“That family is twisted.” Craig wiped his face with his white towel.
We looked over to where they stood in a huddle, pressed to the side of the tiled walls like hieroglyphics coming to life. Mrs. Popov’s beige cardigan swallowed her thin frame. Her arms crossed her chest, held her tight and pulled the worn, wool fibres against her shoulders. The only colour on her came from the—fake, I was sure—peridot and ruby bracelet hanging from her fragile wrist. Serge stood in between his parents, water dripping off his body and pooling on the cement floor. His back was to us, the muscles tight, rigid.
“Do you think Reverend Popov beats them?” I asked.
Craig shrugged. “Abuse can be more than physical.” He turned his warm chocolate gaze on me. “What did they say to you?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “It started off like an apology then ended up with a warning I was going to go to hell.” I kept my gaze on the family, trying to see more, trying to sense…anything. But between the naked demi-god beside me and the terrifying guy in front of me, my emotions would only zip between lust and fear. “The whole thing’s weird. What are they doing here, anyway?” I turned to Craig. “Coming to his practice? That’s not their style.”
“Mrs. Popov comes occasionally, but the reverend…” Craig paused. “The whole thing’s weird.”
His tone made my skin prickle and I waited for him to say more.
He smiled, shook his head. “I know you were probably too pissed off to notice anything after they came in, but did you see anything off in the way I played tonight?”
“Sorry,” I sighed. Until the Popovs had come, I’d been fixating on a more sexy focus and hadn’t noticed anything. “To be honest, you looked perfect to me.”
He smiled, but worry robbed its brilliance. “Thanks. I hope I’m just as perfect at next week’s game.”
“Come on. Go shower and I’ll treat you to pizza.” It wasn’t exactly asking him out for a date, but it was close.
He sighed and rubbed his hair with the towel.
My eyes lingered on his abs. Reluctant to reveal myself as the lech I really was, I dragged my gaze back to his face.
“I’d love to, but it’s my mom and dad’s date night. I’m babysitting Zianna.”
It was plausible, believable, but the rejection stung. And it reminded me that given the opportunity to confide in me about the Popovs, he’d chosen silence. “Oh, right, sure.” I went for a nonchalant shrug. “Another time.”
His full lips pulled back to show teeth that—I swear—were designed for nipping my neck.
“Promise.” He pivoted for the showers. “Maybe tomorrow, after the game?”
Excitement made me hold my breath. “Yeah.”
“Cool. We’ll grab the gang.”
Great. I was getting a too-clear idea of how much alone time he really wanted, but I forced a smile. “The gang. Sure.”
He left.
I turned back to the Popovs. His parents had gone, but Serge stared at the ground like he wanted to beat the tiles until they were dust.
He looked up and his gaze honed on me.
I tripped over my sneakers as I ran for the exit. Serge came at me, hard and fast. His iron fingers clamped onto my shoulder and dug into the muscle. I winced as a moan of pain betrayed me. My knees buckled.
Serge wrenched me upright, spun me around, and grabbing me by the throat, backed me against the wall. I peered past his shoulder, but the place was empty.
The water cut and reflected the lights of the pool, casting forks of yellow and white that danced and rippled along the ceiling. There was no sound, not even the sound of my breathing or of Serge’s. My lack of inhalation, I understood, but the fact that he wasn’t breathing…that was terrifying.
Trying to force air into my lungs, I turned my focus to the boy whose thumb dug into my carotid.
Every crooked edge of his freckles was highlighted by the white fury that mottled his face. “What did they say?” The question came out quiet, hushed.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. “I—I can’t rememb—”
The dry heat of his body radiated into my flesh and the smell of pepper filled the air as his fist brushed my cheek. I heard the sick crunch of bone hitting tile. Warm, wet spatters of blood hit my cheek but I was too freaked out to wipe them away.
“I asked you, what did they say?” His voice went quieter, almost a whisper.
He asked the question with a casual tone that set my teeth on edge, sucked the marrow from my bones. “I don’t know—I don’t remember.”
He pushed his face close to mine.
The chlorine evaporating off his body made my nose burn and my eyes water. “I promise—God—I swear!” I could barely push the words past the terror clogging my throat.
“Good—”
His breath was hot, moist, and smelled of stale beer.
“If anyone asks, that’s exactly what you tell them.” He leaned in, so close his freckles blurred into a blob. “I’m apologizing, you hear me?”
I nodded.
His fingers squeezed tight. “You hear me?”
I wheezed my answer. “Y-yeah, I hear you.”
“Good. My parents ask and I was truly sorry, hear?”
I grunted, my mouth too dry to speak.
He let go then jabbed me in the chest, hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. “You say different, you tell anyone about our conversation, and next time, it’ll be you in that trunk.” He spun on his heel and stomped away.