Page 19 of Clandestine

No doubt a comb and the same pomade that I sculpted Jax’s hair with, a little concealer for the dark circles under his eyes, clear mascara to lift his lashes if he’d like, but definitely wax to smooth his thick-ass fucking eyebrows.

“Let’s start with your hair.” I comb through it once, making sure there aren’t any tangles in the short dark brown tufts. Colby closes his eyes while I scoop a small dollop of the pomade, warming it between my hands before running my hands through his hair back and forth a few times to distribute the product evenly.

I’m fairly sure he just groaned, but I can't stop to ask because the product will set in too quickly, so I keep moving, grabbing small sections and giving them tiny twists, working to give him the perfect messy punk look that I can. I feel like a male bird the way I’m dancing around him, racing the clock before his hair dries too much, checking each section just in case one side doesn't look quite “alternative” enough.

“Ten minutes!” one of the stage managers calls out to us, and my heart starts racing. In my rush to grab new products, I drop the pomade and the goopy substance spills onto the floor right in my walkway.

“Fuck,” I whisper under my breath, grabbing a makeup remover wipe and trying to scoop up as much of it as I can so I don’t end up slipping in it.

Colby stands and moves his chair away from my vanity mirror. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll stand.”

“Uh, okay.” I turn around and grab the brow wax and a spoolie, as well as the concealer pot in his shade, a clean flat brush, and a fluffy blending brush, my fingers splayed open wide to hold everything so I don’t have to turn around for anything else. As it turns out, I’m straining on my tiptoes to work on this big idiot’s eyebrows. I don’t know why he felt the need to stand instead of just moving my chair to the left or to the damn right.

I let out an exasperated breath from fighting for my life and relax my calves to dip my spoolie back into the wax for a second. When I look back up at Colby, he has an eyebrow quirked at me.

“You good?” he asks coolly.

“Yep, you’re just a damn giraffe and my calves are not made for extensive tiptoeing.”

He laughs at me, and I roll my eyes. I did kind of miss it, though, the sound of him laughing.

“Why didn’t you say so, brat?” Colby squats and grips me behind my thighs, wrapping my legs around his wide hips and taking the few steps to the empty vanity next to mine, planting me on top of it. He doesn't leave space between my thighs when he speaks.

“Is that better?” Colby’s voice comes out low, and paired with the position we’re in, could anyone blame a girl for the flame it ignites within me? It’s so fucking wrong that remembering he’s my stepbrother only makes it feel better.

“Mmm, yeah. Definitely.” And it is better. It’s better because I feel close to him. It feels like he wants me in his space. Oh, and I can reach his face without losing blood flow to my hand.

“Just blemish stuff now, and then we’re done,” I whisper, our faces close.

“Mmhm.” He closes his eyes again, letting me resume my work, but he doesn’t leave the space that keeps my legs spread wide, and his hands slowly work their way up my thighs toward my hips again, the same way they did at the diner.

With an ache growing between my legs, I rush to apply a thin layer of concealer under his eyes, keeping it light so as to prevent creasing with the delicate skin. My movements are quick but still sure while I gently pat the liquid on, then switch brushes to blend and seamlessly fan out the edges into his skin. I hold his jaw in my hands, turning his head from side to side, looking for any glaring blemishes or ingrown hairs when I spot the scar above his eyebrow. It’s barely there, but I remember the day it happened as if it was yesterday.

FOURTEEN

HALE

THE PAST

“Please get off me. I want to go home. I’m not kidding, Andrew.” I shove at his chest, even though he continues to paw at my boobs, and his teeth are sinking into my neck so hard I know that I’m either bleeding, or there will be deep bruises in the morning.

“Come on, you just need to warm up to it a little. Everyone is nervous their first time,” he promises, but that’s not the case at all. I’m not nervous for my first time; I just don’t want it to be with him. Not with him, not like this. When pushing him away fails, I let my body go limp while I dig my hand between the cushions of the couch, the worn scratchy fabric enveloping each of my fingers while I feel for my phone to text the only person I know will come get me at this hour, when I shouldn’t even be out of the house.

My thumb slides over the keyboard sloppily.

ME:

Please come pick me up.

LOCATION PIN

Though my body is limp and I’ve stopped reacting, Andrew doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just doesn’t care. His hand gropes my crotch over my jean shorts, and he grunts. I just feel sick to my stomach.

I don’t know how much time actually goes by between sending the text and the knock on the door, but when Andrew gets up to open it, I don’t waste a second to grab my things and make a break for the door, prepping whatever excuse I have to use in front of his visitor and thanking whatever god is listening for their timing. When I look up, I’m met with my favorite sets of eyes. The door is wide open to Colby and Jackson, standing a solid foot above Andrew’s height, both assessing my condition before looking back to Andrew. Colby’s eyes flick to my neck, then back to Andrew, and I see the moment everything clicks.

THE PRESENT

I wince, thinking of Colby spending the weekend in jail, Jackson reassuring me that he was a big boy and that he knew the repercussions of his own actions. When my concealer-coated brush dabs the skin above his eyebrow, his hand darts out, locking around my wrist.

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