➳ 𝐇𝐄 '𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐊𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒

⊰ 𝟙𝟘 ⊱

⚠️ IMPORTANT ⚠️

⤷ Lyle and Tate's ages have been restored to their original ones. If you have a problem with the age difference being a year or two apart from Evie's please stop reading. ⤶

''THE MERRY-GO-ROUND WITH LYLE CARVER.'

Holy shit.

He's here.

He's in my bedroom.

Perched on the end of my bed.

He was waiting for me.

Slowly, his head tips up at my arrival, Jesus. How can those eyes, the color of springtime grass, look so stunning but have the sharpest piecing glint like a thorn on a rose, sweeping across my skin, stinging and burning every inch of it as they slice into me.

Incredibly beautiful. Yet, dangerous Lyle Carver is.

I hate to admit it, but holy damn, he looks mouth-watering. He's casually dressed in loose sweatpants and a simple black hoodie with the sleeves cuffed to his elbows, showcasing his inked muscled forearms.

He hoists one hand up, pushing his hood back, allowing his curls to cup his face like curtains. For heaven's sake, I feel my tongue swell. The very sight of Lyle has me unable to locate my mouth or my brain. The air falls still as I close my bedroom door behind me, thoroughly regretting each second I've now fully committed to locking myself within his presence.

The delicious smell of his cologne drifts across my room as he positions himself forward, squaring his broad shoulders up, reminding me how intimidating he really is. with his tattooed arms resting on his thighs, Lyle laces his fingers together, watching, waiting, continuing to slice into me with his eyes.

"Where the hell were you?" It's not a question. to be honest, I have no idea what it is. But I don't particularly like the sound embedded in his tone.

His dark chocolate curls begin to fall just above his drawn-together brows that are slowly but surely hiking further up his forehead. He's not pleased I haven't given him an answer yet, and I'm not sure why I should anyway.

I'm not his concern.

I'm not his, period.

I am nothing to him other than his best friend's sister.

As I remind myself of this, Tate's words from last night begin to ooze through the gashes from Lyles's eyes, screaming, Liar, Liar, Liar. And they rapidly trickle down my skin, creating a force field around me, disengaging whatever compulsion Lyle's presence strangely held.

I take a steady breath and gather myself.

I refuse to look at Lyle through rose-tinted glasses, especially when they seem to swallow up all the colors of his red flags that have persistently been waved in front of my face.

I need answers.

The image of Tate suddenly materializes in front of me.

"Lyle's been using you, Evie."

That's what he told me.

Do I believe him?

Given his track record of being a piece of fucking shit? I don't know.

Yet, the thought of diverting the conversation topic into those waters has me so terrified it's as though Lyle is riptide, and I need to remain calm to stay afloat. Trying to fight my way through it won't get me anywhere but further and further away from the truth.

But I can't wait.

I can't just float over the million-dollar question forever. That will also carry me further away.