Chapter 9

Nine

Josh

D oes he want to go with me? Does he feel like he has to?

This isn’t a date, you moron. He’s your stepbrother.

My body doesn’t get the message. Everything feels like it’s buzzing as I stand at the bottom of the stairs, making my neck ache by looking up to watch for him. What if he doesn’t come?

He appears then, wearing his purple and white Denver ball cap and a flat-lipped little smile, plus some white sneaks with his sweatshirt and a black pair of basketball shorts.

I can’t even look at him for a full second before I have to move my eyes away. I realize I’ve got gum in my hand.

“Want some?” I ask as he steps onto the first floor.

There’s a second where his body is so close to mine. He holds his hand out, palm up, and I rip the pack open. When my eyes find his, the left side of his mouth is twitched up a little—like a mini smirk.

“Did you want me to unwrap it?” I bug out my eyes like wtf , and he grins so big his cheeks round out .

As the grin fades, he shifts his weight and says, “Nahh. It’s all good.”

He makes quick work of the wrapper, pops the gum into his mouth, and heads out the front door. This time, instead of leaving me on the porch, he waits till I step out and shuts the door behind me.

Down the steps and in between our cars. He’s walking by me, we’re walking beside each other, and I’m reeling at the nearness of him. The sweatshirt, his thick throat, the cap on his head. Always those eyes. And that mouth. He walks steady but not fast, his arm swinging a little. He blows a bubble with his gum as I smash a piece into my mouth.

“So where’s the cemetery?” he asks as we near the driveway’s end.

“Left here, one block down, another left, and it’s right there on Broad Street.”

We walk in silence. He adjusts his hat a lot. We’re both blowing bubbles sometimes.

“Thanks for coming with me,” I tell him. “You didn’t have to.”

He smirks. “Don’t get awkward, Mills. I wanted to come. Nothing like a cemetery.”

“This one’s really old. There’s lots of young people and little kids that all died before modern medicine.”

His eyes widen in horror. “Even better,” he says, sarcastic. “Nothing like a good, solid tragedy.”

“Exactly.”

“Is it segregated by SEC and race?” At first I take that as the SEC—like the South Eastern Conference, in college football—but I realize he probably means socioeconomic class.

“You better believe it.”

“Awesome,” he says.

“Mmhmm. If you follow the dirt and rock path straight back to the spot we’re going to, it’s mostly just these tall evergreen type trees and wrought-iron fences. You can focus on those things and not on the tombstones if you want.”

He gives me that look again—the sarcastic, poker-faced, bug-eyed one. “Well that would just be boring, Miller.”

“Do you usually call me Miller?” I frown.

“Sometimes,” he says.

“Millsy. What’s the other thing you say?”

“DG.” He smirks. “For Do Gooder.”

“Oh, yes. Do Gooder.”

“Miller,” he says softly. “When did you stop being Josh and become Miller with your friends?”

“Maybe when I played peewee?”

“Your dad said you played.”

“Yup.”

“Not your favorite?” he asks.

“Had to stop.”

“Because of…” Ezra waves his hand.

“Yes.” Because of epilepsy. “Soccer is almost as bad, but I was playing quarterback in peewee, so that was worse.”

“Yeah?” His face lights up. “You like to throw?”

“It’s been a long time.”

“We should do it sometime,” he says.

“Burn my palm up.” I shake my head.

“I can throw it easy for you.” He grins.

“Gee thanks.”

He smirks, but this time I can tell he’s teasing.

We walk through the cemetery’s grand, wrought-iron gate.

“Moss,” he says.

“Yeah…” I wave at the trees ahead. “These big, old oaks have lots of moss, especially when they’re near the water.”

“Is the water that way?” He points toward the back of the cemetery.

“Yep. We’re gonna veer left here, though,” I tell him, following a pebbled road that curves out toward the left. Trees hang over it. On its right, there’s a slanted field, and on the left, a bunch of very old graves.

“What’s the sign?” he asks as we approach a historical marker on our right.

“It’s about this being an unmarked grave.” Something awful dawns on me. “Are cemeteries…you know. Like for you—given your—”

“Are you asking if cemeteries make me want to tuck myself into a coffin?” He’s smirking.

“Sorry if that’s rude or something. Just wondering.”

“Thank you,” he says, sounding husky. I notice he never answers.

We’ve reached the historical marker, and he steps closer to it. I watch his profile as he reads—the way his lips tighten and his brow furrows at what the sign says.

“That’s some shit,” he murmurs, and then walks on, following the pebble road.

“Yeah. It’s all some shit. People can be terrible. And history is super shit. Especially in these parts.”

His mouth twitches and his eyes hold mine for just a second too long. But he doesn’t remark.

“See back there, at what looks like the end of our little road here, where the trees get really thick?” I point.

He nods, stuffing his hands into the sweatshirt’s pocket.

“There’s a brick wall back there. If you climb up onto one of the crypts—see the really tall one, shaped like a big dick? You can climb from that to the top of the brick wall and look out at the water.” It’s a long way down, I realize suddenly. The view from up there would be so much like the one from the trestle bridge.

Fuck, did he really say he jumped to die? I didn’t let myself go there before right now, and now the thought makes my stomach drop .

His hand brushes mine. “Mills.” He smiles, looking tired and fucking gorgeous with his lake eyes and his lush lips. “It’s okay.”

“You asked me why,” I manage, “but I didn’t ask you. Why you—”

“Don’t.” He lifts his brows and stops walking for half a second.

I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod, and we start walking again.

“I think I see it,” he says, pointing to the brick wall.

“Yeah, and see the dick crypt, right by the really mossy oak with those low branches? I know it’s fucked that we climb on it, but kids here have been doing it forever. When I was little, we were scared of who’s inside it, so we used to bring our favorite rocks or sticks to leave. You know, like as an offering.”

We get to the crypt—it’s made of what looks like pearly cement, its crevices stained dark by time—and I climb up. As I’m reaching for the top of the brick wall so I can hoist myself up, Ezra’s hand comes to my ankle. “Hey, man. Are you sure about this?”

“This?” I tap the crypt.

“Sitting up there,” he says. He looks worried.

“It’s all good.”

He shakes his head. “I’ve got an idea,” he says. “Come back down.”

I do, and I watch as he climbs up ahead of me. He straddles the wall, which is about a foot wide, and then scoots back a little, giving me a crooked grin as he points at the space in front of him.

“We gonna ride this like a horse?”

“Yeah,” he says. “So you don’t fall off.”

I feel his hand at my back as I settle in front of him. The trees are so thick here, leaves are all around us, so it feels like we’re in a kaleidoscope .

“I forgot how overgrown this is,” I say. “Sorry it’s a little dense.”

“I like it.”

We can see the lake below, with its red mud cliffs.

“I used to think of jumping off when I was a kid.” As soon as I say it, I regret it. What a fucking moron, Miller. But there’s no awkward silence. He says, “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Just swimming, you know. Like this swan dive and…” I swallow hard.

His hand touches on my back. “You learn to swim when you were really little?” he asks, sounding casual.

“Yeah. Most people do here. Because of the lake.”

His finger draws on my back; it feels like a wave shape.

“What about you?” I manage.

“Could I swim as a kid?” he asks. “Yes.”

He draws more waves, and I can feel him draw an umbrella. “Was that a beach umbrella?” I smile.

I can hear him smile back as he says, “Maybe.” In an almost whisper, he says, “You feel okay?”

“Yep, all good here.”

“Can you tell before it happens?”

Ezra . I have this weird flash of memory—of me standing in the shower, thinking his name. “Sort of,” I tell him. “But I think not always.”

He draws a star on my back.

“Starfish?” I manage, even though my lungs are tight from our proximity.

“Maybe.”

He draws a rectangle.

“Rectangle?”

“Square.”

Then he writes, “DG.”

My fucking traitor body does this little shiver. He scoots closer, wraps an arm around my waist. “Still okay?” he murmurs .

“You made me do that,” I whisper.

“My finger?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

He rests his cheek against my shoulder blade, and right away, he moves to straighten up.

I put my hand over his—over the one that’s at my waist. After a moment’s hesitation, he lays his cheek against me again.

“I can hear your heart,” he says after a second.

“What does it sound like?” I whisper.

“Like music. Boom. Boom. Boom.” His head on me is heavy. “Good and steady.”

“You sleep okay last night?” I ask.

“I’m good.”

His head is still leaned on me. Shit. I fucking love it. “ Did you sleep?”

He nuzzles his cheek against me, pressing it against a new spot on my upper back. “Don’t worry about me. I still remember your burger order, too. I’m gonna get it for you.”

“I don’t need it.”

He tips his forehead against me, and I can feel him inhaling.

“Are you smelling me, Masters? Oh I forgot, you don’t like to be called Masters. Ez.”

“Ez,” he rasps.

I nod. I put my hand over his, even as sweat prickles my body.

His hand below mine doesn’t move. I think he’s quit breathing.

“I like your hands,” I tell him. God, my heart is beating so hard.

“You do?”

“Yeah. They’re nice.” I clasp my hand around his wrist.

His hand tries to grasp mine. I can’t help laughing softly. I put my hand over his and thread my fingers through his, squeezing for a second.

“Never jump,” I whisper.

“Never fall.” His lips brush my back.

He hugs me tight, wrapping himself around me. “You gotta be careful, Millsy. Don’t come here without me.”

I let my head hang, shutting my eyes just to feel him. I want to see him, to touch him more, but I can’t turn around on top of the wall.

His lips brush my back through my shirt. “Smells like you,” he whispers.

“Makes sense.” I smile.

He presses his face to my nape. I can feel his ribcage expand against my back.

He lifts the weight of his head off my back, and with one hand still snugly around my waist, he scrawls something on my side.

“D…G…D…G.” And then: “GOOD.”

He straightens up and draws himself away from me. His arm, around my waist, loosens, his hand curling. I can feel him take a deep breath. Then another one.

I murmur, “Hang on.”

Then I shift onto my knees, holding onto the top of the wall as I dangle my legs off on the cemetery side. I hear Ezra’s murmur, but I don’t look up at him; I need to focus. It’s a little harder than I thought it would be, because my muscles are still sapped, but I pull myself back up, climbing up onto the wall so that I’m facing him.

He looks amused—and confused. Fuck, he’s so close. Right in front of me. My cheeks sting with heat as I’m consumed by a near-crushing wave of shyness. I swallow, and his lips quirk as he reaches out to touch…a leaf on my shirt. He picks it off and holds it in his palm. It’s star-shaped. He looks at it for a long moment before his eyes return to mine .

There’s nothing on his face. His eyes aren’t hard or soft. It’s like they’re seeking something—from me.

“What are you doing?” His voice is a low rasp.

I swallow, but when I try to speak, it’s just a whisper. “Looking at you.”

His mouth twitches again, but it’s a sad thing. Not a smile. “What do you see?” His nostrils flare a little, his eyes round on my eyes.

Sweat prickles around my hairline, and my heart starts to pound. The trees bend around us, as if we’re underneath a blanket. His shoulders rise as he breathes deeply again.

I reach out. My hand cups his throat.

“Ezra,” I whisper. My fingers move to where I know I’ll feel his pulse—the jugular. His eyes close and his head tips back a little, giving it to me. If I were a vampire, I would strike right now and drain him dry.

As it is, I trail my fingertips over his smooth throat, feeling the gentle ridge of his Adam’s apple. Warm skin. So soft. Just when I start to doubt it, start to wonder if he likes this, he starts breathing faster. Shallow.

I put my left hand on his shoulder, look at his closed eyes, and ask them to open. And they do. Somehow, he hears me.

I hold his gaze and let my fingers run along his jaw. His shoulders jerk with a small shudder. His eyes are changing…getting wider…pupils larger. His lips part, and I think he looks panicked. He jerks a breath in. "Get down!"

"What do you—"

"Get down, Miller."

He sounds so urgent, I do it without question. His feet hit the ground first, and he starts striding between tombstones.

When I turn around, I see him running.