Chapter Five

Eleven years ago

What makes you feel alive?

Watching my reflection in the cool, calm water of the pool. Blue-hued, unblinking. Diving into a quieter space without even dipping my toe in the water.

DANGEROUS CHEMISTRY.

That was our main problem.

And that was why I vowed to never be home when Dean came to visit my sister. It wasn't a difficult task. Millie had always been a creature of habit. Her room was neat, her notebooks tidy with perfect handwriting, granting her straight A's back to back. Much like everything else, she allotted a perfectly specific time frame in which she hung out with her perfectly polished boyfriend. Tuesdays and Thursdays after school—because Dean had football practice in the mornings on those days—and on the weekends, they made plans outside of the Spencer's mansion, because Millie couldn't stand Vicious and vice versa.

It wasn't like I was lying in my bed, listening to Miranda Lambert man-hating songs, and crying my eyes out. I was the C-minus troublemaker who loved a good thrill. I entertained myself with friends and after-school activities. Got my navel and nose pierced downtown, applied for odd jobs, saved money for a new bike, and skinny-dipped in the ocean near a deserted beach with friends when the weather permitted, which was always, because…well, SoCal.

Indeed, I did a lot of things that fall. Dutifully, none of them were my sister's hot-as-sin boyfriend.

I can tell you flat out, right here, that being under the same roof with them made me want to skulk deeper into my skin and disappear into myself, vanishing into nothing. They made noises. I hated those noises. They were the worst type of noises.

Heavy breathing, panting, giggling, and loud, messy kisses. The fact that I was able to hear them through the closed door to Millie's room only made the searing hole in my chest grow wider. Despite my shortcomings, I'd always been a sensible chick. I didn't need this kind of negativity in my life. So, it was really for the best that I was never there.

If I could pinpoint the moment that brought on that resolution—staying away from Dean Cole even when Millie was in the room with us—I would pick the pool incident.

It was a Thursday, and Millie was late. She had to stop at the gas station on her way home to fill some air in her bicycle tires. I was about to leave the servants' house where we lived on the Spencer mansion's lot. Everything about that encounter felt like it was ripped out of a movie scene. I opened the door just as Dean was about to knock on it. Our eyes locked and so did my jaw, because I was fighting a smile I was determined not to let loose, knowing it could very well rip my face in two.

Dean looked like temptation. And I don't just mean the fact that he was stunning in his regal blue varsity jacket and panty-melting bad boy expression. The way he smelled, of faint laundry detergent and expensive sex, and his commanding height and build made me desperate. I swear, half the time he was around, my desperation for him hung in the air like stench.

"Hey." My goddamn voice cracked.

"Right back at ya," he replied. Our eyes were roaming again. Not good, but also not the first time it happened. It always made me feel guilty. If they were hands, his fingers would pull at my waist now, right after flipping my black Dead Kennedys hoodie down so he could see my face better; mine grabbing at his perfect, sun-kissed brown hair, and our bodies glued together like two pages in a brand new book.

"Millie's not here yet, but you can come in." I stepped sideways and pushed the door wider. "I'm just heading out. She should be back any minute."

"Where you heading?" he asked, placing his arm on the doorframe and blocking my way out.

"I'm sorry." I folded my arms over my chest. "I didn't get the memo. Is it suddenly any of your business?"

"Maybe the memo got lost in the mail." He took a step in, forcing me to take a step back, and Jesus, I couldn't even look him in the eyes I was so flustered. Luckily, my head was level with his pecs. "Because you're definitely my business, Baby LeBlanc." My heart jumped to my throat, making it impossible to suck in a breath, before he added, "And I think we both know better than to pretend I don't keep tabs on you."

I pulled my hood all the way down to cover my burning face.

Normally, he was the poster child for cocky. The whole cliché of the rowdy badass the HotHoles were feeding All Saints High about themselves. Their subjects and minions ate that shit up and came back for seconds. Perhaps I was at fault for not caring for that type of thing, but I never got the power trip and ‘grownup' vibe the HotHoles were sporting. Part of the reason I noticed Dean in the first place was because he didn't take himself too seriously, and wasn't as brooding and douchebaggy as the rest. Ever since he started to date Millie—which wasn't that long ago—he always tried to catch a word with me. At first, he assured me that he wasn't touching her. After I told him that he should touch her, he got really mad. Nowadays, he was going out with her and acting like it—kissing her, God, I heard them just the other day—even though his eyes were on me. Always on me.

"I, ah…" I zoned out, the rusty wheels in my brain reeling, searching for a potential lie. My alibi was sound. I did need to go someplace. But I didn't share it with people, much less fellow students, and definitely not the dude I had a huge crush on. Dean wasn't a guy to back down, though. I had to say something—anything—so I opted for the truth. "I have a doctor's appointment."

Chancing a look up, I saw recognition and calm washing over his face. He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Something wrong?"

Yes. My whole life is wrong.

"No, it's nothing like that." I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear under the hoodie. "Sometimes I just need to…" shut the hell up, the voice told me. Feeling small and vulnerable wasn't my jam.

"To…?" He dipped his chin down, egging me on. And it was a crying shame that chemistry was an unexplainable string that pulled and bound two people together. Because that was how I felt at that moment. Chained. The way he looked at me, like I was the center of the world, bothered me. Flattered me. Possessed me. God, I had to say something fast to make him shut up and leave me alone. No matter how embarrassing the truth may have been.

"To get a chest massage." I had to get all the mucus out of my airways, but that wasn't something I was eager to share with him. I quirked a brow and shoved my fists into my pockets. "You know, just keeping it sexy, and stuff."

My eyes were securely covered by the hoodie, but it still wasn't enough. Nothing was enough next to him. Even with three layers of clothes, I had always felt naked.

Chest massages were a weekly occurrence. Sometimes I had to go to the clinic. Sometimes a nurse would come to me. And even though Millie didn't say a thing about my illness to her boyfriend, I knew that if he really stuck around, he'd find out eventually.

Shouldering my way past Dean, I marched to the main entrance of the manor. There was a flagstone walkway leading straight to the gate, but I liked to take the long way, through Vicious's massive pool and Dean's-eyes-green-lawn. To walk on its edge. To feel alive.

I heard Dean's steps jogging after me. Without looking back, I knew that he was sporting that smile that made me angry for some reason.

"Chest massage, huh?" He sounded cunning. "A lot of guys would love to help you with that."

"Thank you, Dean, for the creepy comment."

"What's creepy in pointing out that guys wanna touch your tits?"

"The fact that it's my sister's boyfriend who is telling me this. It is also slightly inappropriate. And by slightly, I mean extremely."

"Never said I wanted to do it myself." He tsked, adding, "Why the fuck would you need a chest massage, anyway? You get a boob job or something?"

I paused by the deep end of the pool, turned around, and held his gaze in a way that felt too intimate. We were face to face. Body to body. The wind was cold but gracious. I took a step back. From that angle, Vicious could see us from his bedroom window. The last thing I needed was to arm him with more ammo against Millie, so he could tell her he saw me flirting with her boyfriend. I needed to make sure she was protected, no matter what.

"I have an illness," I said, the words falling out of my mouth before I could stop them. His eyes darkened, leaking suspicion and disbelief to the rest of his face.

"What illness?" he demanded, looking confused, annoyed, and…hurt? Maybe.

"Cystic fibrosis. It's a lung disease."

"Curable?" He pressed, his voice hard. His brows dropped like a stone. It was almost like he was accusing me of something.

"Nope." I felt my cheeks warming up. "Was born with it. Will die with it. Most likely because of it, too. Young, probably. Both my parents carry the gene."

"Millie doesn't have it." There it was again. Was he hoping to catch me in a lie? Because if I were a liar, I was pretty sure I would have tried to sell myself as having a superpower or Einstein's IQ. I snorted out a laugh, because it was attractive and all.

"Well, Millie's lucky," I spat out. She was. In more ways than one. "Just because both parents carry the gene doesn't mean all their kids will get it. Call it nature's Russian roulette, if you would. And it's me who got the bullet in the effing neck. There's your fun fact for the day. Now can I go?"

With any other guy, I would have turned around and left. Simple. But with Dean ‘Ruckus' Cole, nothing was simple. I wanted to milk every second I had alone with him. I wasn't even sure why. It felt strange, agonizing, and thrilling to have him around, and then the moment he was gone, I knew I'd hate myself for every single word I'd said, every way I'd acted, and every single breath I took.

"Rosie."

I lifted my head, and before I knew what was happening, I felt his rough palms on my waist and my body flying into the pool. I didn't have time to brace myself for the fall. Literally or figuratively. My body hit the water flat, the plunge painful like I smashed right into concrete. I used my arms to swim my way up to get some air. The chill of the water only hit me when I took one, desperate breath. I opened my eyes, my whole body shivering violently, and before my eyes adjusted, there was a huge splash beside me. Dean jumped in, too.

My heart went haywire, jackhammering everywhere. I felt it pounding against my ribcage, dipping down, trying to fight its way outside, through my stomach, through my throat, wanting out, out, out. Dean's body swam to mine, pinning me to the tranquil-blue wall, and I started throwing fists at him. Frantic, angry punches. They weren't the kind of banter-slaps a girl gives a boy to flirt or warn him to stay away. No. I clawed at his chest with my fingernails, wishing to draw blood.

Then I started crying.

That, too, was completely out of character for yours truly. I'd never cried in front of people I didn't know. And for the sake of argument, anyone who wasn't Millie, Mama, or Daddy was a stranger. Yet there I was, my hot, salty tears mixing with the cold, sweet water.

Life ain't fair.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I roared, my fists continuing their assault on his chest. He'd taken his jacket off before he'd jumped in, and now the only thing separating our flesh was his tight black and gold tee and my soaked hoodie. His skin was warm despite the water and I needed more of it. He wanted to give it to me. His whole body said it. Sang it. Shouted it from the rooftop of this monstrous mansion. No words were spoken at all, which made our body language so much louder. Dangerous chemistry, it warned. Run away, Rosie.

"Your lungs work fine," he growled into my face, capturing both my wrists and jamming me to the wall, hard. What was he doing? Vicious could see us. Hell, Millie could, too. If she walked in the gate right now, what would she think? Her boyfriend and sister in the pool together. Body to body. Soul to soul. "You're fucking fine!" he added, his forehead inches from mine.

Was he trying to convince me, or himself?

And why the hell did he care, anyway?

I forced myself to calm down. I needed to talk some sense into this guy. He had to let me go before we got caught doing whatever it was we were doing.

"Dean," I said, as coolly as I could, freeing my wrists and placing my palms flat against his chest. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. His lashes dripped water, and everything about him was raw, wet, and delicious. Somewhere in the back of my head, I knew that this was monumental. This thing we shared in that moment. I'd never feel it with any other guy again. This slice of life was ours, even if I didn't want it to be.

"Rosie," he countered.

"I'm sick," I repeated.

"Don't say that. You're not sick. It's just a fucking condition."

I shook my head, water and tears flying back and forth. "It's not just a condition. I'm going to die really young, Dean. In my thirties, maybe forties…fifties, if I'm lucky."

"Shut up," he hissed between clenched teeth. His palm slammed the wall behind me, and I shook with more than just the cold.

"This is bullshit!" he spat out. "No, you're not."

I needed to find another tactic. Fast.

"Listen, you can't do this, okay? We can be friendly," I lied, because I knew by that point that we couldn't. "But you can't throw me into pools in the middle of the fall—first of all, I really am sick, and even if I wasn't prone to pneumonia, it's not that fun to be thrown into icy water anyway—and Millie. It's not fair to her. You can't treat her sister like that. Like…like…"

"Like what?" he challenged, his pupils flaring.

Like you want me.

Does he?

My hormones were rebelling. My morals charred me from the inside. Every hair on my body stood on end. His hand snaked between us and cupped one of my cheeks, tilting my face upwards, forcing me to look at him. "Like. Fucking. What. Rosie?"

There was something in his eyes. An intensity I'd never seen before. It was unsettling, because that something told me he had no idea what he was doing. He just knew it was wrong. And like me, he was confused, hurt, and angry.

"Like you want me," I echoed my thoughts quietly.

"But I do," he supplied. "Maybe it's time for some musical chairs. Your sister doesn't care for me too much, Baby LeBlanc."

He didn't care too much for her either. He cared about her. Which made him even more alluring, because our goal was mutual—protecting the person I fiercely loved.

But at the same time, bitterness ate away at me every time I watched the complete and utter waste that was their relationship. When I witnessed how her eyes drifted to Vicious when he was around. How Dean and I looked at each other from across the room. I wanted to grab my sister by the shoulders and shake her. Tell her to pull her shit together and go with the guy who made her heart swell. But I was in no position to ask her for anything, considering my parents ripped our family from our home in Fairfax, Virginia, and moved us all the way to California so I could have better health care. Since I had friends and a social life and she had nothing—precisely because of that decision. So, I let her have them both. Dean's body and Vicious's heart.

"If you don't let me go," my teeth chattered, and not just for impact, "I will get a lung infection. Dean." His name was a warning, and this time he let me push him with my palms, swimming away from me and watching me climb to the edge of the pool, my heavy, soaked clothes pulling me down.

I didn't turn around to look at him. Was too afraid he'd see my eyes, doped on euphoria, tainted by lust. And my face, rosy in contrast to the rest of my quivering, blue self.

I saw him in my periphery swimming to the edge, bracing his forearms on the wet tiles, his chin propped on his balled hands.

"This shit is toxic. We need to stop it before it goes any further," he muttered, more to himself than to me.

"Any further than what?" I stripped out of my hoodie and tossed the heavy fabric onto a nearby sun lounger. "Than kissing and dry-humping my sister to oblivion and back while hitting on me?" My voice was trembling.

"Rosie," he said. A high-pitched laugh escaped me. Rosie, my ass. He was with my sister. True, I pushed him to be with her, but it didn't make me any less bitter. "Don't twist this against me. You told me to be with her. You fucking told me to touch her, too. What do you want me to do? Ignore her ass?"

I hated that he had a point, and I hated that something so logical made me feel so illogical.

"This," I pointed between us from where I was standing on the edge of the pool, "is not going to happen. You're dating Emilia, Dean. We can't ever be together."

"Says who?" he challenged.

"Says me. And society. And logic. And culture. And damn, every love film and romance book I've ever consumed."

"Mmm." A playful grin found his luscious lips again. "That can't be right."

"It is," I fired. "Juliet didn't have an older sister named Julie that Romeo sampled before he decided she was the one."

"Juliet never went head-to-head with her fucking feelings," he yelled, banging his fist on the tiles. "Since when are you such a pussy?" Dean jumped out of the pool so fast, it looked like an optical illusion. He got in my face, snarling. "Since when do you give a damn about what people think? I pegged you all wrong. If you walk away from this, I'm going to give this thing with Millie a shot."

It sounded like a threat.

"What have you been doing all along?" I snorted. It wasn't his fault. By the time he noticed me, she wanted to date him, and he couldn't back down. Besides, he made her life so much better. Gone were the days where her locker was stuffed with garbage and people muttered ‘white trash' when she passed in the hallway.

"Waiting on you," he answered, and we both let out a sigh as rain started knocking lightly on our standing figures.

"Well." I smiled sweetly, and it took every ounce of energy in me to show him my teeth and dimples. "You have the green light to fall in love with my sister. As I said, nothing will ever happen between us."

Five seconds later, Millie appeared at the pool, wheeling her bike along. We told her that I fell into the pool and that he jumped in to save me. My cheeks were flushed and the pool wasn't that deep and I was a great swimmer. But Millie's eyes were elsewhere—so was her heart—and I had a feeling that even if she caught us with our pants down it wouldn't matter.

I never made it to my doctor's appointment that day.

But I did catch pneumonia that granted me a trip to the ER and a four-day hospital stay. I'd missed two important exams and had to spend hours in a percussion vest.

And that following Thursday, when I got back home after avoiding Dean and Emilia, a book was waiting on my pillow, along with a note. The Bronze Horseman in paperback. The yellow Post-It note said:

Fuck society.

Fuck logic.

Fuck culture.

Fuck your illness.

And you know what? Fuck you.

Here's a book about how shit like ours can work. Read it.

—Dean.

But the next day, I tucked it into the slit in Dean's locker with a note.

Make her happy. I will kill you if you ever hurt her.

Fiction is magical. Reality is painful.

—Rosie.

We never spoke of this again until Millie ran away.

But I did buy my own copy of The Bronze Horseman.

Reading it.

Memorizing it.

Reciting it.

Never, ever forgetting it.

Eleven years ago

In the end, Millie and I made a pretty decent couple. Before she pissed all over it, that is.

I didn't put a name on what we were or weren't. Was it love? Probably not, but I cared for her and enjoyed her company. Only thing was, I enjoyed her sister's company more. But it was becoming less and less of a problem, since Baby LeBlanc took a step back, and even though she never explicitly said anything, I knew she was avoiding me. She made things simpler.

But Vicious didn't.

Notorious for making things messy, he did what he was expected to do—he ruined.

Vicious tried to get back at me for dating Emilia LeBlanc in many ways. Sadly for the fucker, I wasn't a little pushover like his fanboys. We got into fights—physical and verbal—every other week over the subject, but I knew breaking up with Millie would leave her exposed to him, and I didn't want him touching her. He bullied, taunted, and hated her. He had enough time to ask her out. Now she wanted to be with me, and Rosie pushed me straight into her arms.

And more than I wanted to please Millie, I wanted to please Rosie. Really fucking bad.

Eventually, Vicious did manage to get back at me in a way that cracked through my shield. Turns out that shit was thick, but not unbreakable after all.

He kissed Rosie.

He threw a party at his place, and we were cooling down from almost beating the hell out of one another. That wasn't out of the ordinary. What was out of the ordinary was the way he made me taste my own medicine for the very first time. And let me tell you, it was nasty.

I was walking to his kitchen to get myself a bottle of water after popping a Xanax to take the edge off. Tanked as fuck, I knew I needed to go check on Millie. Last time I saw her at that party, she ran back to the servants' house looking upset because of Vicious.

I bumped shoulders through masses of sweaty, glittery bodies, and when I finally got to the fridge, I found out Spencer ran out of water. I looked around—the kitchen was a colossal, cherry-wood and dark room better fitted in Buckingham Palace. Everywhere you looked, there were people. A couple making out against the sink, a bunch of ballers doing shots on the island, and girls snorting the Ritalin I brought over that night. I pushed two of the snorting girls away and swung the pantry door open, knowing where the bottled water was kept.

Turning on the light, I froze in place.

Vicious was there, hovering over Rosie like darkness that was about to swallow her whole. His lips were on hers and her lips were on his, and I wanted to rip them away from each other and tear his body to shreds, organ by organ.

They kissed. Her eyes were closed. His weren't. His arm rose, and he flipped me the finger, his busy lips smirking as he grabbed her waist with his free hand, jerking her body to his. There was no passion there. No lust. The whole thing looked fucking technical and cold. She deserved so much more.

Like who, asshole, like you?

"What in the fuck is this?" My teeth crushed every word that left my mouth. My voice startled her and she jumped, placing her palm over her heart. "Get your hands off of her before I break them." I felt the darkness in the pit of my stomach spreading like ink, taking over.

Vicious twisted his head to look at me, one of his hands still in Rosie's hair. He smirked.

"Make me."

It was an invitation I was only too happy to accept. I grabbed him by the collar and backed him away from her, slamming him against a case of mini-champagnes. I was bigger, stronger, and fucking scarier. His head smashed against the heavy box. He pushed me away. I pushed harder.

"Dean!" Rosie yelped. I recognized, rationally, that she wasn't mine. Recognized, yes. But I didn't understand. There were other guys. I saw them talking to her at school and at parties. They never got too far with her. Rose LeBlanc got her name for a reason. She was full of fucking thorns. She was so beautiful—so ridiculously, unbelievably alluring—that just like real roses, she grew little spikes to protect herself. Because everyone wanted to have her.

Everyone including you, asshole.

"What do you think you're doing?" I hissed into Vicious's face. Ten minutes ago, it was him who almost kicked my ass. We were constantly changing roles. It wasn't hard to see why. No one said it out loud, but now, it finally made sense.

Each of us was with the wrong fucking sister.

"I'm doing what you want to do." His eyes narrowed, and he licked his bottom lip, still swollen from that kiss. "Shoving my tongue into Rosie LeBlanc's mouth. She tastes good." He chuckled, slapping my back good-naturedly. "Like a fruity gum and 7UP and the girl you'll never have."

I threw him across the pantry, and he landed on a twenty-pound bag of rice. I wanted to kill him, and—I had no doubt—was going to if Rosie hadn't tackled me, pushing me to the opposite side of the small room using her non-existent strength.

"Jesus. Stop it. You're such a mess. Go away."

"This is bullshit," I yelled in her face, tugging at my hair. "You don't even like him!"

"Irrelevant. I can do whatever I want."

"And what you want is to rip my fucking heart out?"

Shit. I said that out loud, didn't I? I was the one hurting her. My head hung down, and I felt all the blood rushing to my eyes. A part of me was glad I was going to move away for college soon. This town was boiling with hot gossip and out-of-control drama. I didn't want to be there when the puss and shit overflowed.

"Yes," she whispered, a mixture of elation and guilt marred on her face. She also looked just as drunk as I was. "Maybe it's exactly what I want."

"I don't think you want to hurt me." I lifted my head up, holding her gaze. "I think Vicious does, and you're playing along because you're shitfaced. Let me take you home."

"No, thank you." She looked the other way.

"Funny you say that, I think it's time you grab your shit and get the hell off of my property, Cole." I heard Vicious behind my back, tucking a joint into his mouth. A joint I gave him. Prick.

"If you ever touch her again, I'll make sure you have no lips to kiss anyone with. Just for future reference." I shrugged, turning off the lights to the pantry they were still in, just to be a dick.

Step. Another step. Then another. Making my way out of Vicious's house was the longest journey I'd ever made. There was an urgency inside me to do something, but fuck if I had any idea what it was. I wanted to break up with Millie, but I doubted it would make any difference. Rosie still wouldn't date me—she may even hate me more for bailing on her sister's ass. And Vicious was definitely going to corner Millie and make her life a living hell.

Back then, I didn't even know how fucking bad things were, because after that party, Vicious bragged about Rosie chasing him around all month, making Trent and Jaime believe that she wanted him, when really, she was begging for him not to tell her sister. She didn't know he already did. But I knew, because Emilia had told me—through tears, by the way, what a fucking joke this relationship was—claiming she was fearful her sister would get hurt.

Rosie didn't know, but her little drunken mistake at the pantry pushed me deeper into a bottomless rabbit hole and right into the arms of my vices.

That night, I was too drunk to drive, so I called a taxi back home.

Then crawled up to my room.

Locked the door.

Took out a bottle of Jack Daniels from my nightstand drawer.

And did to it what I wanted to do to Vicious.

I finished that motherfucker.