Fenn
“Mr. Swinney?” Casey says with her jaw jutting open. “That guy who looks like an old moth-eaten wool coat that’s fallen off its hanger in the back of the closet?”
It’s an apt description, and I almost choke myself laughing as we find a nice shady spot to throw down our picnic blanket Saturday afternoon.
“It’s the perfect cover,” I answer. “Who’d suspect, right?”
The Sandover Prep campus is deceptively large, extending for hundreds of acres beyond the main facilities. Much of it is untouched woodland that most of us have barely explored. Today we wandered off one of the walking trails to discover a hollow among the evergreens. Autumn is in full swing. Everywhere else on campus, the leaves are starting to turn in an array of reds and oranges, the ground becoming crunchy and brown. Here, there’s still a lot of green to be seen.
We sit, and I begin setting out some snacks I brought. I found a small gourmet grocery about a half hour away that I paid to put something together. Had it delivered to the dorm this morning. Best of all, I got them to procure two raw marrow bones from the butcher shop in Calden, the small town closest to the Sandover campus.
I waste no time tossing the bones at Casey’s two salivating golden retrievers, who snatch up their respective bones and race off to find a quiet place to gorge. Good. That’ll keep them busy for a while.
“So, you followed him?” Casey says with a laugh.
“Yup. And this place was not easy to get to. Which, you know, makes sense. RJ and I spent the night traipsing through the woods in the pitch-black. Getting cut up and tripping over rocks every other step.”
“I would have been terrified,” she says nervously. “You could have found his murder shack or something.”
“The thought did occur to me.”
I’m having the hardest time concentrating on the conversation, not entirely sure the words are coming out in the right order. Casey is beautiful against the backdrop of sunlight filtering through the trees. I get distracted by her strawberry-blond hair catching in the breeze and the way she licks her fingers after biting into an orange slice. The simplest things about her get me all weird in the head. I’d consider it a sickness if I didn’t prefer to spend time with her than do just about anything else.
“The real fun was hauling ass out of there thinking we were about to get caught by a bunch of heavily armed drug traffickers who were going to cut off our fingers and send them to our parents.”
“All that so RJ could keep seeing Sloane.” Casey smiles to herself. “He’s a piece of work.”
I pull a bottle of prosecco out of my backpack along with two glasses I stole from the dining hall. For some dumb reason, I struggle to pour because my fingers are shaky.
“Are you okay?” She watches me with amused concern. “You’re kind of shaking a lot.”
“You make me a little nervous,” I confess.
Casey cocks her head. “I find that hard to believe.”
“It’s true.”
Lately I’ve made it a point not to lie to her. Any more than I already have and no more than necessary. I’m trying this new path of absolute uncomfortable honesty. Sort of. It’s complicated. I don’t know. I guess it feels like I’m trying to compensate for all the other ways I’m about to screw her up.
“That’s ridiculous.”
I hand her the glass I’ve somehow managed not to spill all over the blanket. “Trust me, you’re well out of my league.”
“You’re cute when you’re full of crap.”
She laughs off my comment as an attempt at being charming. For some reason, this girl’s got it in her head I’m a catch. I don’t know whatever gave her that idea. Sometimes I wish I could tell her all the rotten secrets that would send her running.
“Here, try this one.” Casey pops a cheese cube in my mouth and watches me for a reaction.
I chew slowly. “Oh, that’s kind of weird.”
“Right? Like red wine.”
“How would you know?”
She snickers. “What, you think you’re the first person to offer me alcohol?”
I don’t know why I like it so much when she laughs at me.
Being with her, here, I’ve never been more content. Casey has a way of blotting out everything else around us, and I’m lighter. Free. Happy. It’s never continuous, though, because between those pure moments, a current of dread runs through my head and reminds me that it’s only a matter of time. Before I disappoint her. Become such a toxic influence on her that I corrupt the goodness that makes her special.
Casey doesn’t suffer from the malignant apathy and disenchantment to which the rest of us have succumbed. She isn’t another jaded trust-fund baby whose soul is cold and empty. She’s hopeful and sweet. Kind and generous. All the things that get wrung out of us, she’s somehow managed to retain through terrible ordeals that would have understandably crippled others.
She’s sort of my hero.
And if I weren’t such a selfish bastard, I’d leave her alone before I break her.
“What are you up to tonight?” she asks as she plucks a mini powdered donut out of a little container. “Getting into trouble?”
“The fights are tonight.” I roll my eyes. “RJ wants me to go with him, since he technically has to make an appearance after dethroning Duke.”
“I can’t picture RJ running things. Being the new Duke.”
“That makes two of you.”
My stepbrother never wanted the responsibility or power of being Sandover’s top dog. When he challenged Duke for leadership, he was fighting for his own autonomy against a corrupt system. In other words, he wanted to run his own criminal rackets without handing over a cut to Duke fuckin’ Jessup. What he didn’t realize is the machine keeps turning no matter who’s in the driver’s seat. Whether they like it or not.
Casey leans back on her elbows, giving me a curious look. “Have you ever participated?”
“Fought? Sure. Couple times.”
I can’t read her reaction, but I expect her to be disappointed. It’s one of those things that takes the shine off the penny. Participating in Sandover’s tradition of guys beating the crap out of one another every Saturday night probably isn’t the most attractive trait in a potential boyfriend.
“Was it recreational, or…?”
“You mean was I doing it for fun? No.”
Plenty of guys do it for shits and giggles. Some do it to prove something. Others because they like it. That’s not me.
“Maybe it’s a failure of character, but both times I’ve gone in there, it’s because I had something to solve. A score to settle or whatever. Squash a beef.”
I don’t take any kind of pleasure out of violence. Just on some occasions, physical conflict is efficient. Everyone knows the rules and they work. Mostly.
“I’m not judging. But I definitely can’t imagine you in a fight,” she says, chewing on her lip as if she’s trying hard to conjure the vision in her head. “Not with that angel face.” She wipes a teasing finger of powdered sugar on my cheek.
I’ve heard it my whole life. Fennelly Bishop, the pretty boy. But when I do step toe-to-toe with another guy who has no qualms about beating my face in, I don’t hold anything back. Something is unleashed in me when I taste blood. I get vicious. It’s a bit like blacking out, some deeply repressed part of me taking over. But then that’s also sort of a cop-out, like I’m passing the blame. Maybe I do enjoy beating the shit out of someone every now and then. Maybe we all do.
“Who did you fight?” she asks. “Anyone I know?”
“Only one you’d know is Gabe.”
Her jaw drops. “Isn’t he your best friend?”
I grin. “Not for those ten minutes in the ring.”
Man, that was a brutal fight. Gabe and I have known each other since kindergarten, so obviously we’d gotten into a scuffle or two over the years, but that night was a bloody, bare-knuckle brawl that left both of us beaten to a pulp. I can’t even say who won. Can’t remember why we were even fighting that night.
Ah, right. I fucked a chick he had his eye on. Broke the bro code. I had it coming when he called me out at the fights.
“Have you still not spoken to him at all since he got sent away?” Casey asks quietly.
“Nope.” Unhappiness ripples through me, along with a clench of guilt. “I still don’t even know where they sent him. Gabe’s parents are ridiculously strict, so I guess it makes sense they chose the one military school that’s impossible to get any information on.”
“Yeah, Lucas is always saying how impossible his parents are. It drives him crazy.”
I inwardly bristle at the mention of Lucas, which is a stupid reaction because Casey is allowed to have friends. Hell, these days, with everyone at Ballard still whispering about her, and now the girls at St. Vincent’s, I want her to have as many friends as possible.
But I can’t deny I feel a spark of jealousy knowing how close she and Lucas Ciprian are.
Not that there’s anything wrong with Lucas. He’s a good kid. Gabe had a soft spot for his younger brother, especially since their father constantly compared the two. Lucas definitely has a younger-brother-in-his-older-brother’s-shadow syndrome happening, and I know Gabe sensed the jealousy because he was always trying to boost the kid’s confidence.
“Apparently it’s gotten worse since Gabe got caught dealing,” Casey tells me. “Mr. Ciprian’s been extra hard on Lucas. He calls him pretty much every day to lecture him about ‘honest work’ and not following in his brother’s footsteps.”
“Maybe Lucas needs to fight, then,” I say lightly. “Release some of that frustration.”
“Hey, what if I came with you tonight?” she suggests, tipping the wine glass to her lips. “See what all the fuss is about.”
I wince at the thought. “Bad idea. Girls don’t go to the fights. Trust me, it’s not the sort of place you want to be.”
“Why?” She raises a combative eyebrow. “Because we’re too precious and frail?”
“Yeah, exactly.”
“Rude.”
I have to laugh at the little glimpse of her defiant streak. I’d pay to see what she thinks rebelling looks like.
“If you want to roll around in the mud a little, you can wrestle me.” I narrow my eyes in challenge.
Hers flash wide. “You wouldn’t dare.”
I take her glass and set it aside. “I totally would.”
Then I pounce. Before she can wiggle away, I grab her around the waist to lay her down. She squirms while I tickle her ribs and kiss her neck, beating my back and shoulders with soft jabs.
“You’re dead, Fennelly,” she threatens between hysterical laughter.
“Keep trying all you want, I’m not ticklish.”
I am a good sport, though, so I let Casey get some leverage to pin me down. She rolls on top of me with a triumphant smirk.
“Now you’re at my mercy,” she declares, quite proud of herself.
Holding her hips, I have to concentrate with significant effort to keep from poking her with an erection.
“All right, I surrender,” I say huskily. “Do your worst.”
She leans down to press her lips to mine. I’m at half wood and silently begging she doesn’t feel it. Not that I don’t want her riding my dick, but I’m not trying to force things with us. I wasn’t kidding when I told her I want to take it slow.
Fuck, though, she can kiss.
I don’t know what special magic she’s conjured, but tasting her makes me practically feral. Like throw her down beneath me and rip her clothes off kind of mental. So when she grabs my hands and pushes them up her ribs, I can’t help skimming my thumbs across her stiff nipples over her thin sweater. She makes the softest moan in my mouth, and I lose all but the last strands of my self-control. Palming her tits, I squeeze them until she starts moving her hips back and forth.
Groaning, I roll Casey over on our sides and pull away. Just far enough that our lower bodies aren’t touching while I kiss her neck. Because if she let me, I’d fuck her right here and it’d be amazing. It’d also be the quickest way to blow up everything we could have been.
“Don’t be in such a rush,” I say when her face falls. “We have time.”
It’s not what she wants to hear. I know even as she tilts her head to kiss me back, her soft hands combing through my hair, that she’s wondering if she’s done something wrong. She hasn’t, of course, and I wish I could explain it in a way she’d understand.
That the only person who’s bound to mess this up is me.