DAX
AGE 17

THERE'S NOTHING I HATE MORE THAN—TOUCH. Even when it's meant to feel good.

Kissing and fucking? Might as well sever my nuts.

But violence? I can stomach. Broken bones are bearable. This kind of touch is in my blood. I know it well. CPS rescued me from my old man's fists when I was twelve. At first, I was grateful. They saved me.

Or so I thought.

Faces and places can change, but—no matter where we go—evil fucks with the good and the innocent. It didn't matter where they sent me. One hellhole led to a crazier one, and I learned fast to never back down. Kids that stay kids get eaten alive. The system rewires the rest of us into twisted, little monsters. Everyone pushes and pushes until they find something—or someone—that can be broken. The moment you shrink or tremble, it's over. They own you. I've rammed my fist into sons of bitches who were twice my size and knocked their teeth out. I did it so everyone else would think twice about fucking with me.

Sometimes, kids weren't the problem. It was the adults. A few months back, I was kicked out of another home for assaulting my foster dad. When my case worker, Ms. Cassidy, saw what I did to Seth's face, she bitched at me nonstop.

Brass knuckles are never the answer, Daxton.

Bitch can shove a fistful of answers up her ass.

Foster care may have its flaws, but, at least, living in someone's house is better than being homeless.

I don't feel remorse.

Please find a better way to express your anger.

Not a shred.

Or else you'll end up in prison once you're older.

Not my fault if pedos don't like it when I swing back and dislocate their jaws. Fuck Seth and his roach-infested apartment in West Adams. Fuck Ms. Cassidy, too. If she wanted me to play nice, Seth shouldn't have grabbed my dick when I was sleeping.

I've been trying to find a way out of the system. I'm almost eighteen. Not twelve anymore. I used to be terrified of being homeless. It's still scary as hell, but I've slept on park benches and alley ways more than once or twice, so I know what it's like now. Sometimes, the cancer is better than the cure. I don't want a roof over my head or food on my plate if it's coming from dick-grabbing bitches like Seth. On my own, at least, I don't owe anything to anyone. It's every fucker for himself.

For months, I was dead-set on disappearing again. I had some cash saved up. It was only $200, but I was ready to break free. Don't ask me how I got it. Some blood, bruised knuckles, and illegal underground shit might have been involved, so you'll never get the full story out of me. 

Right as I was about to dip, however, Ms. Cassidy changed my mind. Shocking, I know. Apparently, she was contacted by some rich fucks who were being dragged all over social media. They're travel bloggers. You know the type. Perfect smiles. Perfect lives. The kind of perfect that makes everyone else feel shitty about themselves.

Last year, Todd and Davina Masterson got caught lying about wanting to adopt a kid. The internet tried to cancel them. Ever since the hate went viral, they've been desperate to become foster parents. I guess nothing beats a redemption story to shut up the haters. Plus, the drama is probably good for clicks and views.

Ms. Cassidy said I was lucky. People never ask for teens, especially ones with nasty histories like mine. Since I was aging out of the system soon, I ticked the boxes. Mr. and Mrs. Masterson didn't want to deal with the mess of babies or the neediness of younger kids. They wanted someone who could be eased out of their lives in a few months without causing another scandal. 

The Mastersons live in one of Los Angeles' prime zip codes. 91302. It felt like winning the lottery when they took me in. My new foster parents don't have spawn of their own, and they're rarely home. I have the house to myself most of the time. I've stayed with them for about two months, and it's been fucking surreal. So far, they're keeping their hands to themselves and letting me do whatever I want. I just have to let them post some photos and videos of us, pretending to be one happy family, on social media every now and then.

With money comes freedom, and freedom is addicting. I've never experienced anything like it. There's a full staff of maids and landscapers and cooks that run the house while they're gone. These posh fuckers even gave me a private bedroom and bathroom. This is the first foster home where I don't have to share anything with others. It's too good to be true, so I know better than to let my guard down. But I know a sweet gig when I see one. As long as I don't get comfortable, I can milk the Mastersons for all their worth. I'm not planning to leave until they kick me out when I turn eighteen. They might be using me, but I'm using them, too.

We're all assholes in this arrangement.

Life in Calabasas is something else. I think we might be neighbors with the Kardashians for fuck's sake. Bentleys and Lambos line the streets. School doesn't feel like school. My first day at Fairmont High was an out-of-body experience. The principal said that every student is given their own personal laptop and tablet, and the campus looks more like a five-star resort than a five-star resort. It goes without saying that the students own the faculty since the faculty answer to their parents. Parents with deep pockets and cutthroat lawyers.

Parents like the Mastersons.

And the Johnsons.

And especially the Fitzgeralds. Everyone at Fairmont knows the Fitzgeralds. Even nobodies like me. I met their son in detention. Then, somehow, we started hanging out.

This weekend, Brookes Fitzgerald's parents are out of town. Brookes invited a few of us over to get shitfaced. He owns the least punchable face out of everyone I've met at Fairmont, so I showed up for the free booze. I think we get along because I like to fuck shit up when shit gets boring. Just like him. The quiet makes my head feel too loud. Chaos calms me.

But I kind of regret coming tonight. Because right this moment I'm drunk as hell and being chased around by my worst fucking nightmare. Not killer clowns. Or flesh-eating spiders. But a bunch of cackling, hyperactive sixteen-year-old females.

What can I say?

Even Superman runs from kryptonite, and no one's ever as badass as they pretend to be. Including me. Girls are confusing as hell. Around them? I don't know how to act. I suck at flirting. I suck at smiling even more, and Kylie, Miley, and Mindy are definitely the type of girls who make me want to run in the opposite direction. They won't stop flirting or smiling or touching me.

The touching, especially, makes me want to pop their hands right off their wrists.

Kylie, Miley, and Mindy are a year younger than me, obsessed with TikTok, worship at the altar of Taylor Swift, and would probably laugh and say oh my God, Dax, you're so funny even if I told them with a straight face that I set hobos on fire for fun.

We have fuck-all in common.

Last year, they were getting ready to go to their daddies' beachfront properties for a summer of sun, sea, and sand.

Last year, I was homeless for a week, sharing a tent with three druggies on Skid Row, trying not to get shanked or raped in my sleep.

I doubt my classmates have ever met anyone like me. I stick out like a boner in a sea of cunts. Maybe this is why girls like Kylie won't leave me alone. To them, I'm the piece of shit that their mamas warned them about. A fucked up, fuckable novelty. For the past two hours, all I've done is grunt and glare at Kylie and her friends. Fuck me but I think they're getting off on it. No matter where I go, Kylie's little entourage manages to track me down, and that's impressive considering how Brookes' house is built like a 7,000 square foot maze. Short of locking myself up in one of his seven bathrooms, I can't seem to ditch my fan club from hell.

We're gathered in the living room at the moment. Five guys. Five girls. As I look to my right, immediately, a grimace flattens my mouth. Kylie is sitting next to me. Again. The girl won't stop talking about how she gets along better with guys and can't stand petty girl drama because it's so beneath her. I suspect she's full of it.

I take two more shots to drown out her voice.

To my left, Brookes waggles his eyebrows at us and suggests, "Hey, Kylie, you should show Dax your TikTok account. Bet he would love that shit."

Fucking Brookes.

I shoot him a death stare. He grins back like an asshole. Pretty sure he's doing this on purpose. Brookes knows exactly how I feel about Kylie. I resist the urge to flash him my middle finger.

Barely.

I don't know why I put up with him. He's a triggering son of a bitch, and I'm an easily triggered shithead. Brookes is the kind of prick who adds fuel to fire whenever the house is already burning down. Then again, maybe that's why I tolerate his existence? He's annoying as hell. But never boring.

Twenty more minutes crawl by. Kylie, Miley, and Mindy are rotting my brain cells, and I'm ready to set myself on fire so these bitches will leave me alone. Miley keeps leaning into my arm and oohing and ahhing over my tats. Mindy giggles over every dumb thing I say. Kylie has practically migrated onto my lap, and, now, thanks to Brookes—that asshole—we're scrolling through her TikToks. Swear to God. If Kylie makes me watch one more video of her dancing to "WAP," I'm tossing her and her WAP into Brookes' pool.

My skin is crawling at this point. I meant what I said earlier. I hate being touched. Desperate to get away, I set down my beer and attempt to ditch Things 1, 2, and 3 for the third time this hour.

When Kylie pouts and protests, I mutter, "You. Stay. I gotta take a piss."

Once I escape from their clutches, I make sure to dip entirely out of the main house into the backyard. I feel ridiculous, like a wannabe fugitive on the run, when I legit start scanning my surroundings for a place to hide.

Trees?

Nope.

Bushes?

No.

Fountain?

Pass.

Pool?

That's when I see it.

Tucked behind the pool, I spot a second house. Smaller than the main property. Looks like it could be a guesthouse. The windows are dark, and it seems empty inside. I make my way over and notice that the front door isn't locked. There's a slight crack where the door has been left ajar. I slip inside. The scent of weed hits my nose. When the door closes behind me, relief settles in.

I'm Kylie-free and alone at last.

Not wanting to attract any attention, I leave the lights off inside. But my moment of triumph is short-lived. Five seconds in, the lights click on. I wince as my vision adjusts to the sudden brightness.

The fuck?

This better not be Kylie.

Scowling, I look over. My brow shoots up. To my surprise, a girl is sitting in the corner. I don't recognize her face. She seems as shocked to see me as I am to see her. Her right hand is still on the light switch while her left hand is holding a lit-up joint between her thumb and forefinger. A set of earbuds dangle from her ears. They're connected to her phone.

Has she been lurking here this whole time?

Getting high?

Listening to music?

In the dark?

By herself?

What a fucking vibe.

I almost wish I could join her even though I haven't decided whether this girl is a basic bitch or a genius. Either way, I can't tear my eyes away from her. She's dressed in a large black band tee, dark denim shorts, and black high-tops. Her hair is the next thing to catch my eye. It's long as hell, trailing down to her waist. Wavy and lavender-dyed. It's... pretty. Really pretty. She almost reminds me of a mermai—

I stop myself.

Jesus, fuck.

I must be stupid drunk if I'm actually comparing this girl to a bitch with a fishtail.

We lock gazes.

Large, wide-set eyes fringed with long, thick lashes stare back at me.

Under the light, I realize that her eyes are actually blue. Like mine. But the color is so deep and dark that they appear indigo. Or violet. It's beautiful and eerie at the same time.

The darkness of the girl's eyes contrasts her pale complexion. My gaze flicks toward the piercings on her nose and eyebrow. The glints of steel give her soft features a harder edge. My eyes drop again, and I fixate on her pink, pouty mouth.

I can't help but wonder what it might feel like to kiss that mouth?

I swallow.

Hard.

Fuck me.

She's gorgeous.

Fuck me again.

What the hell is wrong with me tonight?

I never want to touch anyone, let alone kiss them. Feeling more nervous than I should be, I grumble, "Who the hell are you?"

She pulls out her earbuds. "What?"

It seems she didn't hear me.

"Who are you?" I repeat awkwardly.

The girl shrugs. "Nobody."

She sounds dead inside.

Good.

I don't have it in me to put up with more smiling and touching and giggling. Sad bitches are easier to deal with than happy ones.

Not that it matters, I remind myself, I want to be alone so this bitch needs to go.

Shooting her an intimidating look, I prompt, "What are you doing here? The party's inside."

The girl arches a pierced eyebrow. "I could ask you the same question."

I feel called out. Frowning, I try again to convince her to leave. "Get out of here. I want to be alone. Go find your friends."

"I don't have friends."

"Then why did you come to this fucking party?"

She simply shrugs again and looks away.

This catches me off guard. Frustration mounts. Earlier, I couldn't get Kylie and her friends to shut up. Now, this girl won't tell me a single thing about herself. I wait for her to say something. She gives me fucking crickets. I should be happy that this bitch is as antisocial as me, but disappointment hits when she stays silent. I steal another glance in her direction. Damn, she's pretty.

My heart skips in a funny way.

"You're starting to annoy me. Fuck off already," I grunt, hating the sharpness of my tone. But I need to act like she's not making me feel shit that I don't want to feel.

Luckily, she doesn't seem to mind my attitude. Her expression remains calm and collected. The girl even appears somewhat amused when she fires back, "You fuck off. I was here first."

Fair enough.

"What's your name?" I ask for the third time tonight. This time—nicely.

The girl is in no hurry to answer me, choosing right then to take a drag from her blunt. She exhales slowly. Billows of smoke fall from her mouth and rise in the air.

"Cleo," she reveals at last.

"Cleo?" I repeat, testing her name on my tongue.

I... like it.

Fuck.

Why do I like it?

I eye her earbuds. "What were you listening to?"

She blushes a little. "Far and Wide."

The pink on her cheeks makes my ears turn hot. "Far... and wide?"

She gestures for me to sit beside her. "Come here."

Two words.

That's all it takes for Cleo to convince me to get as close to her as possible. I shuffle across the room, closing the distance between us, and take a seat next to her. My arm brushes against hers, and, in that instant, the air snaps with a sweet kind of tension. My pulse picks up speed. She offers one of her earbuds to me. I tuck it into my ear.

Cleo slides the other earbud into her ear and taps on her phone. Music starts to play. We listen together. My skin stops crawling around her. I notice that we're sitting beside each other, literally connected by the same wire, sharing something that no one else can hear. This moment belongs to just the two of us. It feels intimate even though we're not touching at all.

The melody is upbeat, but the singer's voice holds a touch of melancholy. There's a dreamy quality to the song. I try to focus on the lyrics and ignore Cleo's closeness, but it's damn near impossible. She smells like jasmine and honey. I can make out each individual spike on her lashes. Her lips are lush and full.

"What do you think?" Cleo asks softly.

She's asking about the song.

My eyes drift toward her mouth. "I... don't hate it."

I actually like it.

But I'm not talking about the song.

She mistakenly assumes that I'm eyeing her joint. Cleo holds it out to me. "Here."

I hesitate before accepting, "Thanks."

The tips of my fingers graze her skin when I take the blunt from her. We barely touch, but it's enough to make my heart pound faster. I don't mind the feel of her on me for some reason. I hold her gaze as I inhale.

Jesus.

Her eyes are endlessly blue. Like deep, dark waters. Serene and sad and swimming with secrets.

She's mesmerizing.

I release the smoke from my mouth. Instantly, the calming effects from the weed roll through me, and I feel more at ease than I've felt all night. Better than I've felt in ages, in fact.

This girl.

This song.

This moment.

It's doing something to me.

Cleo and I chill for a while longer, sitting side by side, listening to the rest of her playlist. We share her blunt and pass it back and forth in between small talk.

She side-eyes me. "I haven't seen you around before. You new at Fairmont?"

I nod. "Yeah. I just started this year. Are you new, too?"

She averts her gaze for a moment. "Not exactly. My parents sent me away for a while. But now they want me back."

Curiosity spikes. "You don't seem happy about it."

I pass the joint back to her. She takes another hit. "I didn't have a choice."

Closing her eyes, Cleo releases a sigh. More smoke trickles from her mouth. When she doesn't elaborate further, I decide not to press her.

A companionable silence settles between us. Cleo seems lost in her thoughts, and I lose myself in mine. Minutes fly by, and I want to stay here, hidden from the world, in Brookes' guesthouse for as long as possible. It has nothing to do with Cleo, of course. I'm simply not in the mood to party with the idiots in the main house.

That's what I tell myself, anyway.

Before I know it, however, the last song on Cleo's playlist comes to an end. She tosses aside the butt of her joint. It's done, too. Cleo rises to her feet and strolls toward the door.

I demand, "Where are you going?"

"Fucking off," she quips lightly. "It's what you wanted, right?"

Is it?

I don't know anymore. Cleo's making me all sorts of confused. Then, I remember that she never asked for my name.

I should let her go, but I find myself calling out, "Wait."

But Cleo doesn't spare me another glance as she disappears out the door. Disappointment hits again, and I'm annoyed at myself for feeling this way.

"Shit," I swear under my breath.

The guesthouse feels like a void without her. Too empty and quiet. Not even a second goes by, and I can't fucking stand it. I find myself on my feet again. My legs are moving on their own. I head for the door as well. Outside, I search for signs of Cleo, and my eyes grow wide when I see her standing by the pool. She's not alone, though. Kylie is standing beside her.

Fucking hell.

Not this bitch again. Everyone else is still inside the house. It's just the three of us out here. Kylie hasn't noticed me yet, but I'm close enough to overhear bits of their exchange. As I take a closer look, I realize that Kylie and Cleo seem to know each other, and these girls don't look like they want to play nice. At all.

With a glare that could kill, Kylie hisses at Cleo, "You disgust me!"

Her nastiness makes my jaw tick.

Cleo looks tense when she clips back, "Nice to see you again, Kylie."

Right away, I recognize the fight-or-flight readiness flickering in Cleo's eyes. I know it all too well. From my time on the streets. From the shit I've endured in foster homes. Something primitive triggers in me. I don't know why, but I feel this irrational need to shield Cleo from Kylie. Probably because no one ever helped me when I needed it most.

Venomously, Kylie continues to spit, "Why did you come back? No one wants you here. You're lucky that your parents are Fitzgeralds and that Brookes is your brother—"

Hold up.

My heart gives an anxious thump as realization clicks in place. She didn't show up tonight by choice, either. She fucking lives here.

Cleo is Brookes' sister.

Why hasn't he mentioned her to me?

Kylie finishes her tirade with an acidic bite, "Without them, you'd be in juvie by now. Travis should be here instead of you."

I tense up.

Who the fuck is Travis?

I'm lost. I glance at Cleo, waiting for her to explain. To retaliate. To do something. Anything. Cleo's eyes flash with pain and anger, but she doesn't fight back. She doesn't even try to defend herself. A scowl twists my mouth. I have no idea why Kylie is being such a bitch to Cleo. I'm not interested in their messy history. All I know is Kylie has been annoying me all night, and I hate it when people fuck with others when they can't fuck back. Always punch up. Only assholes punch down.

I clear my throat to make my presence known.

Kylie's head whips toward me. Panic and guilt contort her features the moment she sees me. "Oh, hey... Dax! How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough," I murmur.

Cleo glances over to me with a question in her eyes. Her face brims with uncertainty. The girl appears as though she expects me to rip her to shreds. Cleo's look of surrender tells me everything I need to know. Clearly, this girl has been through some shit.

Narrowing my eyes, I glare at Kylie. "Why don't you get the fuck out of our faces?"

She gasps, "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

It doesn't take long for understanding to dawn on Kylie. I can tell from the rapid-fire play of emotions across her face that she just realized that I'm not on her side. Within seconds, the guilt-laden panic on her face morphs into outrage. "You're going to regret this."

I toss her a bored look. "Doubt it."

Violently, Kylie jabs a finger in Cleo's direction and exclaims, "You don't know her like I do! This bitch put her boyfriend in a coma last year, and she's not the least bit broken up about it. I'm telling you, Dax, stay away from Cleo Fitzgerald. She's a psychopath who enjoys destroying people's lives."

I don't know if Kylie is making shit up about Cleo, but, even if she was telling the truth, I wouldn't trust her slant on the story. Unmoved by her theatrics, I tell Kylie, "I'll judge for myself, thanks."

Kylie looks ready to punch me in the balls. "Are you fucking serious?"

I deadpan, "Yep."

"Whatever," Kylie scoffs. "You two deserve each other."

Kylie flips us off as she stomps away. I watch until she disappears back into the main house. Once we're alone again, I turn to Cleo, and she stares back at me with a guarded expression.

"What was that all about?"

Cleo replies in her dead-inside voice, "Nothing."

"Tell me."

Her eyebrows knit together. Finally, some emotion seeps through as she snaps, "It's none of your business."

My mouth parts. A few minutes ago, Cleo had been pretty chill to be around in the guesthouse. Her bitchy mood swing is giving me whiplash. She has a point, though. Maybe I'm overstepping. I've been drawn to Cleo Fitzgerald all night. More so than any other girl I've met at Fairmont. But that doesn't mean we owe each other anything.

Suddenly, I feel like an idiot for thinking otherwise.

I shrug. "Fine."

I start stalking away from her.

Her eyes go wide. This seems to catch her off guard. A second later, she calls after me, "Hey!"

I glance over my shoulder with a raised eyebrow.

Cleo hesitates before speaking up, "Kylie's not wrong, you know."

Her defenses seem to be wavering. Slightly.

"She's not?"

I think she's testing me.

"Trav is in the hospital because of me."

I think she want to know if I'll judge her as harshly as Kylie and the rest of her classmates. "Did you try to kill him or something?"

Cleo laughs under her breath, but it's not a happy sound. "What if I did?"

"Then you became a hell of a lot more interesting."

"Aren't you scared?"

"Of you?"

"Yeah."

"Should I be?"

"I could be a serial killer."

"But Trav is still alive," I taunt. "Clearly, you suck at it."

She laughs again. This time, it sounds genuine. "Careful now. Maybe I'm plotting your murder as we speak."

Intrigue spikes as I eye her up and down. She's tiny compared to me. I could snap her like a twig. "How... would you do it?"

Cleo narrows her eyes as though she really did spend the last ten seconds fantasizing about my death in ten different ways. "You look pretty drunk, and I know you're high because we just shared a joint."

"So?"

"Think you can swim right now?"

"Probably not very well."

A smirk tilts her mouth as she glances at the pool. "That's easy then. I'd shove you into the deep end and keep your head underwater until you stop struggling."

Her sense of humor is a bit dark and twisted. Or maybe she's not joking at all. "What if I pull you in with me?"

Cleo holds my gaze, steady and true, and I try not to drown in her eyes when she murmurs, "Then we drown together."

"You're not scared of dying?"

"No."

"Bullshit," I mutter under my breath.

Even I'm scared of dying.

"The only thing I'm scared of," Cleo mumbles, and I can't decide if she's being serious or fucking with me, "is for my boyfriend to wake up."

Boyfriend.

Suddenly, I hate that word with a passion. Both hands tighten into fists at my sides. "So... what happened between you two?"

"About a year ago, there was an accident. I was driving. He was in the car with me."

"Accidents happen." I don't know why I'm defending her when I add, "Doesn't mean it was your fault."

"I was higher than a kite."

I don't pick up any trace of guilt in her voice, though. Or remorse. Only bitterness. "Sounds fucked up."

She smiles. All teeth. "You have no idea."

"Do you feel bad about what happened?"

Instinct tells me that it's not guilt that haunts her but something else. I want to hear what she has to say about it.

"Doesn't matter how I feel," she sighs. "Everyone says I'm going to hell."

"They can go to hell."

She studies me with a wary expression. "I know you're new at Fairmont, so I'll give you a piece of advice. Keep your distance. I'm social suicide."

"I think we should be friends."

Disbelief darkens her face. "Didn't you hear what I just said?"

"I heard you."

"Then why would you hang out with me?"

The corner of my mouth lifts up. "Because I hate everyone else."

Beautiful, eerie, blue-violet eyes meet mine. Cleo looks mildly amused.

"What's your name?" she finally asks.

"Daxton Cole."

With a softened expression, Cleo chides, "Well, Daxton Cole, it's nice to meet you. But you shouldn't have fucked with Kylie tonight. Her level of petty can make grown men cry. She's really good at holding a grudge."

I agree with her, "She seems like the type."

"She's gonna come for your throat."

"Can't wait."

"Really?"

"I want her to hate me. I've been trying to ditch her all night."

She appears unconvinced. "Most guys would kill to have Kylie Johnson all over them."

I toss back, "Most guys have shit for brains."

A low chuckle escapes her. "Won't argue with you there."

Then, Cleo gives me a long, hard look as though she's actually interested in getting to know me for the first time tonight. "Why did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Piss off Kylie..."

There's an awestruck quality to her voice. I sense the question tucked behind the words. I think Cleo wants to know why I pissed off Kylie—for her.

I fix my gaze on Cleo. To be honest, I don't know. "Guess I felt like it."

She tilts her head to the side. "Is that the only reason you do anything?"

For the first time in forever, I feel like smiling at someone. So I do it. I smile at Cleo. "Most of the time, yeah."

She casts me a wry look. "You know what?"

"What?"

"Fuck Kylie."

"Yeah, fuck Kylie."

"Sometimes it feels good to do whatever the fuck we want."

My smile only widens.

Cleo Fitzgerald may be the least predictable bitch I've met in my life. She doesn't annoy me. Hell, I want to stick around and see what she'll do next. She seems too broken to ever be boring. Beautifully wrecked. The kind that might set the world on fire. Just to chase away the dark.

"We're friends now, right?"

Shit, I hope so.

I can't look away from her when I mumble, "Sure."

A chaotic spark glimmers in her eyes when she adds, "Wanna do something crazy? Just for the hell of it?"

I'm intrigued again. "What are you suggesting?"

Smirking, Cleo's slender fingers dance along the hem of her baggy tee. Her face is full of fuck-it-all rebellion. Eyes locked on her, I suck in a breath when she pulls her shirt over her head in one graceful motion. Her high-tops are set aside. She loosens her shorts. I'm riveted by her every move. The denim slides down smooth, shapely legs, bunching at her ankles until she steps out of them.

Just like that, Cleo is standing before me in nothing but a pair of tiny black panties and a lacy lavender bra. The shade matches her hair perfectly. I nearly forget to breathe.

Holy fucking shit.

Who needs oxygen?

Not me.

I drag my hand across my mouth. My eyes drink in the sweet swells of her tits. There's a slight chill in the air, so I can make out the outline of her pretty little nipples, straining against the lavender lace and the cold. My hands clench tight, nails digging into palms tight, as though that alone might suppress the urge to learn every inch of her body with my fingertips. I want to worship the narrow dip of her waist and the rounded curves of her ass. I don't recognize this side of myself at all, and these urges scare me as much as they excite me.

In a few short strides, Cleo moves to the edge of the pool and slips into the water with a gentle, rippling splash. Mermaid hair and all. She's beautiful.

Unreal.

With her feet treading lightly in the crystal-blue water, she gazes up at me, all wicked and inviting. "Coming in?"

A little voice inside my head warns you're drunk and high, dumbass, and she might be a psychopath.

Feeling conflicted, my mouth runs dry. I wish she didn't look so wet and fuckable. "You planning to drown me?"

"Is that gonna stop you?"

"Hell, no," I whisper hoarsely.

Now, more than ever, I'm drawn to Cleo Fitzgerald's chaos.

I want to play in the dark.

Bet her demons would fuck well with mine.