Edited.
F O U R : INCEST IS FUN FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY.
- Taylor -
He was an ass.
My temper still flared after the door had slammed behind Derek. What right did he have to tease me about my appearance the moment he had met me? Fine, maybe it wasn't meant to be a joke, but it wasn't like I was going to take it any other way. Having never talked to anyone outside of my immediate family—except for Andrew and Devon, of course, but they barely counted as anything else—I wasn't sure how to interact with people, and the first person I interacted with other than those five people had called me beautiful.
That was a little unsettling.
Okay, so I was being unfair. He didn't know that this was my first time out of the house, and he had probably assumed that I was used to compliments and flirting. He deserved a little more than the rude snips I'd provided with him, but it was going to take me a little more than ten minutes to start opening up to someone.
Derek was, admittedly, not unattractive. His black hair was messy, but the kind of messy hair that guys on television had, and it was obvious that he spent an embarrassingly long time getting it like that. I hadn't figured out what color his eyes were, since I had been too preoccupied fuming about what I had interpreted as him insulting me. I thought they were either dark green or gray—or a mix of the two, but I had noticed how thick the lashes around them were. He was, in a word, gorgeous.
I chuckled when it occurred to me that I had chased him away. I didn't know how Devon would feel about me snapping at his best friend, but I had a strange idea that he wouldn't care.
Crossing to the window that overlooked the living room, I wrenched apart the curtains, pride swelling throughout me when I realized that I didn't have to hide anymore. The sky was fading into a rich shade of purple, and I watched, entranced, as the sun dipped behind the horizon, leaving curious hues of crimson and orange and navy blue behind it.
Acting on a whim, filled with something like determination, I unlatched the lock that kept the window shut, and pushed against the two rectangles that acted like doors. Cupping my palms around my mouth, I sang, "Hello, California! I'm Taylor O'Donnell, and damn it, you can see me!"
"Great," an annoyed voice responded sarcastically, and I squeezed my eyelids shut, scolding myself internally for being so stupid. "Now, shut up."
"Sorry," I muttered feebly, turning my head to lock gazes with the man from the building across from me. His was leaning on the windowsill, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He grinned when I apologized.
"It's fine," he chuckled, raking the hand that wasn't retrieving the cigarette from between his chapped lips through his wavy brown hair. Although his voice was scratchy and oddly teacher-like, he didn't look a day over twenty-five. "Are you new to California, then?"
I nodded, dropping my elbows down on the plastic window frame. "I am. My name's Taylor."
He laughed again, revealing a set of surprisingly white teeth. "I got that part. I'm Jackson."
"Jackson," I echoed, surveying his long face. He wasn't exactly handsome—he was, at best, a step above average—but there was some sort of captivity to his features. In the end, I chalked it up to his heavily lashed eyes.
"Are you one of Devon's friends?" Jackson asked, a smirk playing at his lips that told me he meant more than what he was saying. And when he waggled his brows, I felt my stomach clench with embarrassment.
Glaring at him, I quipped, "Don't act smart. We're cousins."
He shrugged. "Figures. The kid's got no game. And a pretty girl like you? He wouldn't stand a chance."
I smiled at that, but I couldn't stop the flush of blood that filled my cheeks. "Alright, thanks. But we're cousins, Jackson, so I don't need any silly rumors flying around." My tone had grown grim by the end of my warning, and I could see it in Jackson's face that I had gotten my point across.
Before I could celebrate, though, he started guffawing. "You really are new to this place, Taylor." His words came out between short gasps of laughter, before he straightened up finally, beaming at me like I had just told him the funniest joke ever. "You think dumb stuff like this is going to 'fly around'? This is California. People are too obsessed with celebrities to wonder what virtually nonexistent kids like you are doing. Sweetheart, you're a sixteen-year-old—"
"—seventeen—"
"—girl living in a twenty-year-old boy's apartment. Cousins or not, no one cares. So get the hopeless idea that rumors about you are going to spread out of your head—you're just not important enough."
Although his words should have stung, I found myself grinning at him. It was refreshing to know that it didn't matter what I did, that I didn't have to worry about people wondering about me. I was free to do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I was no longer Paul O'Donnell's secret daughter who no one could possibly know about—I was Taylor O'Donnell, a virtually nonexistent kid living in her cousin's apartment, about whom no rumors would spread.
I was about to thank Jackson for his encouragements, when the handle on the door behind me spun around with a click!, and Devon sauntered in. Flashing Jackson a quick wave, I whirled around, almost colliding with Devon in the process of running up to embrace him.
"Dev," I breathed once I had my arms around his neck. He smelled like expensive wine and overbearing designer cologne. And that meant one thing; he had just come back from having dinner with his divorced hotshot parents.
Even though they weren't married, they always made it a point to have "family time," and forced Devon to have dinner with them at least once a month.
It seemed everyone related to either Paul or Janelle O'Donnell was rich or famous somehow. Indiana Whitmore, Devon's mother, was a fashion designer, and had worked with Janelle on multiple occasions, back when Janelle used to be a model. And Devon's father, George Blythe, was a movie director; he hadn't made a successful film in years, but he was still coasting off the wealth from his previous blockbuster hit, which had come out in 1998. It also helped, coincidentally, that although his newer movies weren't popular, they still had a turnover of at least a couple million.
"Relax, kid," Devon chuckled, releasing me from his grip. "I haven't seen you in a long time. You've changed since then."
"Well, a lot does happen between twelve and seventeen."
"Fair enough," he conceded, maneuvering around me to slump down on the couch. "That was the last time I visited Seattle. It wasn't as memorable as two years before that, though, when I had found a weird little girl hiding in a room that I had never been in."
I glowered at him. "I was not weird."
But he was right, that had been memorable. I was just ten, and as usual, when guests visited, I had been instructed to be confined in my room for the entire weekend. Of course, George didn't know about me, and Janelle had made it a point that I was meant to stay out of sight of her older sister and ex-brother-in-law. So, naturally, I did, and every few hours, Isabella would stop by with snacks or DVDs or just to talk to me.
But Isabella's random disappearances from the rest of the group were too suspicious for Devon, and he had followed after her eventually. That was when he sprang into my bedroom, equipped with an evil laugh that he had obviously been practicing, only to be faced with a mystery that his thirteen-year-old mind couldn't solve.
I was too dumbstruck to say much, but Isabella was quick, and shut the door behind Devon immediately. Guiding him to the mattress, she explained to him that I was supposed to be kept a secret, and that he couldn't tell even his parents about me. When he had asked why, she had told him that I was too special to be revealed to the world. Devon had been curious, and it was clear that he didn't believe a word Isabella was telling him, but he had thankfully accepted anyway.
It wasn't until he had come up with his family again in two years, that I told him the truth. And since then, we had been friends—like real, genuine friends. I would often call Devon and tell him the new measures to which Paul and Janelle had taken to hide me away.
"That was a great day," Devon offered nicely.
I smiled at him, but it was getting a little too sappy for me. Yeah, he had been the first person to ever know about me, but I wasn't about to discuss in great detail how touching that had been. So, to change the topic, I blurted the first thing that came to mind. "Your friend—uh, Derek—he was... interesting."
Devon raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I forgot that you'd met him. What'd you think?"
"He was... adequate." I shrugged. "I mean, he teased me a lot, and that was really irritating, but he was okay otherwise."
"He teased you?"
"Right. Derek called me beautiful, and that was a little odd, because I'd only just met the guy, but I'm sure he was just messing around, so—"
"I doubt that, Taylor," Devon interrupted me, and I frowned when I caught the amusement flickering on his face. "Derek's an idiot, yeah, but he doesn't exactly humor the girls he's into." He finished his explanation with a smirk, and I felt my insides twisting into knots.
Gnawing at my bottom lip out of frustration, I muttered, "He is not into me. He doesn't know me."
Devon nodded, obviously getting the hint, and to my relief, changed the subject. "How does it feel to finally be out of that house?"
"It feels absolutely amazing," I said, my answer coming out as more of a gasp than an actual sentiment. "You have no idea, Dev. It feels like I'm finally a teenager. I'm finally a normal kid, you know? I can go outside without having to stay in the shadows. I can talk to people who aren't Is or Paul or Janelle. I can say my full name without my parents yelling at me for it. I'm—I'm free."
"You sound like a child on Christmas day," Devon mused. "You look so happy."
I didn't reply, and I didn't feel the need to. Devon was the one person who really seemed to understand me. Isabella and I got along well, and she was the best sister I could have ever asked for, but sometimes it seemed like her issues were more important than mine. It was rare when I would get three sentences out about myself before she would intercept with something about her. But Devon was the opposite. He actually cared about what I said, and when I needed to rant, he would sit and listen; if I didn't want to talk, and just wanted him to be there for company, he would do just that, even if we were on the phone.
Even our appearances were similar. For cousins, Devon and I looked curiously like twins—and it wasn't surprising, considering who my parents were. He had the same dirty blond hair, but his was much shorter than mine, and swooped over his forehead; his eyes were blue, like mine, but they were darker, and specked with tiny bits of gold and green. When he smiled, dents formed in his cheeks, and it struck me as boyish, the way his smile seemed to radiate so much emotion.
"I have a present for you," he said suddenly, rising to his feet.
Grabbing my wrist, he wrenched me up off of the couch I had been sitting on, and I squirmed in his grasp. "Oh, just tell me what it is. There's no need for surprises."
"I totally forgot! Taylor O'Donnell hates surprises." He slapped a hand to his forehead, and I glared at him. Rolling his eyes at me, he commanded, "Well, suck it up."
Pushing me forward so that I was in front of him, he set his arms on my shoulders. I was about to bolt, when he laced his fingers over my eyes, tightening them so that I had no chance of attempting escape. Without another word, he nudged me ahead, and I walked blindly, throwing my hands out to feel the walls on either side of me.
"Where are we going?"
"Calm down. I'm not going to kill you."
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of cautiously stumbling around, I heard a doorknob turn. Devon shoved me through what had to be a door, and positioned me somewhere between his feet. Lowering his palms from my face at last, he took a step back, and I widened my eyes at what I saw.
A room. Apparently, my room.
It wasn't enormous or outrageous; it was half the size of the room I had lived in back in Seattle. The walls were a pleasant shade of purple, light and unspectacular, but they seemed to compliment the white carpet. A huge, square window faced me, the lights of the city twinkling from outside the glass. A bed swaddled in mismatched blankets and pillows was set against the adjacent wall; the mattress was overstuffed and worn, and I was certain that some of the springs had probably given out, but it looked comfortable enough to me. A four drawer dresser complete with a mirror and a cheap makeup set Devon had probably bought at a drugstore was crammed in the corner, beside a small desk that was strewn with papers.
To anyone else, this room would have seemed a mess. But to me, it was wonderful. It was clumsy and cramped and there was far more furniture squished in than there should have been, but it was charming nonetheless. It was the kind of room a normal teenager was supposed to have; clustered and imperfect and with personality. I loved it.
"It's not much," Devon mumbled shyly from behind me. "I told my parents that I wanted to attempt something on my own, and so they don't provide me with a lot of money. They pay rent, and college tuition, and I do the rest. So, I—I, uh, pulled together whatever I could find, and—"
"Oh, shut up," I laughed, silencing him with a smothering hug. "I think it's beautiful."
He perked up at that, and gestured to the desk, where an array of random papers were littered over the surface. "Well, then, there's one more thing. Go on, find it for yourself."
Still bubbling with excitement, I skipped to the desk, where I shuffled through the papers for the one Devon had mentioned. Finally, I located it, and when I read what was written on it, I had to bite back a scream.
School Transfer Form
Name: Taylor Christina O'Donnell
Parent(s)/Guardian(s): Devon Blythe
Birth Date: September 20, 1997
Age: 17
Grade: 11
Address: 1440 Kingsley Avenue, Building 10, Apartment Number 46
City, State, Zip Code: San Francisco, California, 94110
Old School: Eastwood High School
GPA: 3.83
New School: Tucker Newman High School
Reason for Transfer: Moving
I stopped reading there, letting the paper fall from my hands and back onto the desk. He had enrolled me in school. I didn't have to depend on a genius college student to teach me all of my lessons anymore.
"Devon," I pronounced his name slowly, still embedded in disbelief. Rounding on him, I muttered, "Are you allowed to put yourself down as my guardian?"
"What?" He breathed, bitterness laced throughout his tone like venom. "You read that entire application, and the one thing you noticed, was that I wrote myself as your guardian? Do you realize that I had to go down to the school I had vowed I would never go back to—" I felt my eyebrows knit together on my forehead as he spoke, but he didn't take notice of my expression. "—so I could pick up a registration form for you? It really doesn't matter who your guardian is, as long as they're of age—which I am, if you hadn't noticed, because I'm twenty—and able to support you. Well, I'm in college, but I do have a job at the coffeehouse down the street. I can't believe you—"
Before he could continue to rant, I cut him off swiftly with a palm over his mouth. I was done listening to him complain about the question I had blurted out; I hadn't actually been focused on that, but because I was so speechless, that had been the first thing past my lips. "Dev," I smirked. "Chill. I know. I understand all of that. I just—I didn't know what to say, and I'm an idiot, so that's what came out. This is—all of this, the school enrollment, the room—is amazing."
"Good," he mumbled, resigned. "Well, you should probably unpack and get settled. You start on Monday."
"Monday?" I repeated, dumbfounded. The nerves were beginning to set in. "It's—it's already Friday night. I—I can't start in a week—or two?"
Devon snorted. "Yeah, right. Not so grateful to be a regular teenager anymore, huh?"
I opened my mouth to retort, but I was prevented from doing so by a third voice. From the hallway, someone shouted, "Devon! Where the hell are you, man?"
The corners of my lips pitched downward immediately when I recognized the voice as Derek's, and my grimace tightened when he walked into the room. "Why are you back?" I demanded.
"I invited him," Devon conceded, smacking Derek on the back in appreciation. "Yeah, thanks for coming, man. Mom needs me to run some errands, so I have to leave, and I figured you'd need a bit of company—"
"I am seventeen, Devon," I growled. "I do not need a babysitter. Besides, you just got here, and it's already past nine. Why do you have to leave again?" I whined, and it was evident that Devon wasn't going to listen to me, but I tried to sway him by batting my lashes anyway.
Rolling his eyes at me, Devon said, "I'll be back before eleven. It's just a bunch of business stuff, and her clients prefer to meet with me later at night than earlier in the day. Basically, I have to pick up a few things from them and drop them off at my parents' place." He explained his task with an air of authority, like he had been assigned something very important. Grinning at me, he added, "I also have to get more food. Now that there are two of us living here, and Derek is still a bottomless pit who is always raiding my kitchen, I'm going to have to stock up more. Want anything?"
I was spewing out a list before Devon even finished his offer. "Donuts, potato chips, extra-buttered popcorn, M&Ms—the peanut ones, specifically—um, Goldfish crackers, Nutella, boxed macaroni and cheese, vanilla cupcakes—with vanilla icing, I hate any other kind—oh, Ranch dressing—"
"Ranch dressing? What the hell?"
"—right, um, get some carrots with that, then. Don't forget chocolate milk, Coke, gummy bears—"
"Seriously, Taylor?" Devon groaned, exasperated.
"I mean, that wasn't everything, but that'll do." I shrugged.
Devon grumbled something probably obscene under his breath, but to me, he said, "Fine. But only because you're my guest."
I reached my arms out to hug him as he exited my bedroom, but he shooed me off with an irritated look, and a joking swipe of his fist. Once he had left, I dropped down onto the mattress, which creaked my weight sank into it, but didn't give out. Curling into the heap of blankets that Devon had piled up for me, I glowered up at Derek, who was still lingering in the doorway.
"What do you want?" I snapped through gritted teeth; even his mere presence aggravated me.
"Nothing," he smiled, perching on the edge of the bed. "Devon told me to stay here with you—and here I am." He tilted his head to the side so that strands of his black hair poked into his eyes—which, I established, were a very rich shade of emerald green, swirled together with a gray that could only be described as silver—and for some reason, this simple action caused my heart to beat faster in my chest. As if he knew the effect he was starting to have on me, Derek smirked, "Come on, I wouldn't give up an opportunity to spend some time with such a beautiful girl."
I abruptly sat up and shoved his chest. Hard muscles met the heel of my hand, but I did my best to ignore them, biting the inside of my cheek to distract myself from the electricity that was now twittering on my palms. Apparently, I had pushed him with significant force, because he lost his balance for half of a second. He stumbled to his feet instantaneously and glared at me, his grin now replaced with pained agitation.
"What is your problem, Taylor?"
"What is your problem, Derek? Why do you keep playing these games with me?"
"I'm not playing!" He exclaimed, clearly caught off guard by my consistent resistance to his flirting. Shaking his head in concession, he muttered, "Alright, I'm sorry. But I do think you're very pretty."
"Will you give it a rest?" I hurled the question at him like an insult. "Guys like you don't flirt with girls like me." I uttered the phrase slowly, quietly, because I knew it was more offensive to me than it was to him.
Derek sat in silence for a golden minute, where I allowed myself to examine his features for just a millisecond. He had a strong jawline, and a neck that arched perfectly beneath it. The bridge of his nose was long and slightly crooked, like he had broken it before and it had never properly set. His skin was smooth and tan, the bronze color every boy in California seemed to possess. I brought my gaze down to my lap when he looked at me again.
"Girls like what, Taylor?" He whispered, and although I wasn't staring at him anymore, I could feel his emerald irises boring holes into me. "What makes you so different?"
"Do I have to spell it out for you?" I retorted, fueled with a vigorous annoyance. "Girls who aren't popular, girls who aren't obsessed with painting their nails and curling their hair, girls who don't care what they look like every minute of every day, girls who have more than a quarter of a brain cell... girls who aren't outgoing, girls who aren't gorgeous, girls who are plain, girls who are hotheaded—girls like me." My voice was barely audible by the end of my explanation, and I was certain I had finally gotten through to him.
And then he started laughing. "Is that what you think? You think you're just plain and hotheaded, and that's all there is to you?"
I dropped my shoulders. The conversation was getting excruciatingly personal and uncomfortable. I was emotionally unavailable to even my older sister, who was one of the only people in the world I truly trusted; there was no way in hell I was about to open up to this conceited ass of a stranger. I scowled at him. "Just go away, damn it."
"No, Taylor," I felt the mattress dip beside me, and I knew he was sitting there. A hand clamped around mine, and suddenly my fingers were on fire. "Come on. Doesn't Devon ever tell you how beautiful you are?"
I gaped at him, confused. "No. Why would he?"
"Why wouldn't he?" Derek countered, his expression completely serious. "He is your boyfriend."
I choked on my laughter when he said that. Overtaken by amusement, I bounced off of the bed, landing in a puddle of blankets on the floor. Derek's words sank in, and I clutched my stomach, laughing like an absolutely lunatic.
"What's so funny?" Derek asked, leaning over the edge of the mattress of gawk at me.
I wiped tears from my eyes, my answer coming out in pants. "Dev—Dev is my c—cousin."
He gasped. "Are you kidding me? So... like... incest?"
At that, I busted out laughing once again. "No, you dumbass!" I paused, grappling at my aching sides. "We're literally just cousins. Get your mind—" I stopped again, attempting to swallow the next bout of laughter that was threatening to spill out. "—out of the gutter."
"Well, I feel stupid." He sniveled.
I sobered up easily then, beaming up at him. "You should."