Page 9 of Beautiful Scars

The only reason we're still here and not back under his roof and under his thumb is because, for now, for whatever twisted reason, our being here serves his purpose. This taste of freedom? It only exists because he's seen fit to grant it to us. It's not going to last forever.

Rolling my shoulders, I stretch my neck groaning at the loud pop when it cracks. My muscles ache from the try-outs and the hours of practice after. It's been a while since I played—but thinking about all the time and energy I'm going to waste playing for a team like this one is what really hurts. But, here I am. The new quarterback. Lucky me.

Ryan is leaning against the wrought iron railing running along the balcony outside my room. He's been nursing the same beer for the past half hour and it's driving me nuts. Not that I want to get the guy hammered, but it has to be warm and undrinkable by now. He doesn't seem to notice though—he's too busy checking out the view from up here. You can see all the way to very edge of town.

This house—our house—is three stories which makes it the tallest in the whole neighborhood, and almost the whole damn town. It's ridiculous. I don't even want to know what kind of mental gymnastics my mom performed to make it fit into the whole 'not drawing attention to ourselves' idea. As she told me, "We might've been forced to downgrade but there's no reason to settle for less than the best. Even if it's only the best of the worst." And this place, this town, and from what I've seen so far, the people, are definitely the worst.

My bedroom is on the top floor, by itself. There are double doors that open out onto the balcony. When I saw it, I hadn't been above using guilt to get my way and make sure this part of the house was mine. It's private and quiet and gives me plenty of space to call my own. I love having a bird's eye view of everything. Especially Angel's backyard.

I take a swig of my beer, the bitter taste not doing as much to distract me as I'd hoped. It's been a little over two weeks since I stood on Angel's porch wanting to check on her, and I can't seem to let it go. Every time I close my eyes, I see the violence that covered her skin—as if someone had taken a paint brush and covered her in the ugliest shades of purples and blues and yellow-greens. But it's not just what I saw—it's what it all meant.

Each one of those marks told a story of pain and fear and things I don't even want to put a name to. It's no wonder she thought I'd come over to keep her quiet.

And the way she stood there—trying so damn hard to convince me she was fine… Every nerve in my body still feels raw, unsettled. Nothing seems to help.

I force myself to stare at the peeling paint on the outside of the house, my knuckles turning white around the bottle neck as I try and resist the urge to look over at Angel's house.

I'm doing my best to stay away from her. Doing my best to do as she asked. But I don't see it lasting. I don't think I'll be able to keep it up much longer.

I take another sip of my beer. Ryan is right. I didn't do too bad today. Especially for a guy who hasn't gotten more than a few hours of sleep a night in the past couple of weeks.

“Thanks, man, I —”

"The party tonight was a good idea. The guys'll come around eventually, it's gonna take a little time is all. Zack on the other hand..." he pauses to take another sip of his beer, "He can be a real dick sometimes, and he holds on to things forever. You need to watch your back around him."

I nod. I get it. It has to suck to be the top dog for most of your life only to have a new guy come in and steal your thunder senior year. I wish I could tell him to just take it. He can have it—I don't want it. I never did.

"Damn! I didn’t realize you lived behindher.” Ryan lets out a low whistle and turns his full attention to the yard directly behind me. “She may be fucked up, but damn, I could get used to a view like that.”

I come to stand next to him and follow his eyes down to the spot they’re glued. I see exactly what he's talking about. Walking carefully down the broken steps leading to her backyard, Angel is balancing a full plate of food and a can of soda on top of a thick book she's holding like a tray.

It's good to see her out. This is the first time I've laid eyes on her since that day at her house. Long, sand colored waves fall carelessly over her shoulders and frame her perfect heart-shaped face. Her nose is scrunched up—crinkled in intense concentration.

She's fucking adorable.

I'm pretty sure none of that is what drew Ryan's attention though. It's probably the same thing that I can't drag my eyes away from. Today, Angel's wearing a pair of tight denim jeans that hug her full hips and thighs in a way that look as if she's been poured into them. Her thin black T-shirt is obviously a size or two too big for her, but she’s knotted the bottom of it at her side to adjust the length. The knot sits at the dip of her waist and pulls the cotton material tight over her full breasts.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the look on Ryan's face and anger flares in my chest. My jaw clenches so hard it’s a wonder my teeth don’t crack. He's looking at Angel like she’s his next meal. I can't tear my eyes away from her either, but she's not for him. She’s for me. Only me.

When she gets to the bottom of the stairs, she looks up, and her gaze finds mine. Her lips curl into a small, shy smile and she tips her chin to me. I can't help it—a smile takes over my entire face in response.

Her smile fades into a deep scowl when she notices Ryan gawking at her. With a stiff gait, she makes her way to a spot under the tree and lowers herself with a grimace to the ground. Her back is to us. An intentional cold-shoulder.

“So. You know Angel?” I casually turn my back on the girl sprawled out on her lawn when it becomes obvious she's not going to turn around again. I work to keep the edge out of my voice.

“Angel? Who’s…?” Ryan runs his hands through his hair, chuckling when he realizes who I’m talking about. “Oh, you mean Sunny. She’s something else, isn’t she?” He takes another swig of his hot beer. “But, she is definitelynotan angel. Where’d you get that from?”

“Nowhere,” I mumble and shrug. The image of the outrage on Sunny’s face when I called her Angel flashes in my mind and I have to force myself not to laugh. “Yeah, she’s something else alright. She seeing anyone?”

Ryan laughs. “Um, no. Well, not exactly. Sunny doesn't... Sunny isn't... "

I can tell Ryan's thinking, weighing out his next words carefully. Too carefully. He tips the bottle and swallows the last of his beer. Setting the empty bottle on the table, he takes a seat in one of the cheap wicker chairs.

"Sunny doesn't what? C'mon man, spill." The words come out tightly controlled. Do I know I'm too invested in this girl already? Yes. Yes I do, but no one else needs to.

"Well, Sunny's...um, different. I know she's amazing to look at, and she used to be a lot of fun to hang out with, but, seriously man, keep your distance. She's trouble. And not the kind it's fun to get into."

Taking the chair across from Ryan, I think about going in and getting us another beer. But, I begin peeling the label off my beer instead, waiting for him to continue. As if I don’t already know that Angel—Sunny—is trouble. On the day we moved into this place, I’d stepped out onto this balcony and all it took was a few minutes of watching her under that stupid tree with her nose in a book and I was hooked.

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