Page 4 of Trick of the Flesh
“He’d never want me anyway,” I whisper to myself in the mirror. My face flushes. “And he’s my brother. I can’t.”
The words sound hollow even as I say them.
When Icome back down, the first wave of guests are trickling in. The living room fills with chatter and laughter, bowls of chips crinkling as hands grab fistfuls. Dad is playing host, booming with energy. Celeste floats around with a tray of drinks.
And Miguel—of course—has changed too.
He’s ditched the black band shirt for a tighter one, plain black and short-sleeved, with his tattoos more visible. A silver chain hangs at his throat. His hair is pushed back, slick at the top, but the back is a short ponytail, an attempt to tame his curls. On his head is a black mask, neon blue X’s for the eyes and stitching for the smile. He’s still smoking, even though Celeste keeps swatting at him and telling him to “take it outside.” He ignores her.
He looks like sin personified.
I hate how my stomach flips when his eyes meet mine from across the room.
The night stretches. People laugh, music swells, and I do my best to stay busy—refilling bowls, fetching drinks, cleaning up stray wrappers—anything to avoid standing still long enough for Miguel to corner me again.
But I feel him.
He’s always on the edge of my vision, lounging against doorframes, leaning against the counter, always watching me.
Taunting me.
At one point, he cuts across the kitchen, brushing past me close enough that our shoulders touch. His mouth dips near my ear as he passes.
“Tick, tock,” he murmurs.
I shiver so hard I nearly drop the plastic cup in my hand.
I tell myself I’m imagining it. That I’m paranoid. That Miguel isn’t serious.
But the heat in his eyes, the promise in his voice—no.
He’s deadly serious.
By the timethe party hits full swing, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve caught myself glancing toward the living room, toward the couch where Miguel sprawls like a wolf at the edge of the firelight. His friends surround him now—loud, rough, the kind of guys who drink hard and laugh harder. He leans back, bottle of beer in his hand, gaze cutting through the chaos straight to me.
Like a wolf watching the herd.
Like he’s waiting for the moment I stray too far.
I look away fast, my chest tight.
It’s just a game, I tell myself. He’s just messing with me, like he always has.
Except it doesn’t feel like a game anymore.
It feels like a hunt.
And I’m his prey.
By the time I sneak away to the kitchen for a breath of air, my hands are shaking. I lean against the counter, trying to steady myself.
Just the weekend. I just have to survive the weekend.
But Miguel’s voice curls through my head again, dark and certain:You betterrun tonight, pretty boy. Because if I catch you…
My body responds with a rush of heat, shame burning behind my ribs.
Fuck, there’s something wrong with me.
