He takes my mouth with his, a hand grazing my throat like a warm, rough necklace.
"Touch me," he breathes onto my lips.
My hands slip under his shirt, over his abdomen, his muscles tight and warm against my fingertips. I touch the places on him I'...
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Saturday, 9:05 AM
Something about this morning feels pivotal. I don't know why yet.
I step out of the house, bus pass and coffee in hand. Dressed in yellow shorts and a purple tee-shirt, I brace for the sticky heat of a July morning in Virginia, but as fate would have it, I get an extra dose of morning bitterness, no sugar added.
Greyson's father pulls into the driveway with his patrol car, parking where Greyson's beaten-up Honda Accord usually sits, but is gone with him to work.
At the sight of Steven Scott, I tense. He steps out, his uniform neat and imposing, a gun at his hip. His dark hair, peppered with gray, and his ruddy cheeks speak of years in service, though the curling fingers on his left hand speak of years spent clutching a whiskey glass.
Those are the years after Serena Scott up and left her family.
As Steven walks up the steps to his front door, his gaze briefly meets mine. I raise my hand for a wave that's about as effective as a screen door on a submarine. He has no intention of acknowledging me.
This isn't the man who'd built us the treehouse. The one who'd patched up my scraped knees and made me pancakes is gone.
Turning away from the Scott residence, I head down the street towards the bus stop, coffee in my hand. It smells very bitter, now.
The bus ride to the hospital is as exciting as watching paint dry. I going to hunt down Pat, post his graveyard shift.
The hospital looms like a giant block of Nope against the sky, the only medical center in town.
The sliding doors hiss open, and I'm immediately hit by the cool, antiseptic air of the lobby. It's a relief from the summer heat, but the sterile environment is nearly too cold.
"Ember?"
I stop mid-stride in the brightly lit hospital hallway. Slowly, as if caught with my hand in the cookie jar, I turn around and plaster a tight-lipped smile on my face.
"Raveena. Funny seeing you here."
She frowns, marching her short frame closer. Her light blue scrubs swish together. Will she say I look different? That I have a glow about me?
"You're elusive," Raveena says, an Indian accent coating her words. "You know your uncle loves it when you visit, hon."
I hold the coffee to my chest. "If you didn't know, we're roommates."
Raveena Patel, the sixty-year-old nurse extraordinaire from New Delhi and my uncle's closest friend, is my somewhat reluctant acquaintance.
Her dark brown eyes, lined with a hint of gold, narrow. "Shouldn't you be home studying?"
I flash my best guilty as charged face. "Last summer before uni, remember? Trying to make it count."
Raveena ambles closer, leaving me to peer down at her. She's a small, curvy woman, standing no more than 5'4''. I'm around 5'7'', close to my uncle's height.
