Dead of Summer

I will not let Kayde Fucking Lane break me. No matter what he asks—tells—me to do for the next eight days. I can’t deny that I’m terrified of him. I can’t pretend to be something I’m not. Absently, I reach up, fingers unerringly finding the scar that splits my left brow. I’ve had it for years, and Kinsley is one of three people who knows where it came from.

The other two, my parents, were in the room when it happened. One of them, my dad, is the reason I have the scar in the first place. My finger skims the shiny, smooth skin and this, at least, is a memory I’m good at pushing away and down under the moldy, stained carpet in my brain that holds a lot more than the one time Dad fucked up my face.

But I’d survived him, and I’ll survive Kayde.

There’s no other possibility.

That’s the feeling I let seep through my bones as I square my shoulders and stare at myself in the full-length mirror on my wall. I look tired, that’s for sure. With circles under my eyes and my hair an absolute mess. But my hair is easily fixed by a quick brush and tossing it up into a ponytail. The dark circles will have to stay, and I’m sure Darcy will use them later for ammunition.

Especially if she finds out I met up with her man.

Though, in reality, she should thank me for that.

The shirt I’d found is one from earlier this summer. The once-white material is now rainbow tie-dye, and my shorts sit high on my waist, with the hem ending somewhere around the middle of my thighs. Still staring at my tired face, I slide on my sneakers before shoving my way out the door and into the sunlight beyond.

I need coffee if I’m going to survive the next hour, let alone the whole ass day. My feet drag along the dirt, and I know I’m behind the girls from my cabin when I finally make it into Otter Hall, only to stagger to the table I normally occupy with Kinsley and, lately, Liza.

Both of them are there, and the looks of sympathetic confusion I get aren’t lost on me as I fall to my ass in the plastic chair. “Coffee,” I mutter. “I need it black and injected into my veins post haste.”

“Late night?” Liza sounds empathetic when she says it, and I open one eye just to see her hand slip free from Kinsley’s on the table.

Well, I guess I wasn’t the only one with an eventful night.

I’m just the one that regrets hers the most.

“Didn’t sleep. Took over Darcy’s walk around,” I groan, and barely notice Kinsley getting to her feet to vanish into the kitchen. When she comes back, though, with a mug of black coffee and a plate of French toast, all I can do is moan my thanks and drag the plate closer to me so I don’t have to expend as much effort getting it to my mouth.

“I heard Darcy’s pissed today,” Kinsley mutters, sitting back in her chair.

“Oh, yeah?” I sit up enough to glance around Otter Hall and breathe a short sigh of relief when I see the pissed off, but thankfully still breathing, ex-volleyball player sitting with Daniel on the other side of the room.

She certainly looks displeased.

“Something about Kayde ditching her, I don’t know.” I take a bite of the French toast Kinsley so helpfully drenched in syrup for me, and groan in approval. “Sucks for her. Though I don’t suppose you ran into a nice surprise on your walk?”

The French toast in my mouth instantly turns to ash, and I choke on the bite I’ve just started to swallow. My whole body jackknifes upward, and as I choke, tears stream down my face.

“Shit, Summer—” Kins jumps to her feet, and even Liza looks worried as I hack up the suddenly too-sweet mouthful. “Are you?—”

Arms wrap around my shoulders, and I’m jerked all the way to my feet instead of being bent over the table. “Swallowing works better when you aren’t all hunched over or lying down,” a familiar, sweet voice chuckles softly. Sure enough, now that I’m standing with my head not perpendicular to my torso, the food slowly makes its way down my throat, though it burns every inch of the way.

But not nearly as painfully as the sear of Kayde’s skin against mine where he’s touching me. I fight not to move; not to give any outward sign of discomfort as my eyes continue to stream tears. I can’t scream. I can’t let them know?—

“Are you going to give her the Heimlich?” Kins intones, eyes flitting between our faces. There’s something in her eyes, a curiosity I’d so love to discourage. But while I’m gasping for air, I can’t do much more than signal through uneven breaths that something is very wrong.

Unfortunately for me, she doesn’t quite get the message.

“Nah, I think she’s okay.” He’s back to that teeth-aching sweetness. Back to his Lassie persona that once had made me grind my teeth in irritation. Now, I wish more than anything that it was his real face, and not just the mask he wears around everyone else.

I’d much prefer boring, predictable Kayde to what he really is.

Still my resolution from this morning flickers to life in my chest, and I force myself to straighten before pulling away from Kayde with my chin raised. “I’m fine,” I tell him coolly, knowing I can’t start acting like I hate him or as though he’s done something to me.

At least not in front of Liza and especially Kinsley.

I won’t give him any reason to hurt her.

He lets go of me without protest, still smiling that sunshine-bright grin in front of my poor eyes. My hand finds the coffee mug and, to my credit, I don’t smash it into his face before stabbing him in the throat with the biggest piece I can find.