I expect the mandatory girly scoff or for her to ask if I'm serious, but instead she says, "My family made most of their startup money during Prohibition."
My lips tug up at the corners in reaction to what I know other people probably don't notice about her.
"Evan Williams Black Label is my mother's favorite bourbon," I tell her and watch the color slide over her cheekbones and up to the roots of her dark hair.
"Yeah. That." She laughs, a cool, loose sound. "I tell people Evan is a family name, and it is. But it didn't come from my grandma. It actually came from what my dad poured for everyone in the waiting room when I was born."
Swapping family stories is a fucking slippery slope, and I know better. But the words slide out before I can remind myself of all the reasons why I should hold them back.
"It's a good bourbon. My mom always says it's under-appreciated, and she knows her whiskey."
Her smile is warm and smooth as a shot kicked back on a hot night, and it loosens my tongue the same way the drink would.
I tell her a little piece of my history I’ve never shared with anyone outside my family before. "My mother said she stared at my father's Winchester revolver the entire time she was in labor, and thought about getting it off the wall and shooting him with it a few times. I was a ten pound baby."
Her laugh this time is brighter and a little too loud.
"Ten pounds! Your poor mother. No wonder she wanted to shoot your dad. How did they get a gun into the hospital?"
She moves a shiny, dark strand of hair away from her face with the back of her wrist.
"I was born at home. All of us were. My family is kind of old school that way, and they all hate hospitals."
I'm done painting this wall, but I have a really nice view of her back and the curve of her neck. I have a weakness for girls' necks. Evan's is perfect, long and graceful, and I have this insane urge to bury my nose at the crook and breathe in deep. I wonder if she'd moan if I kissed her there.
"All of you? How many Youngbloods are there?"
She looks over her shoulder and gives me a smile that's less toothy than the one she tricked the officer with and way wider and sweeter than the one she threw me a little while ago. It knocks the wind back down my throat.
I recover in time to strangle out an answer.
"The world is crawling with Youngbloods, and all the worst ones are related to me. But as far as siblings go, I'm one of five."
"Five." She tilts her head to one side. "Are you the oldest?"
I shake my head.
This is detailed. This is already more than I tell anyone outside our circle. But this community service is only a few weeks long at the most. Evan and I don't cruise any of the same places or have any similar friends. The only place we'll ever connect is at this site, so why not? Why not let her get a peek behind the infamous Youngblood family curtain? I’m so used to protecting this information at all times, it feels traitorous to share. It’s also a little like a weight’s being lifted off my back, like I’m not burdened with every single asinine family secret they demand I keep.
It feels good.
"I'm second oldest. Remington, my brother, is a year older. Benelli, my little sister, is two years younger than me, and the twins are Colt and Ithaca. They're five years younger." I roll extra paint on the wall that's already completely coated. "You?"
"I came after three miscarriages, one stillborn, and probably a good half a million in fertility treatments. Once they had me, they called it quits." She wipes her hands on her jeans absent-mindedly, leaving light blue finger smears at her hips. "Um, it looks like we're almost done in here. Wanna look busy when the officers come around and stretch this out?"
She takes a little pot of lip stuff out, spreading it on her sexy lips with the tip of her finger, using slow strokes that make my mouth dry up.
Did I want to spend all day in a sweltering little government building painted dirty-sky blue, smelling paint fumes so strong they were making my head spin?
If Evan Lennox was with me, then answer was a clear and definite 'hell yeah.'
Evan 3
I had a hard time falling asleep the next Friday night.
That was never a problem before I moved in with my grandparents, because I was usually so blitzed after beginning my Friday drinking binge during last period study hall, that, by the time night came, if I was even aware that it was night, I was so out of my mind sleep wasn't a conscious thing. I knew I'd fall onto some couch or bed or pillow on the floor and black out until I woke up to a huge hangover, cured by a long day at the beach wearing dark sunglasses, nursing Bloody Marys while I got a nice, toasty tan, and letting the crash of the waves dull my pounding headache.
But I'd cleaned up my act after the arrest, and now my Friday nights are all about laundry, homework, painting my toenails, cleaning my room, cleaning underneath my laptop keyboard with Q-tips...if I didn't deserve every boring second plus a million more, I'd feel pretty damn sorry for myself.
But there is one bright spot in my week.
The irony of my situation doesn’t escape me. The girl who used to be the life of the wildest parties, now excited to go to community service?
But, of course, it’s not nearly as wholesome and simple as it sounds.
I get out of the shower early Saturday morning and dress in a hurry. I pull out the pair of jeans with the blue backside,
