Page 72 of The Tenth Circle
She smiles softly as she passes, looking around the space at all my comics, paintings, and caricatures scattering the wall behind my bed.
Theory is staring at my Marvel ceiling when I reach her, which is how I notice a long scar on the underside of her jaw.
“Wow,” she gapes, “you’re really talented.”
I blink rapidly down at my feet. “Thanks.”
“Mind if I sit?” She points to my bed, which has yet to be made, and I take note of the small lisp she has in the word sit. Not severe, but noticeable enough to tell it was worse at some point.
“Yeah, sure.” I rest my ass against the nightstand since I find zero comfort in sitting next to her.
“Pretty crazy, huh?”
“Understatement of the century.”
After several nods, Theory shifts to face me. “Listen, this came as just as much of a shock to me and Saint.”
Oh, to be a fly on the wall during that conversation.
Hey, son. You’re gaining a sister. Who you already hate.
Well, the feeling’s nothing short of mutual.
I huff. “Yeah, but you guys came a lot more prepared.”
With a low chuckle, she looks down at her dress. “Not really. Like I said, we found out this morning. And if I had it my way, I’d be dressed similar to you.”
I take in the boots, which I can now tell are Manolo Blahnik, and lift my lips in a half smile…knowing I spent years willing to kill to even touch a pair.
“Nah, you look great.”
“Thanks.” She dips her eyes to where mine have landed, and adds, “You can try them on if you want to.”
The shake of my head is vigorous. “No way, I will not risk stretching them out.”
She examines the socks covering my feet, then scoffs. “Girl, please. You must be what? Size seven? I’m six and a half and they run big.” Already pulling the boots off she says, “Not worried at all.”
Guilt wrenches my insides once again, and I push off the nightstand, stepping far enough away for her to take the hint.
Theory frowns, not so much offended but disappointed. “Well, I’ll leave them here if you change your mind. I never had any girls in my life to share shoes with so I got a little excited.”
The more I listen to her speak, the more I find tiny quirks in her speech. Soft on articulation, opened ended on R’s.
All of which could be easily mistaken for an accent picked up from years living abroad.
Fuck, man.
If I could punch myself in the face right now, I would.
But that would be weird, and likely she’d stop me.
Not quite deserving of her compassion just yet, I ignore the intrusive thought and return to the conversation. “I’m sure you have friends from school.”
She shrugs. “Not really.”
I guess it makes sense…girls in some catholic boarding school are probably a lot more bored.
Which means having a lot more time to target their victims.
