"I think you should stop being so mean to me, Zahed."
"Why would I ever do that?"
Aryan grins, a bright, wicked thing.
"Because I kiss you like this."
•
Mira Zahed and Aryan Shankar are at war.
When her best friend and his cousin decide to fall in...
hi sexually explicit content warning— if you're under 18 or uncomfortable reading this content, kindly look away besties <33
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
♥ ♥ ♥
THE EVENING SUN IS HOT, casting down on my skin with a vengeance of searing rays as I lift the hose and send a sparkling column of crystal clear water into the air, rinsing the soap off the Porsche's door.
It's Tuesday and when Bob failed to show up at our doorstep with his torchlight and a pissed-off Daniel Fakhoury between Sunday and Monday, it was safe to assume we were in the clear.
Well, for the most part.
My eyes flick through the sun's glare reflecting off the shiny white exterior of the car, toward the door that Zahed had been quick to storm out of.
I hadn't talked to her since that night, her heart hammering against mine in the shadows of her father's mansion. After that, we'd all skid out of Beverly Hills in our respective vehicles. I hadn't even texted to ask if she'd gotten home safe after dropping Kajal and Dima off. Which might've been a dick move on my part.
I try not to focus on it, sliding a washcloth over the car's hood, water splashing back onto me but it makes no difference. I'm bathed in it, droplets on my skin, shirt clinging to my chest, hair dampened. It's not unpleasant, considering the heat of the evening, the occasional Pacific breeze whistling over my wet skin, cooling me down kindly, but still, I shoot a glower over my shoulder.
Glaring, I resist the urge to turn the hose on Raf and Charlie. Mainly Raf.
Though, I'm not too keen on being nice to Charlie either. Ever since Mira's not so subtle statement at breakfast, he keeps shooting me suggestive looks like I have any idea as to what the fuck I'm doing with Zahed.
It doesn't help that Charlie is holding me to the deal of washing his car and enjoying every second of it.
The Devil works hard but Charles Ross works harder.
The two of them are lounging on beach chairs in the garage, drinks in hand as they observe my progress. Charlie wears a pair of yellow-tinted Tom Ford sunglasses that fail to hide the purely amused glint behind his eyes.
I curl my fingers around the hose, showering the car, and consider, not for the first time, or the last, angling it in their direction.
As if sensing my thoughts, Raf raises his can of Red Bull in a taunting cheer. Red Bull because he's going to play with some of the boys in an hour or so. Football sobers Raf up good and proper. Granted, twenty-seven grams of sugar isn't very good on the field either. I'm supposed to go with him. But given the smirk on his lips, I debate staying my ass at home and dashing his stupid fucking can to the floor. Water's better for you, after all.
