Page 17 of Reckless Devotion

I snap my gawping mouth shut and swiftly regret it when my next inhale is of woodsy musk. Against my will, I skate my gaze over his chiseled features. His jaw is peppered with more stubble than the last time I saw him, encasing full lips and decorating a square jawline. The unevolved part of me totally gets the hype surrounding Chase Walker, as ashamed as I am to admit it.

Really, the fact I’m attracted to men in general is just an insult to injury, if you ask me. Life would be much easier if I was one of those people who fall madly in love with inanimate objects like the Eiffel Tower. At least if I fell in love with an airplane or a car, I wouldn’t have to worry about entitlement or archaic gender roles.

“This is a non-consensual salmon.” My scowl is fueled by self-loathing at my appreciation of his profile.

“That’s not a thing,” he responds dryly, nestling the back of his head into the scratchy carpet, searching for comfortthat this flooring certainly doesn’t have to give. I begrudgingly commend his willingness to lie on such a filthy floor. It’s giving non-snobby vibes I didn’t expect. “There’s something to this,” he muses out loud, eyes still closed.

“I do not consent,” I reaffirm, pushing myself up into my elbows. “Plus, you’re doing it wrong. Fish don’t lie on their backs.”

He sighs and deep molasses eyes snap open and slide my way. I let my gaze crash into his for a second and then look away. “Oh, Peppercorn.” He sighs easily, almostendearingly. “I’m sure you like to think you invented this, but it’s called grounding. Normal people just tend to do it on grass and not assign ridiculous names to the activity.”

I harrumph and frown at my clasped hands beneath me. “Whatever, dude. Can you agree now that this apartment is a dead lead?” I push myself further up and come to rest on my knees, peering down at the mountain of a man still prone next to me, taking up far too much space and looking far too at ease for someone who might be getting a bed bug infestation as we speak. “I’ve been thinking, I need to see more of Dev Ops Inc. from the inside. There has to be someone somewhere who knows something.”

“I’m not opposed to showing you what goes on at Dev Ops,” he agrees much more freely than I thought he would. I expected a fight with dramatic phrases like, “trade secrets,”and “proprietary information,” thrown around. “But I can’t agree with you that this apartment is a dead lead.”

Throwing my eyes skyward, I bury my face in my hands. I’m too freaking tired to battle him right now, so I rub my eyes aggressively with the heel of my palms and when I start to see a galaxy of stars, reluctantly lower them.

“Can I at least ask why?” I blink down at him, watching him stare at the ceiling with a carefully blank expression.

“Because of that.” He lifts a hand and points.

I follow his gaze and my mouth drops. Hanging from the ceiling is a half loose plastic light cap, revealing the wires from the ceiling light going into the plasterboard. But that’s not what captures my attention. It’s the small roll of notes peeking out from the mess, along with the corner of a very distinctive booklet. I take in the green holographic plastic peeking out from the slightly open pages and blink. Because if I’m not grossly mistaken, there is a passport hidden in the light fitting.

***

The aromatic array of spices that waft around the cramped elevator as the doors clunk open make my mouth water. It’s late, and the Silva’s on the ground floor makes the microwave lasagna sitting in my refrigerator waiting for me seem woefully sad in comparison.

I step out of the elevator and my stomach promptly stops grumbling for food and drops. Bassy music vibrates the space, thumping directly from our apartment. My eyes bounce nervously to the closed door a few feet away from me, knowing that behind it, Mr. Clay is sure to be cursing his noisy neighbors. Perhaps even shaking a fist at the wall.

I rush forward, apprehension keeping my feet cat-soft even though music masks my progress. Thankfully, I manage to reach my apartment undiscovered and quickly let myself in—snapping the door shut succinctly behind me.

“Volume down!” I yell at the small black hub sitting in the corner of the room—the one Sunny has hooked up to the surround sound speakers and every outlet or light bulb in this place. The same girl who is, for some bizarre and yet undetermined reason, standing on the couch cushions with abelly dancing sash on over sweats and shaking her butt like she’s working for tips.

The music cuts out and a polished female voice announces, “Volume down,” before the music returns at a much less offensive amplification.

“Hey! I was listening to that.” Sunny frowns down her nose at me and slams her fists into her hips, which makes the small gold coins on her sash tinkle.

“Yeah, you and the rest of our apartment building, babe,” I deadpan, flinging my bag to the floor at my feet.

She lets out a belabored sigh and throws her ocean eyes skyward. Okay, teen drama.“God, now you’re going to be even madder that I haven’t finished packing yet. But it’s okay, I’ve still got tomorrow.”

I open my mouth in confusion and then freeze, a cool prickle creeping down the back of my neck. It’s a feeling of shame and inadequacy rolled into one that coils around my spine and yanks as I quickly fumble for my phone in my pocket to check the date. A landslide worse than a lifetime of that feeling you get in dreams where you turn up to school or work with no pants on stacks upon my shoulders. I’m an entirely shitty fucking guardian and an even worse sister, because I completely forgot to tell Sunny that we can’t go on our beach trip.

I stare at the date on my phone, wanting the floor to swallow me up. Knowing you need to do something you’re dreading and actually doing it are two different things. I’ve had my head so far up my own ass trying to keep all of the plates in life spinning—one of which is keeping Detective Moustache and Chase-freaking-Walker off my case—that somehow I’ve managed to drop the most vital one.

When I look back up, big blue eyes survey me beneath a confused brow. “You good?”

“I need to talk to you.” I sigh, kicking off my boots and going to join her on the couch.

She drops herself down to sit by me, bouncing a little as she leans back into the chintzy cushions. If someone told me we need to talk, I’d be instantly dialed to anxiety level eleven, but she seems only mildly curious as she calmly crosses her legs beneath her.

“We can’t go to the beach, Sunny. I’m really sorry.” I force the words out like thick tar, my insides twisting. Ihateletting her down.

There isn’t a manual for this parenting thing. I know I’m doing my best, but my heart hurts that she doesn’t have better. And right now? My best just doesn’t feel good enough. She deserves two loving parents who are real adults. The kind of adults who never drop the ball and are always solidly dependable. The kind of parents I felt so jealous of when I was younger. Who drop their kids off to school with lunches and smiles. It blows my mind that the kids with these parents never seemed phased by their presence—if anything, they were eager for them to leave, or embarrassed to be seen with them.

The reality is that wasn’t on the cards for me and Sunny. We could have been adopted by families in our years spent in the care system. It wasn’t uncommon for kids to be kept by foster families who were only supposed to look after them temporarily, but it just wasn’t meant to be for us. We were different. Misfits. Kindred oddballs. With sensory needs and brains that malfunction sometimes when overloaded.

“Oh,” she says slowly. “Oh, that’s okay.” She nods, folding her hands together and looking reserved. “Work?”