Romi
When I was safely outside and far away from Victoria, I wandered through the gardens at the back of our house, passing the pool, hot tub, and fountains as I moved.
Even though the gardens at the back of our house were vast and our property line went on for what felt like miles, I didn’t need a map to know where I was going. It was a trail I was all familiar with. It was the same child-made trail that I had taken every day for years.
Forty-five minutes later, I was slipping past the honeysuckle bush and weaving between several trees at the edge of our property.
My shoes crushed against the fallen yellowish leaves as I moved. Finally, I found myself standing at the base of the old oak.
The old, rickety ladder was still there, still as unstable as ever, and I felt a small tug at my lips as I thought about how many times I'd fallen out of this exact tree.
Quickly shaking the thoughts away before they darkened to the point of no return, I embarked on the climb, carefully maneuvering my way up the trunk until I reached the treehouse. The den. The fort. The place where my childhood dreams were made.
Hoisting myself onto the solid wooden platform, I crawled through the narrow archway with every intention of staying in here until dinner was over and my father and Victoria went to bed. They wouldn’t come looking for me back here. Lance never trailed me at home, Victoria had never wandered further into the grounds than the pool, and Daddy wouldn’t be able to remember the way to the den if he tried. He'd only been back here a handful of times in eighteen years.
Hidden away in this tree, I was safe from the danger.
For a few short hours, I was free from the world.
"I knew you'd come."
Startled by the sound of his voice, my head snapped up and I locked eyes on an imposing figure sitting in the far corner of the treehouse.
The only light that could enter was being partially blocked by my body as I hovered in the entryway, but I could still see him.
Like me, Sketch was still dressed in his school uniform and I knew he had to have raced home to catch me in here. Tossing the pad he'd been using to sketch his latest masterpiece on away, he gave me his full attention. "We need to finish that talk."
No. No. No…
My mind went blank but my body jumped into action. Heart accelerating wildly in my chest, I started to back out of the treehouse, feet searching for a step on the ladder to drop onto, but Sketch was much too fast for me.
Lunging forward, he fisted the front of my shirt and dragged me deeper inside the small space with him.
Roughly shoving me into the corner he'd occupied, Sketch positioned his body in front of the small entryway, essentially trapping me inside with him.
He was so damn broad that the only light seeping in now was through the tiny cracks in the misplaced wooden beams that formed the walls around our childhood fort.
When the three of us thought up the layout of the treehouse several years ago, we created it without windows for the sole purpose of privacy. At the time, we had believed in mystical monsters and woodland creatures. In our naïve, seven-year-old minds, we had been proud supporters of the ostrich effect. If we can't see them, they can't see us.
Of course, Daddy had a team of professionals come in to build it for us, but we had been hellbent on them following our hand-drawn blueprints, insisting that a tiny U-shaped doorway be the only access to our den. The archway was barely big enough for a grown-up to squeeze through and that was the point. The treehouse was our domain, not theirs.
Breathing hard and fast, I scrambled away until my back was resting against the timber wall behind me. Wrapping my arms around my knees, I kept my head bent and my gaze glued to the floor.
"Cut that docile shit out and look at me. We both know you're no wilting flower," he barked and I snapped my head back up, too afraid to disobey him.
Not now.
Not without witnesses.
Satisfied with my reaction and the fact that I couldn’t escape if I tried, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and flipped on the flashlight, bathing the small 6x8 feet space in a yellow hue.
"Now." Setting the phone face down with the light shining upwards, he stretched his legs out and folded his arms across his chest, making his biceps bulge. "Let's talk."
I cleared my throat and parted my lips to say something, anything, but all that came out was a strangled whimper. Wetting my bottom lip with my tongue, I tightened my arms around my knees and tried to speak again.
Nothing came out.
Not a single word.
"You're not a mute, killer," he stated, but his tone wasn't nearly as venomous as earlier. In fact, he sounded weary now, and a little resigned. "You've never been stuck for words a day in your life, so don’t start now."
That was the old Romi. He was remembering a girl from a different lifetime. "Things change," I replied, voice strained. "I'm not the same girl."
"I can agree with that," he replied, keeping his electric blue eyes honed in on mine. His stare was so severe that it took everything in me not to look away. It had always been like that. Everything about him put me on high-alert.
Where Chris had warm, pale-blue eyes that were almost grey in pigment, Sketch's eyes were a shocking shade of vibrant blue that could pierce right through a person.
Even though they were twins, they looked as different as night and day, with Chris's hair a light blond like their father's and Sketch's a dark brown. The only physical trait they shared was their height. Both of the twins were ridiculously tall. But where Chris was lean from swimming, Sketch was broader and heavily packed with muscles from football.
Chris's face had still held the softness of boyhood and could get away with several days between shaving, while Sketch had lost the boyish look years before and shaved daily to keep his stubble in check. Chris had double dimples in his cheeks and another in his chin. Sketch had a lone dimple in his left cheek and a square jaw. They didn't even share the same skin complexion with Chris being fair skinned while Sketch had an olive skin tone and a year-round sun-kissed tan.
Like their looks, the twin's personalities were on opposites ends of the spectrum. Chris was a complete fricking genius with Ivy league colleges snapping at his heels. He was also warm-natured and kind, diplomatic and charismatic, and had a way with people that allowed him the luxury of being able to talk his way out of almost anything.
Meanwhile, Sketch, even though he was smart in his own right, didn’t care enough to try to pull for good grades. He didn’t care when he passed a test and he cared even less when he failed, doing the bare amount of schoolwork to keep him on the football team. He was reckless, rough around the edges, and constantly getting into brawls.
Chris had been their parents favorite since childhood. Nothing he ever did or didn’t do changed his parents' attitude towards him, nothing made him equal to Chris in their eyes, so Sketch made it his life's mission to be the opposite.
He was so intent on being everything that his brother wasn’t that it surprised me when he joined the football team back in elementary school. I suspected the fact that his parents never batted an eyelid was the only reason he kept it up and didn’t quit. If they had shown the slightest interest in his one positive extracurricular activity, I had no doubt that Sketch would have quit on the spot.
It was the same with his artwork. He was genuinely gifted when it came to drawing – hence the nickname Sketch – and had won several state competitions with his impressive artwork. He was constantly being pushed by the teaching staff at Newton-Willis to pursue a place at an art college after graduation, but again, that was never spoken about in the Capaldi household because everyone was too busy congratulating Chris on his stellar grades and countless academic awards.
One thing was clear, though, and that was the twins love for each other. Sketch never held a grudge on Chris over their parent's blatant favoritism of him, and Chris, in turn, had always turned a blind eye to the crazy and, more often than not, illegal crap Sketch got himself mixed up in.
For polar opposites, the Capaldi twins were – had been – as thick as thieves. They were openly affectionate towards one-another and each other's biggest supporters.
"You're not the girl I grew up with and I'm not the same guy," Sketch continued to say, dragging me back to the here and now. "You don’t know me anymore and I don’t know you, so why don’t we both cut the shit and get down to business." Jaw ticking, he narrowed his eyes and said, "I want you to tell me how it went down."
"I can't," I replied, breath hitching in my throat when I saw the pain flash in his eyes. I didn’t want to hurt him, but I wished he realized how much it was costing me to protect him. My sanity. "I'm so sorry."
"I don’t want your sorrys," he strangled out, chest heaving as hard as mine now. "I want your secrets."
"I didn’t hurt Chris." It was all I could say. It was all that was safe to say. "I promise."
"Your promises don’t mean a goddamn thing to me anymore," he spat and then groaned like he was in physical pain. "What's it gonna take, huh? What do I have to do to get you to talk?" Uncrossing his arms, he fisted his dark hair, his handsome features contorting into a concoction of anger and agony. "Do I need to up the ante at school? Get more people involved? Fuck with you a little more?" Dropping his hands to his sides, clearly unable to sit still, he locked eyes with me again. "Do I need to hurt you?"
Trembling, I exhaled a ragged breath and whispered, "I do know you, Sketch, and I know you would never hurt me." I hoped. "It's not in your nature. You don’t hit girls."
"I thought I knew you, too." Tilting his head to one-side, he said, "But you turned out to be a killer, so I guess we don’t really know the people closest to us after all."
"I told the truth."
"No." A cold tremor ran through me when he shifted onto his knees. "Your bottom lip quivers when you lie." Shaking his head profusely, he moved closer, not stopping until he was kneeling in front of me. "It's quivering right now."
"Because you're scaring me," I breathed, heart hammering wildly in my chest.
"I'm scaring you?" He arched a brow. "And yet you're the one with blood on your hands," he sneered. "Funny little world, huh?"
"I guess," was all I could say, knowing that however I responded to him would make me sound guilty. "I'm sorry." The word slipped out again, and I knew it would fall on deaf ears. He said it himself; he didn’t want my sorrys or my promises. I offered them to him anyway. "I never wanted any of this to happen. You have to believe that. This –" I gestured between us and cringed. "The way things are between us now is the last thing I would ever want."
He glared at me for a long beat before blowing out a frustrated breath. "You know, I haven't slept more than an hour or two at night since he died." Shoulders slumping in defeat, he moved to sit beside me. "I can't get his face out of my mind." He tilted his head back, gaze cast upwards. "Why'd you do it?" His tone was resigned, his words little more than a broken whisper. "Why Chris?"
"I'm sorry. I wish I could go back in time," I confessed, shivering when his arm brushed against mine. "So bad."
"Yeah?" Hooking his arms around his bent knees, he turned his face to look at me. "And what would you do differently?"
"Everything," I mumbled, desperately trying to keep the memories at bay. I didn’t want to think about that night. I couldn't.
"Answer me this –" Giving me his undivided attention, he asked, "If you could have anything in the world right now, what would it be?"
"Wh-what?" I frowned in confusion, trying to figure out his angle.
"Right now," he pressed. "If you could have anything at this very minute, what would it be?"
"You." The word was out of my mouth before I could sensor myself, my reckless heart voicing opinions my brain knew were a terribly idea. "Us," I heard myself continue. "Like it was before."
His eyes narrowed. "Before?"
I swallowed deeply and shook my head. "Forget it –"
"You want me," he said flatly, but his eyes full of calculating heat. "That's what you want?"
"I don’t know." Feeling at a serious emotional disadvantage, I stared straight ahead. "I didn’t think the question through, I guess."
"Don’t lie," he warned. "I can read you like a book." Shifting onto his knees, he moved until he was kneeling right in front of me. "Little liar."
Embarrassed, I bowed my head and whispered, "I think I should leave now."
"Then leave," came his soft reply, as he placed his hands on my bare knees and roughly shoved them apart. "Go ahead." Keeping my legs pushed apart, he settled between them, causing my skirt to bunch up at my hips. "Run home to daddy."
My breath hitched in my throat. "Sketch –"
"Can't, can you?" His hand slowly drifting higher. "You're too damn curious," he pointed out, hand continuing on its path, not stopping until his fingers traced the lining of my panties. "You wanna see what I'll do."
"You're wrong," I breathed, lying through my teeth.
"I'm right," he corrected knowingly.
"Sketch." My knees rattled and I tried to close them to keep him out, but he was too strong for me, his big body keeping my smaller one spread open. "Stop this right now." I meant to sound stern but my nerves betrayed me. My words came out breathy and, if I was being totally honest, full of longing. "You need to –"
"I need to what?"
"Not do this," I breathed.
"Then tell me to stop," he purred, stroking me over my panties. "Say the words 'stop, Sketch' and I'll stop."
"I, ah, I –" I exhaled a ragged breath. "Jesus..."
"Did he have you?" His voice was soft now, tone almost coaxing, as his eyes darkened. "Did you at least give the poor bastard your cunt before you killed him? Hmm?" He tilted his head to one side, snaring me with his eyes alone. "Did he take your virginity before you took his life?"
"Don’t call it that," I snapped, feeling heat rush to my face. I felt myself grow wet and humiliation washed over me. Slapping weakly at his hands, I hissed, "That's disgusting."
"Your cunt is disgusting?" He arched a brow. "I wouldn’t say that, killer." Boldly, he traced a finger over my panties and smirked. "I'd say you have a very pretty cunt… for such a cunt."
Retracing his movement, he slipped a finger under the hem of my panties and traced my slit.
"Oh God." Breathing labored, my head fell back and I quickly balled my hands into fists to stop myself from reaching for him.
"Jesus, you actually like this, don’t you?" He plunged one finger deep inside my channel and a low growl escaped him. "So damn snug. I can barely get one finger inside you anymore." His voice was thick and laced with approval. "Didn’t he stretch this pussy out like I used to?" He hissed in approval. "Fuck, you feel tighter than ever."
Slowly, he began to move his finger in and out of me.
"Didn’t he make this tight hole his own?" Leaning close, he pressed his brow to mine. "Maybe you messed up – putting your eggs in my brother's basket." His breath fanned my face, his lips inches from mine. "Shit, maybe there was something I was better at after all."
"You didn’t want me, Sketch." I made a feeble attempt to push his hand away but it was half-hearted and we both knew it. "Chris did."
"And you were so quick to move on," he shot back, tone laced with bitterness. "How fortunate for you that your feelings were so flexible."
My breath hitched and I narrowed my eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Was I better than him, killer?" he veered off course and asked. "Did he make you come like I did?"
"Sketch, don’t play games with me –"
"You remember me stretching you out with my fingers, don’t you?" His eyes burned into mine. "And with my tongue."
A soft moan escaped my parted lips.
"Screaming out my name as you shook and trembled beneath me."
"I…"
"I always made it good for you," he whispered. "Didn’t I?"
I nodded weakly, unable to lie about that.
"Fuck." Breathing hard, Sketch caught ahold of both of my wrists in one of his large hands and pinned them to the timber wall above my head. "You're drenched for me."
I was and it revolted me. Trembling, I stopped fighting and let him pin my wrists, unable to hide the truth or my feelings.
"Please…" I let my words trail off, unsure of what I wanted to say, only knowing that I never wanted him to stop. "Oh god, please..."
"Please what, killer?" he purred, thumb moving to circle my clit as he crooked his finger inside me, making my limbs spasm and jerk. "Hmm?" His words were cruel but his touch was deceptively gentle. "Do you want my fingers in your cunt, cunt?"
My breath caught in my throat and I clenched my eyes shut.
His stare was too much.
His words were too cruel.
I felt too exposed.
"Please," I begged again, powerless to the swell of desire building up in my body.
"Please do it?" As he said the words, he slid a second finger inside my pussy. "Or please stop?"
Instantly, I pulsed and clenched around him and another guttural moan escaped my lips. My thighs fell open of their own accord, my body answering his question when my mind refused to.
"Yeah." Self-loathing filled me and a pained, humorless chuckle ripped from his chest. "That's what I thought."
"Sketch…"
"You were always so receptive," he said, breathing harder now. "You always loved my dirty talk, didn’t you?"
Nodding weakly, I blew out a shaky breath that transformed into a breathy moan.
He growled his approval. "That's right, daddy's girl. You like when I'm rough with you."
"Oh god…"
"You get off on it." His movements quickened, fingers plunging faster and harder inside my tight channel. "Because you want what's between my legs, don’t you?" He growled, thumbing my clit with the perfect amount of pressure. "You want what's between my legs buried between yours." He roughly forced a third finger inside me and I cried out as the pressure increased. "Buried deep inside you."
"Oh god," I cried out, shamelessly bucking my hips against his hand. "Sketch." Spreading my legs apart as far as I could, I bared myself entirely to him. "Please."
"Stretching you out." Keeping his brow pressed to mine, he released his hold on my wrists, causing them to flop at my sides, as he continued to pleasure me with his skilled fingers. "Fucking you raw."
Instinctively, I reached up and wrapped my arms around his neck, breathing hitched and ragged. "Yes…" Completely losing my mind, I clutched him tightly, closed the space between our mouths, and pressed my lips to his.
Instantly, Sketch's entire body turned rigid and I knew that I had made a terrible mistake.