She looks so damn beautiful that I expect that old sparkle to be back in her eyes, but when she meets my gaze, I realize I'm only anticipating what I hope to see. Her stare is vacant and cold. The old Mia still sleeps somewhere, not facing a world without her brother, not accepting a world that would do this to Brogan.
"Here's your mama," she says, handing Katie over to Gwen.
"Good morning, baby!" Gwen says to Katie. She settles her into her arms and looks to Mia. "When do you think you'll be back?"
"The usual," Mia says. She gives Katie a kiss on the forehead. "Just call if you need me sooner. It's not a big deal."
"Of course," Gwen says.
"Good morning, Mr. Woodison," Mia says, nodding to my father.
"Morning, Mia." Dad folds his paper, lays it on the center of the breakfast table, and pushes his chair back. "I'll be in my office if anyone needs me." He leaves before any real conversation can begin, which is typical of my father. He's more comfortable working than talking to his own family.
Mia looks at me and then cuts her eyes away. "You have a good day too, Arrow," she says.
I keep my mouth shut and just incline my chin in acknowledgment.
I can't help but watch her go, my eyes drifting to the sway of her hips as she heads to the front door. I listen for her car and drain half my mug of coffee when I hear her pull out of the drive.
"Where is she going?" I ask it out loud without meaning to. It's more a stray curiosity than an attempt to make conversation with Gwen, but my stepmother smirks at me.
"The same place she goes every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday-to Indianapolis to visit her boyfriend." She pushes back from the table and shifts the baby in her arms. "I imagine you'd know something so important, but I guess you were too busy doing drugs to know how your friends spend their lives."
Damn, I hate this woman.
But four days a week? It shouldn't surprise me, but it hurts a little to imagine her sacrificing that much time-sacrificing so much of her check for gas-for Brogan. I wonder if she believes he wants her there. That seeing her makes his days better.
Hell, maybe it does. I haven't said a civil word to her since I got home, and seeing her sure as hell makes my days better.
"Damn," Keegan says. "You're one lucky son of a bitch, Woodison. What kind of punishment is this, anyway? You don't have to go to class, don't have to have Coach bitch at you every day, no suicide drills, no nasty-ass dorm showers."
I smirk and add, "No social life, no degree." Then the smirk falls off my face as I think, No football.
A half a dozen guys from the team came over tonight and a few brought girls with them. Since having Mia so close is making me lose my mind, I was grateful for the distraction.
Keegan cracks open a beer. "You really expect me to feel sorry for you?"
I follow his eyes to the second-story picture window where Mia folds sheets, her back to the window, her ass filling her denim cutoffs. My jaw tightens as I turn back to Keegan.
He laughs. "You're gonna try to tell me you're not hitting that?"
Beside me, Chris groans.
"She's Brogan's," I growl.
Keegan smirks. "Like that ever stopped you before."
One second, I'm standing there, my hands clenched at my side, and the next, Keegan's flying into the pool, fully clothed, beer in hand.
Chris grabs my arms and pulls me back before I can jump in after Keegan, and I'm grateful, because with the anger pulsing through my veins I'm not sure if I'd punch him or drown him.
Keegan comes up sputtering. "What the fuck?"
"Don't be an ass," Chris tells him.
Keegan smirks. "I'm just telling it like it is."
Fucker must have a death wish. I lunge, but Chris holds me tight.
"Not worth it," he murmurs.
"Get out of my fucking house," I call as Keegan climbs out of the pool.
He's sopping wet, his T-shirt clinging to his torso, his soaked jeans hanging precariously at his hips, his beer can floating in the water. He glares at me then turns to leave, lifting one hand and extending his middle finger as he pushes through the gate.
Only after he's disappeared from view does Chris let me go. "Since when do you let Keegan's bullshit get to you?"
I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on breathing. The humid air fills my lungs, and I hold it in for a beat before I exhale. Adrenaline buzzes through my veins, begging for release.
I've been home a week and I don't know how to talk to Mia. Don't know how to live with her so close to me. The last four months have been a haze of apathy and numbness, and I don't know what to do with everything I've felt since I came home.
I lift my eyes back up to the window and catch Mia staring at me, her lips parted, shock on her face. For a moment, our gazes lock, and something nearly tangible pulses between us. Regret. Frustration. Desire.
She turns away, and it feels like someone has sliced off a piece of my heart.
"Christ," Chris mutters. "You can't look at her like that and expect assholes like Keegan to keep their mouths shut."
There are so many things rich people have and take for granted. It's not just the big houses and the flashy cars. It's not the decadent vacations or the security of knowing you have a safety net if today's job disappears tomorrow. It's also the little things. Like fine linens. Thick, plush towels that hug your skin and smell like flowers. Sheets so soft they caress your skin as you slide between them. A stocked fridge. Fresh fruit year-round, and never the crap from cans. Air conditioning.
I fold the last of the towels, relishing the smell and the feel of them, and then begin my journey throughout the Woodisons' house to put them away. I learned quickly that rich people don't just have nice towels. They have different sizes of each towel-guest towels, hand towels, bath towels, bath sheets, and swim towels. And the Woodisons have different colors designated for each bathroom. In fact, Gwen's a little OCD about her towels. I think she fancies herself an interior decorator or something.
Since Arrow has friends over, I head to the bathroom just off the pool first. The door to the back patio is open, and music and laughter float into the house.
I roll the towels and position them in the baskets the way Gwen likes them. My eye catches on the group gathered on the other side of the porthole window. Half a dozen guys from the Blackhawk Hills University football team gather around the pool, girls hanging on the arms of a couple of them. In the middle of the semester, I heard the coaches told the guys to stay away from Arrow, but here they are. Bailey said that rumor has it the judge thinks his team is the positive influence he needs to turn his life around.
As I start to turn away, I spot a broad-shouldered blond laughing at the pool-house bar. My heart squeezes hard, refusing to beat for one painful breath, then a second. You'd think I'd become accustomed to these moments when the world stops and I have to scramble to remember where I am in time and space. I grasp for my footing in the present, like forcing myself awake from a good dream and finding myself in a nightmare. The guy turns around, and I have a better view of his face, and just like that, I'm body-slammed back into the present-the nightmare. No. Not Brogan. Of course not. He won't be joining his friends tonight.
"Oh, hey, Mia!"
I shake myself out of my reverie and turn to see Christopher Montgomery standing in the doorway. The BHU quarterback, Chris has soft blue eyes and one of those dimpled smiles that makes a girl feel like a princess. His chest is bare, and his shaggy mop of brown hair is wet from the pool and slicked back from his face. He's not a loudmouth like some of the other guys, and he's got this Southern accent to go with his striking good looks. I imagine he's melted countless panties since he hit puberty. "Hey, Chris. I'll get out of your way." I shove the rest of the towels into their spots and grab my laundry basket.
"What are you doing with all that?" He frowns at the towels. "Why aren't you out back with everybody else?"
I shake my head and try to pretend it doesn't matter. "Gotta work."
He steps to the side, blocking my escape, and cocks his head at me. "I guess the rumor was true. You are working for the Woodisons."
"There's a rumor about it?" I tell myself I don't care, but my stomach's sudden summersaults say otherwise. "I had no idea my employment status was fodder for gossip."
"It's not like that. Just with Brogan, we all . . ." He shrugs. "We all worry about you."