He was not to be trusted, just like Vicious.

Eli escorted us back to the front door, and Dean’s mom, Helen, kissed his cheek while ignoring me. Maybe she knew more than Eli did about my breakup with her son. Or maybe she simply wasn’t as gracious as her husband about forgiving me for what I’d allegedly done.

When we walked to the car, keeping our distance from one another, Vicious said, “And to think that she thought you might someday be her daughter-in-law.”

Again, his voice was smooth and casual but his words venomous.

“Aren’t you proud of yourself for breaking us up?” I bit out, hoping I sounded just as calm as he was.

He stopped next to the car, ignoring the SoCal drizzle, and opened the door for me. I climbed into the back, scooting to the far corner to put as much space as possible between us. He joined me, but this time scooted closer than he had been earlier. Our thighs were pressed against one another.

I was just getting used to his physical proximity again when he twisted his body toward me and captured my wrist. He guided my hand to his mouth, the hot air of his breath hitting the sensitive flesh of my wrist.

“Dean ever made you feel the way you do right now?”

He stared into my eyes, searching for something. I didn’t know what it was, but I wanted him to find it in them. My stare dropped to his lips and I gulped. I could almost taste them, like that night all those years ago. Soft and warm, against all odds. And right. So right.

“Dean ever made you shake the way you are right now, even when he fucked you? Dean ever get you that far out of your comfort zone? Your home? Your precious morals?” He smiled at me, his lips a whisper from my wrist, from the heavy pulse throbbing there.

A shiver rolled down my spine, sending electricity to the rest of my body and exploding in my lower stomach.

Suddenly, it felt too hot to breathe in the car.

“Don’t lie to me, Help. I can smell your bullshit a mile away. Kind of like your normal scent, because you always lie to yourself when it comes to this. To us. I did you a huge fucking favor, breaking you up, and you’ll thank me later. Naked. For now…” He pressed the button on the intercom, and his voice turned from a hot whisper to a clipped order, breaking the spell. “Cliff, take us back home.”

It was the end of the conversation but by no means the end of the discussion.

Ten Years Ago

HELP BROKE UP WITH DEAN, and for the first time in months, I felt like I could breathe again. My reaction to their relationship was irrational, immature, and completely out of line, but still…if I couldn’t have her, no one else could. Especially not one of my friends.

Dean seemed a little bummed, but not crushed, and every time he glanced her way at school, Trent or Jaime were fast to slap his back and remind him that this was for the best. And it was. If Help were in love with him, she wouldn’t have broken up with him. But she wasn’t. She said she didn’t want to lead him on and that he was a good guy. Said that the situation was too complicated and that the last thing she wanted to do was tear the HotHoles apart.

Too. Fucking. Late. Sweetheart.

For the most part, though, it was a good month. Trent’s cast was off, so he was working on rehabbing his leg. A new Gears of War game came out. My dad and Jo were abroad—Austria? Australia?—I didn’t give a shit as long as they were gone. Emilia was lonely and solemn again. And Dean was back to acting like the funny stoner everyone learned to love because they had no fucking choice. I thought it meant that he had gotten over her ass and moved on to someone else.

I was wrong.

I found out just how wrong I was at a football training session at four o’clock on a Tuesday after school. At All Saints, the team trained year-round. We were seniors, graduating in a few months, but somebody had to whip next year’s squad into shape. I was doing static stretches on a foam roller with a dozen groaning, bulked-up freshman as I silently watched him approach.

We’d barely talked to each other since that party. I’d told him I kissed Help. Of course I did. But I left out the fact that she didn’t kiss me back, because it didn’t mean shit.

Yeah, she didn’t kiss me back, but she’d wanted to. Still did. The way her thighs clenched, the way her body poured heat into mine, the way she parted her lips and a little moan escaped from between them. The way her soft tits crushed against my hard chest.

She was a terrible liar, and she wanted me.

She was going to have me. Soon.

Dean grabbed a black foam roller and plopped down on the grass beside me, mimicking my stretch, a stupid grin plastered on his face. I ignored him. I didn’t like that he’d joined my group. Recently, we’d only felt comfortable in each other’s presence if Trent or Jaime were around.

“Hola, Mr. Douchebag. What’s shaking?” He beamed like the stupid clown he was. We all smoked, but Dean was the only one who actually looked like a Woody Harrelson-movie dropout, with his chill smile and messy bun.

I answered with a glare and a shrug.

“Think the team’ll be any good next year without us?” His elbow poked my ribs harder than it should have.

“Is this fucking small talk? ’Cause I don’t do that shit.” I squinted at the horizon and plucked a few blades of grass, feeling restless.

Make it stop.

I shifted on the roller, deepening my stretch. It was obvious that he had something to tell me, and it was becoming even more obvious that he was gloating. Whatever it was, he was going to have fun breaking it to me.

“You’re right, dude,” he said, “we should probably get to the point. So I dropped at your house yesterday. Trent wanted me to give you back your football gear.”

I’d lent Trent some gear months ago before he got injured. I’d forgotten all about it. It wasn’t like I’d need it again. I wasn’t a football star, off to play in college, and thanks to his fucked-up leg, unless a miracle happened, Trent wouldn’t be either.