs my arm, pulling me onto the bed. “Do you how expensive those are?”

Who gives a shit? I climb on top of him, straddling him, but he grabs my wrists before I can attack.

“I turned it off when you arrived!” he yells. “Stop!”

I twist my arm free and flick him in the forehead twice.

He flinches, trying to turn away. “I said I turned it off!”

“When I arrived?” I challenge him.

He hesitates, and I flick him again.

“After you went in the room!” he finally answers.

Likely story. I flick him on the nose.

“Ow!”

I wrap my hand around his throat, pinning him to the bed. “How long after I went in the room?”

“You weren’t undressed, if that’s what you’re asking!”

Yes, that’s what I’m asking. But I squeeze his throat for good measure.

“I promise I haven’t seen anything,” he rasps, trying to inhale. “I’m not spying on you.”

I stay there, glowering, because I believe him, but I don’t want to. Sometimes it just feels good to be mad.

When I don’t get off him, he shifts underneath me, grunting. “Can you…”

He takes my waist in both hands and tries to move me, and that’s when I feel him. Hard through his pajama pants. All the way through my jeans.

“Aro, please.” He throws me off. “I…”

I fall onto the bed at his side, and he sits up, grabbing the sheets and bunching them up to cover his erection.

Heat rises to my cheeks, and to his too. I bite back a smile, loving how embarrassed he looks.

My anger dissipates, and everything warms. “I thought you were…”

He props himself up with one hand and keeps trying to cover himself with the other, pushing it down.

He glances at me. “What?”

“Nothing.”

But it’s not nothing. His narrow waist disappears under the covers, his hair hanging in his eyes, and he’s actually more handsome this way. A little vulnerable.

Since I met him, he almost hasn’t seemed human. Like he has a database of the most optimal responses to any given situation, and he’s never wrong.

He doesn’t always have the right answer, though. He has problems just like the rest of us.

“I thought maybe women didn’t turn you on,” I broach. “I’ve heard the stories.”

He points to the door. “Get out.”

I laugh under my breath. “No, now come on,” I beg. “Don’t be mad. It’s okay to still be figuring yourself out. Maybe you’re attracted to both. I just kind of assumed…”

“Yeah, everyone assumes,” he fires back. “Why can a woman be picky, but a man’s sexuality is questioned if he’s not diving into every short skirt like an animal who can’t control himself?”

He crashes back to the bed, the back of his hand resting on his forehead as he stares at the ceiling.

His body responded to mine. Like I’m sure it did to all the women he turned down.

I didn’t mean to imply that chasing every short skirt is normal. But his sudden anger implies this is a sore subject.

“What’s wrong?” I ask him.

He chews the corner of his mouth, still not looking at me.

“She’s really pretty,” I say. “She won’t stay single for long, you know?”

I don’t know why I’m encouraging him to get back with his ex. I’m sure she treats him fine, but she’s kind of bitchy.

But then, so am I, so whatever.

I sit there for a minute, and he lets me, the wheels turning in his head.

After a few more moments, his breathing calms. “I just can’t get out of my head,” he says. “It happens every time. A thought and then a thought and then a doubt and then a worry, a concern, a dread, until my head is swimming, and I want to scream.” He closes his eyes, and I can tell he’s trying to control himself. “It’s so loud, and then I’ve lost it. The moment.”

He sits up, resting on his hands behind him, and I watch him wet his lips.

“What do we do after?” he says, thinking out loud. “What’s next? Is she going to expect me to be a certain way? Will she be forever? What if I get her pregnant? What if she doesn’t like it? What if I finish too soon?” He pauses and then says a little quieter, “What if I don’t love her?”

I know these questions aren’t for me, but I don’t know what to say, because I think it’s amazing that he thinks like that. So many of us seize immediate gratification, but he wants it all to mean something.

“I just…” He searches for his words. “I want what my parents have.” He finally raises his eyes to mine. “They have to have each other, because the only other option is unthinkable. There’s no choice. He can’t be in a room with her and not touch her.” He looks down at his lap. “I’ve never felt that. Not ever.”

I wait, listening.

“I mean, I should’ve felt something like that with someone, right?” he asks. “Some kind of overwhelming need? Even for just a moment?”

I haven’t. I don’t know if that happens for everyone. I’m not sure I’d want someone to own a part of me that much either. That kind of passion really is overrated. Like some unrealistic expectation films give us that end up making us feel like we don’t have something good if we don’t end up with someone willing to rip apart the world to kiss us.

I clear my throat. “I do know someone who…can maybe help.”

He arches a brow. “‘Help?’”

I wiggle my eyebrows.

“A prostitute?” he shouts.

“Just to get you over the hump,” I explain quickly. “Maybe if you just do it—get the pressure off you for the first time—you’ll feel a lot better and more relaxed.”

He points to the door. “Get out.”

“I have her number right here…”

He falls back to the bed. “I don’t believe I’m having this conversation.”

I laugh, turning toward him and crossing my legs. “I’m teasing. Relax.”

I wouldn’t want his first time to be with her anyway. It would take a month to get the glitter off of him.

I let my smile fall and look down at him. “Sex is a big deal,” I say. “Especially for women. It’s easy to feel degraded. Abandoned. Forgotten. Worthless if you’re a virgin. Worthless if you sleep with ‘too many’ people.” It’s different for him, but I know he doesn’t want it to be. “When you brought me in here with you, I thought you were going to try to take what you wanted from me—use me—because I’m poor and living on your good graces and vulnerable.”

“Have people done that to you?”

“But you didn’t,” I continue, avoiding his question. “You’ve left me alone, and for the first time in a long time, I feel…” I look up and around, trying to put it into words. “Like I don’t have to keep my guard up every second.”

He listens, his eyes on me.

“I’m glad you don’t try to hop in the sack with anyone at any time,” I say. “I like that about you.” I force the words out, because it’s hard to admit I actually think really highly of him. But he needs to know he’s worth the wait. “You’re a different world, Hawke. Whoever it ends up being, I hope she knows she won the lottery.”

His expression softens, and he looks like he wants to smile, but he just looks back up to the ceiling.

“I was patient with myself at first,” he explains, “thinking it would eventually happen and everything would be fine, but it still hasn’t happened, and the more time that passes, the more nervous I get.” He laughs at himself. “I want to do it. Obviously.” He gestures to his body that was very hard a minute ago. “I think about it. I like to think about it. None of them ever feel like I’m home, though. I never feel safe.”

“And that’s why you watch people,” I say.

He looks at me.

“You asked me a couple of days ago why I thought you watched the town from your room with no windows where no one will see you.” I hold his eyes. “It’s control. A sense of security. You feel powerless with sex, and it’s a way to have power. Power that no one else has.”

Except maybe his dad. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree there.

“But you’re giving her too much of it, Hawke,” I tell him. “Power, I mean. She’s just as nervous as you are. She just wants to know she’s wanted. It’s not that hard.” I fall to the bed beside him, sighing and feeling a yawn come on. “Turn off the cameras, except the one for her. Tell her to do what you want her to do. She’ll do it.”

My head sinks into his expensive pillow, and I already feel lightheaded like I’m drifting away and completely conscious of it. My stomach drops, and I think I smile.

“You have your own bed,” I hear him bite.

I yawn. “Watch me sleep there or here. Either way, you’re a creeper.”