Chapter 17: : Part 2 – Chapter 17

June, age 17

I’d assumed we were going to a schoolmate’s party—maybe Marty, the party king, or even Hayden who will occasionally host something at his parents’ sprawling farmhouse.

Imagine my surprise when we pull into Wyatt Nippersink’s driveway. His tiny little shack of a house is bursting with so many people, I can hardly move inside, gripping my red solo cup as if it’s my only lifeline.

Celeste pops up behind me, startling me because I didn’t hear her approach over the cacophony of beer pong celebrations, rap music, and belching. “June, there you are!”

“Here I am.” My smile probably looks painted on. “How long did you want to stay?”

“Whenever Tony wants to leave, since he’s our ride. I don’t have to be at my babysitting gig until eleven tomorrow.” She chugs down her cup of mysterious red punch that matches mine. “Are you cool with that? I’m sure he’ll take you home early if you need to go.”

I worry my lip between my teeth. Truthfully, I only went out tonight to mingle with friends and let off some steam. But I hardly know anybody here, aside from Celeste and her older brother, Tony… and Wyatt, of course, but he’s far from what I’d consider a friend.

Celeste looks so glamorous tonight, dressed in a tight-fitting black minidress, her dirty blonde hair curled over both shoulders. Her lipstick is bright red, complementing the smile she’s wearing.

Twirling the cup between my fingers, I shake my head. “Nah, I’m fine. Whenever you want to leave works for me.”

We chit-chat for a bit, our voices shrill over the resounding racket of party noise. That’s where Wyatt finds us, huddled in a corner, giggling and sipping our punch, a few minutes later. “Juney,” he drawls, a wicked gleam in his eye. It always seems to be there when he looks at me. “Big brother let you out of his sight long enough to come play with me, eh?”

I pivot to face him, one hand instinctually tugging down the hem of my denim skirt. He doesn’t notice, though, because his gaze is locked on the swell of my breasts poking out from my halter top. “I’m here with Celeste and Tony. It’s good to see you, though.”

“The feeling is very mutual.” Wyatt snatches a pitcher of punch that’s been discarded on a coffee table and moves toward me, pouring it into my partially full cup. Liquid splashes up at me, misting my hand. He glances over at Celeste. “Need a refill, honey?”

She holds out her cup. “Fill ‘er up.”

I take a delicate sip of the punch, wincing when it coats my tongue. This batch tastes a lot stronger than the last.

Better than beer, at least.

“Tell you what, Juney. Have a few more glasses of my magic juice, then come find me, yeah?” Wyatt sends a wink my way, shoving back his mop of auburn hair.

While Wyatt isn’t terrible looking—he has a decent build, perfectly straight teeth, and pretty eyes when they aren’t leering at me—there’s something off-putting about him. Something slimy.

It’s almost as if I’ve always had his attention, even as a young girl. I recall the day at the frozen pond when he’d pushed me onto the ice. I know he was only being dumb and immature at the time, and that he hadn’t intentionally tried to hurt me or anything, but he was certainly old enough to know better.

And he was old enough to not look at me the way that he had.

I was only twelve years old at the time, yet I’d still felt the prickle of unease when he pinned his eyes on me. A threat lurked inside his golden gaze.

Bristling under his perusal, I simply nod my head, then take a few more gulps of the cocktail. “Sure, okay.”

“Good girl.”

He saunters away, and Celeste nudges me with her shoulder. “He wants to sleep with you.”

“What?” I nearly choke on my last sip. “You think?”

“C’mon, June, you can’t be that naïve. ‘Come find me later’—? That’s definitely code for sex.”

I suppose she’s right. It’s not like he’d be interested in going head-to-head in a riveting game of Scrabble. “Wyatt’s not really my type. I guess I’ll have to break his heart,” I tease.

“No? I thought you were into older guys.”

Flush seeps into my skin. It’s true, in a way. Boys my age have never really held my attention for long—my early high school crushes faded quickly, and I found myself more intrigued by my brothers’ friends whenever they would come over. They were so much more mature, engaging. Fidgeting with my cup, I shrug my shoulders. “Not him.”

Wyatt stares at me from across the small living room, and I avert my eyes, my cheeks hot, and gulp down the rest of my punch.

The room spins a little, like I’m dancing on a pinwheel.

After three glasses of “magic juice” I think the magic is finally starting to happen. I’m bounced between dancing bodies, music pulsing through my veins as I sway and twirl.

I think I’m kind of drunk.

I’ve never been drunk before. Hangovers have never really held any appeal for me, especially with my rigorous dance schedule and goals I’m determined to reach. Parties and booze will only slow me down; hold me back. Alcohol doesn’t fit into my life.

But it doesn’t feel half bad right now as my inhibitions float away like a deflating balloon. I’m sweaty and laughing, swinging my arms to the beat of the song. Celeste dances beside me, squealing as she grinds up on some guy, and we both grin wide, young and carefree.

“Told you to come find me.” Wyatt’s voice is gritty and suggestive as his mouth finds my ear, his body pressed up behind me.

I shiver, just a bit. “I was dancing.”

“I see that.” Two hands roam over me, from my hips, to my waist, to the underside of my breasts. “Let’s go talk someplace private, yeah?”

He doesn’t give me a chance to respond before tugging me away from the crowd and leading me down a short, wood-paneled hallway. Wyatt kicks open one of the solid oak doors and pulls me inside with him. When the door slams shut, the click of a lock follows.

It’s fairly dark inside the cluttered bedroom. A small lamp provides faint illumination in the corner, and the blinds are pulled up, allowing moonlight to spill in. It’s bright enough that I can make out every detail on Wyatt’s face as he stalks toward me, a predator hungry for a taste of fresh meat.

I blink the haze from my eyes, my body still buzzing with liquor and music. “You want to talk?”

“Something like that,” he says, cocking his head to the side as he advances on me. “Don’t really need words to get my point across, though.”

Swallowing, I catch a whiff of cigarettes and bourbon mingling with the smell of mothballs in the room. My eyes are fixed on his as he reaches for me. “I’m intoxicated.” I feel the need to say it, to inform him.

To remind myself.

An eyebrow arches. “You know where you are?”

“Yes.”

“Who you’re with?”

“Yes.”

Wyatt’s smirk curls as he takes his index finger and runs it through my long, flowing curtain of hair, then brings a tendril to his nose. He sniffs it. “You smell like a pretty little flower garden,” he says, a low growl rumbling in his throat. “Makes my dick hard.”

My breath catches, my gaze dipping to the side.

I’m not sure what I’m feeling right now.

There’s a trace of adrenaline swimming through me—no one has ever talked to me like this before. Curiosity floods me.

But I also feel a low hum of warning vibrating in the pit of my stomach, telling me to run.

Wyatt takes my silence as further invitation, dropping my hair to palm my breasts through my halter top. I arch into him with a startled gasp, and he moans in reply. A raw and dirty sound. “You know how many times I’ve jerked off, imagining blowing my load all over these big, milky white titties?” He squeezes my breasts like they’re sponges, and I shake my head, eyes slamming shut. “Too many times to count, honey.”

Oh, God.

The alcohol is making my brain feel fuzzy, my body teetering until I stumble back against a dresser. My heart is thumping frantically in my chest, but I can’t decipher its beats.

And then he’s kissing me.

Hard, wet, demanding. Wyatt shoves my jaw open, stabbing me with his tongue until I almost gag. “Mmm,” he groans, slipping one hand between my legs, sliding it upward until he’s palming my inner thigh. “You know what this body was made for?”

Words feel unattainable. Only a squeak breaks free.

He replies anyway. “Me.”

Wyatt grabs me by the hair and shoves me to my knees, his opposite hand deftly loosening his belt buckle and unzipping his jeans. The denim falls to his ankles while he jerks himself free of his boxers, stroking hard through a groan, still fisting my hair as I remain rooted to the musty carpet, completely frozen.

I’m not sure why, of all moments, Brant’s face spirals to mind.

My lashes flutter, my breath hitching.

I picture the look of disappointment in his eyes when he finds out about this. The betrayal. He hates Wyatt—of all people this could happen with, this almost feels like I’m twisting a knife into his perfect heart. Shame floods me, and I flinch as Wyatt thrusts his hips at me.

“Swallow my cock, Juney,” he says with a moan. “I want first dibs on this pretty little mouth.”

No! Nausea curdles in my gut when the head of his penis nudges between my lips, and I lurch back. “I-I can’t… I’m sorry. I just…” Flustered, I fall back on my bottom, pulling my skirt down as far as it will go, then scamper to my feet. “I changed my mind.”

I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this.

Wyatt sniffs. “Yeah, I figured you might.”

Pacing backward on shaky legs, I readjust my bra, then fold my arms over my chest like a protective hug.

“That’s the thing about good girls,” he drones, stuffing himself back into his boxers, still fully erect. He tugs his jeans up his hips and finishes, “It’s a bitch to close the deal. But, fuck… it’s so damn sweet when you do.”

My jaw aches from grinding my molars together. Tears threaten to spill, so I spin around and stalk toward the bedroom door.

He stops me.

He stops me dead in my tracks.

“Think he calls you Junebug when he fantasizes about pumping his cock into that sweet hole of yours?”

I freeze.

My blood freezes, everything freezes.

Color drains from my face, and my stomach pitches. I turn to him, slowly, my eyes wide and volatile. “What?”

He shrugs.

He just shrugs.

“Are you insane?” My voice trembles with slow simmering outrage. “He’s my brother.”

“He ain’t your brother, Juney.” Wyatt zips his jeans back up, then fastens the belt buckle. “Trust me—he’s all too aware of that fact.”

“You’re sick.”

“Not so sure I’m the sick one here.”

Realization dawns on me, thick and heavy, settling deep. I lose a breath. “This isn’t about me,” I murmur, my words cracking. “This was never about me. This was always about getting to Brant.”

“Can’t think of a more enjoyable way to get there.” He licks his lips knowingly, then sifts through his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. Flicking one out of the carton, he holds it out to me. “Smoke?”

I stare at him with shellshock in my eyes before whirling around and racing from the room.

Tricks. He’s playing tricks on me, twisting a beautiful thing into something wicked and perverse. Wyatt Nippersink is a devil, just like his sister.

How could I go that far with him?

Reality slithers through me as a geyser of hot tears pour out of my eyes. I feel gross and dirty. I’m a vile, nasty thing.

As I tumble into the living room, my eyes search desperately for Celeste and her brother, Tony. I need to get out of here. I need to get home, run into Brant’s arms. I need him to comfort me and wash away my sins. But most of the crowd has already cleared out, some guests still spilling out the front door as a police officer stands in the middle of the room, filing them through the entryway.

His back is to me, but I recognize him.

Kip!

It’s Theo’s partner, Kip. He’s been by the house plenty of times for summer barbeques. He must have gotten a noise complaint, then came by to break up the underage drinking.

“Kip,” I say in a desperate breath, rushing over to him, nearly tripping on my heels.

He spins around, doing a double-take. “June?”

My tears are still falling hard. Mascara is surely smeared all over my face, making me look crazed. My hair is tangled from Wyatt’s fist, and my clothes are rumpled and crooked.

“Did someone hurt you?” Kip’s hands are on his hips, his angled features hard and angry as he approaches me. I don’t answer right away, so he repeats the question. “June. Did someone hurt you?”

Pulling my lips between my teeth, a new wave of tears begin to fall. “Yes,” I croak out, my eyes dropping to the floor with shame. “I did.”

He frowns, stalling right in front of me.

“Please, take me home.”