Sweet Legacy
Page 46
CHAPTER 18
GREER
The safe house is one of the most disgusting spaces I’ve ever inhabited. Every object and surface in the tiny apartment is worn, rotten, or stained. Some are all of the above. The plastic chair from the too-vintage-to-be-cool dining set looked like the safest place to sit.
It’s not comfortable, but it’s probably not harboring bedbugs or bacteria.
I glance down and see a small puddle of dark brown liquid seeping out of one of the legs. Perhaps I was wrong.
Pushing to my feet, I cross to the lace-covered window and pull the brittle curtain to the side. The sun outside is bright, and even though my head still hurts, it feels good to stare out into the light.
It is an odd feeling, knowing that my brain is somehow connected to a god. On the one hand, it makes me feel powerful. How many people can claim to have ever been telepathically joined to an Olympian? But on the other hand . . . it’s terrifying. My brain—always a source of pride and power, the means to all of my success—is suddenly my enemy. It is bringing my enemies to my side, to my sisters’ sides. And I hate it.
The thought of being in any way the cause of harm to Grace or Gretchen makes me nauseous. I turn away from the window.
“You know,” I say to Thane as I try to shake off my morbid thoughts, “I’m still waiting for those answers of yours.”
“Answers?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
“Do not play games with me, Thane Whitfield.” I cross the small apartment, careful to not trip over the frayed carpet. “You will not like the results.”
Arms folded over my chest, I am so not going to let him get away with not filling in some of his blanks. The world around me is going to Hades and back, but I can still hold my own in a one-on-one with a cute boy.
All right, perhaps cute isn’t the right adjective. Hot, handsome, ruggedly sexy—all of the above apply.
But I will not be swayed by a hot, handsome, ruggedly sexy boy, either.
His stormy gray eyes darken with longing and shadows . . . and fear.
Thane is so strong and tough; seeing him suffer is like a jolt of electricity. He lifts his hand like he wants to reach out and touch me—my face, perhaps, or my hair. Then he lets his hand fall away.
My approach is all wrong.
I am more than willing to take the gentle initiative. Slowly, I trace my fingertips over his furrowed brow, smoothing out the tense muscles of his forehead. His eyes drift shut.
I resist the urge to lean up and press my lips to his.
“I don’t know what kind of girl you’re used to dealing with,” I whisper as my fingers flutter down over his cheeks, “but the strong and silent thing doesn’t really work for me. I like a guy who can communicate. You don’t need to confess your feelings, but you do have to be able to answer seemingly simple questions.” My touch drifts along his jaw, temptingly close to his mouth. “If you can’t do that, then let’s just agree right now that this thing between us goes no further.”
His eyes blink open and he stares at me for several long moments. I can’t get a read on his thoughts—can’t determine if I’ve used the right tactic. Maybe he likes the pushy, aggressive Greer. Maybe I need to bring the diva attitude back out.
Finally, he says, “None.”
“Excuse me?”
“None,” he repeats.
“What does that mean?” I frown. “None what?”
“Girls,” he answers. “The kind I’m used to dealing with is none.”
I’m stunned, and it takes me a few seconds to comprehend what he means.
“Are you saying . . . ?”
“There have been no other girls, Greer,” he says quietly. “Ever.”
“Thane . . . why?”
I’m not sure what I’m asking—whether I mean why no other girls, or why now, or why me.
On any given day, I’m quite aware of how exceptional I am. Both socially and academically, I am at the top of the food chain at Immaculate Heart. When I graduate next year, I will have my pick of Ivy League universities, and I already have my pick of wealthy, powerful friends and boyfriends.
This, however—right here, right now, with this boy—is almost enough to floor me. I think I’m close to tears, and for once I don’t know if I want to hold them in.
“My life is complicated. My future is . . .” He rubs a hand over his short hair. “Uncertain.”
I take his hand in mine. “Whose isn’t?”
He shakes his head with a sad half smile.
“I’m not good with words, Greer,” he says. “I like you, more than I should, and I want to be at your side for as long as I can.”
“Why?” I repeat.
“Does there have to be a reason?”
“Yes,” I say. “No. I don’t know. But there must be. We’re so different.”
“I can’t explain it.” He tilts his head slightly to one side. “I look in your eyes and I . . . belong.”
I blink.
“I love my family, and they love me,” he says, although he flinches when he says the second part, “but I’ve never really fit.”
He may not be good with words, and he may not use them a lot, but when he does . . . they work.
I stare into his eyes, enchanted, because when I do, I feel the same way. I belong—in a way I never have with my friends or parents, and in a different way than I belong with my sisters. He supports and understands me. And, for the first time in my experience, he makes me the priority. Not what I can do for him—me.
GREER
The safe house is one of the most disgusting spaces I’ve ever inhabited. Every object and surface in the tiny apartment is worn, rotten, or stained. Some are all of the above. The plastic chair from the too-vintage-to-be-cool dining set looked like the safest place to sit.
It’s not comfortable, but it’s probably not harboring bedbugs or bacteria.
I glance down and see a small puddle of dark brown liquid seeping out of one of the legs. Perhaps I was wrong.
Pushing to my feet, I cross to the lace-covered window and pull the brittle curtain to the side. The sun outside is bright, and even though my head still hurts, it feels good to stare out into the light.
It is an odd feeling, knowing that my brain is somehow connected to a god. On the one hand, it makes me feel powerful. How many people can claim to have ever been telepathically joined to an Olympian? But on the other hand . . . it’s terrifying. My brain—always a source of pride and power, the means to all of my success—is suddenly my enemy. It is bringing my enemies to my side, to my sisters’ sides. And I hate it.
The thought of being in any way the cause of harm to Grace or Gretchen makes me nauseous. I turn away from the window.
“You know,” I say to Thane as I try to shake off my morbid thoughts, “I’m still waiting for those answers of yours.”
“Answers?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
“Do not play games with me, Thane Whitfield.” I cross the small apartment, careful to not trip over the frayed carpet. “You will not like the results.”
Arms folded over my chest, I am so not going to let him get away with not filling in some of his blanks. The world around me is going to Hades and back, but I can still hold my own in a one-on-one with a cute boy.
All right, perhaps cute isn’t the right adjective. Hot, handsome, ruggedly sexy—all of the above apply.
But I will not be swayed by a hot, handsome, ruggedly sexy boy, either.
His stormy gray eyes darken with longing and shadows . . . and fear.
Thane is so strong and tough; seeing him suffer is like a jolt of electricity. He lifts his hand like he wants to reach out and touch me—my face, perhaps, or my hair. Then he lets his hand fall away.
My approach is all wrong.
I am more than willing to take the gentle initiative. Slowly, I trace my fingertips over his furrowed brow, smoothing out the tense muscles of his forehead. His eyes drift shut.
I resist the urge to lean up and press my lips to his.
“I don’t know what kind of girl you’re used to dealing with,” I whisper as my fingers flutter down over his cheeks, “but the strong and silent thing doesn’t really work for me. I like a guy who can communicate. You don’t need to confess your feelings, but you do have to be able to answer seemingly simple questions.” My touch drifts along his jaw, temptingly close to his mouth. “If you can’t do that, then let’s just agree right now that this thing between us goes no further.”
His eyes blink open and he stares at me for several long moments. I can’t get a read on his thoughts—can’t determine if I’ve used the right tactic. Maybe he likes the pushy, aggressive Greer. Maybe I need to bring the diva attitude back out.
Finally, he says, “None.”
“Excuse me?”
“None,” he repeats.
“What does that mean?” I frown. “None what?”
“Girls,” he answers. “The kind I’m used to dealing with is none.”
I’m stunned, and it takes me a few seconds to comprehend what he means.
“Are you saying . . . ?”
“There have been no other girls, Greer,” he says quietly. “Ever.”
“Thane . . . why?”
I’m not sure what I’m asking—whether I mean why no other girls, or why now, or why me.
On any given day, I’m quite aware of how exceptional I am. Both socially and academically, I am at the top of the food chain at Immaculate Heart. When I graduate next year, I will have my pick of Ivy League universities, and I already have my pick of wealthy, powerful friends and boyfriends.
This, however—right here, right now, with this boy—is almost enough to floor me. I think I’m close to tears, and for once I don’t know if I want to hold them in.
“My life is complicated. My future is . . .” He rubs a hand over his short hair. “Uncertain.”
I take his hand in mine. “Whose isn’t?”
He shakes his head with a sad half smile.
“I’m not good with words, Greer,” he says. “I like you, more than I should, and I want to be at your side for as long as I can.”
“Why?” I repeat.
“Does there have to be a reason?”
“Yes,” I say. “No. I don’t know. But there must be. We’re so different.”
“I can’t explain it.” He tilts his head slightly to one side. “I look in your eyes and I . . . belong.”
I blink.
“I love my family, and they love me,” he says, although he flinches when he says the second part, “but I’ve never really fit.”
He may not be good with words, and he may not use them a lot, but when he does . . . they work.
I stare into his eyes, enchanted, because when I do, I feel the same way. I belong—in a way I never have with my friends or parents, and in a different way than I belong with my sisters. He supports and understands me. And, for the first time in my experience, he makes me the priority. Not what I can do for him—me.
