"No, thank you, I'd literally rather eat someone else's puke."
"Literally? Somehow I doubt it. Unless you have a very peculiar taste for puke."
Rosie had always been a bitch to me. I didn't blame her, but didn't trust her either. But now, her face looked blank and genuine and, fine, fucking gorgeous. Her cheeks the color of ripe peaches, freckles decorating her little nose, and those huge bluest-blues staring back at me. Two hundred different shades of brown and blonde on her head, all courtesy of Mother Nature. She was the very definition of a nymph. Everything about her was so incredibly smooth and velvet, there was no way you could tell she was sick.
I groaned, tossing the Advil and bottle of water into my dry mouth. I wiped my lips as the plane started sliding forward, gaining speed.
"Do you need help?" she asked, her voice neutral. She meant the drinking. The pot. The general mess that was my life. I was a high-functioning, borderline alcoholic who smoked like being stoned was an Olympic sport. Nobody complained when I sealed those deals and wired that money and fucked like a champion.
"I do, actually. I need you to leave me be until we get to San Diego. Think you can do that?"
Fuck, you're a dick.
The last thing I remembered before I blanked out was Rosie's chest rising and falling irregularly to her ragged breaths.
"Whatever," she whispered. "I'm letting you off easy, because I've a feeling you had a shitty week. But if you wanna talk about it, I'm here."
I wanted to tell her everything.
I didn't want her to know shit.
She confused me, and right now, she was the very complication I talked about when I told her I always opted for the easy route. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. And when darkness came, so did she.
Nina.
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.