"Is this the kind of dancing you do? That Irish stuff where they have all that bouncy hair?"
"How do you know about step-dancing, Mr. Youngblood?"
She scoots off my lap with a grin, and I shrug.
I settle back against the balcony, and she walks into her room, still in my sight-line, and clears a binder and backpack off the floor while I tell her why I know anything about the weird dance thing.
"My kid sister, Ithaca, found this crazy little movie about some Irish kid who does all that dancing, and she made mom drag her to all these classes. Winds up, she was only interested in that fake bouncy hair, so my parents got her some and she quit the dancing."
I've never mentioned anything about either of the twins with anyone outside the family. They've been pretty damn protected from everything since we were young. They even go by mom's maiden name, Wharton, so they could get a clean slate at their stuck-up private school.
"I'll have to meet this Ithaca and show her there's so much more to it than bouncy hair. Though the hair is pretty damn cool."
I stiffen at her words.
Ithaca never got along with Lala, which makes sense, since my baby sister is the outspoken rebel of the family, and Lala's all about a woman's place and shit like that.
But Ithaca'd probably love Evan.
The problem is, anyone or anything my baby sister loves would almost definitely be shunned by everyone else in my family.
Evan sets her feet on the shiny wood floor, leaves her arms relaxed but straight at her sides, and starts this complicated dance where her feet move fast and precise with all these high, quick kicks and twists. She's a natural; totally graceful, totally comfortable with her body, and I can't take my eyes off of her while she dances.
When she finishes and takes a bow, I clap and call out, "Bravo! Bravo! Encore! Encore!"
Her cheeks glow bright pink, and her ponytail fell out when she was dancing, so her hair is all tangled around her neck. She shakes her head and comes back to me, sitting on the ledge of the balcony.
"Nope. You gave me the third degree and got some of my deepest, darkest secrets out. Now I want some of yours. Who are you, Winchester Youngblood? Why aren't you in college? Will I ever get to meet these intriguing siblings named after guns? What are your plans for the future?"
Each question is a spear stab to my gut.
I get up and hook my arms around her, nestle between her legs, and lean in to kiss her. She kisses me once, short and sweet and pushes me back.
"No way. You can't use my own tricks on me." Her hands link lazily around my neck. "You know, the fact that you don't want to answer any of my questions just makes me more curious. What are you hiding from me?"
This is the logical next jump for us. It makes sense that if I care about Evan, I'll open up and let her see what I keep closed tight. I'm afraid to blow this night wide open, make her question whether or not she should be with me.
Because, the answers to her questions aren't going to make her happy, and I know that for a fact.
Because it's been a long time since the answers to any questions about my life made me happy.
Which is a whole different problem, all its own.
Evan 7
Pushing forward physically equals pulling away emotionally for Winchester.
I feel like such a girl to put it in those terms, but that is the God's honest truth. If the following fact makes the truth any more palatable, here it is: I so desperately want Winch to get tangled up with me physically, I'm almost willing to put the baby lamb of our emotional connection right on the sacrificial alter and carve it up with a big, bad knife.
Almost willing.
But not quite.
Winch has pestered me about the sexy way I see myself, which never bothered me one tiny bit until he started doing that thing where he clenches his jaw and shakes his head really quickly.
It's kind of hot, getting him riled, no doubt.
Mmm, so very hot.
But not what I want.
I want Winch to respect me.
So, I pull away physically, and push him towards testimonials and sharing and mutual stories, and I do it because Winch is becoming more real by the nanosecond, and I want all that. Down to the lotioned soles of my pampered feet, I want to link with this mysterious boy on some real, deeper level and not have it be just a wild romp.
No matter how deliciously perfect a wild romp would be.
"Tell me," I coax. "I can see in your eyes that you're about sixty percent of the way to spilling your guts to me."
His cheekbones get this red tinge, like he might be blushing, and I have no clue why, but I figure it means I'm punching big ole dents in his armor. "Let's start with simple stuff. Where did you graduate high school?"
"I got my GED." He throws his chiseled chin out and looks at me from the comfort of narrowed eyes.
"You've got nothing to prove to me." I keep my voice lazy as a fat cat on a warm lap. "I'm barely passing the basics at my fancy lil’ prep school. Did you think about college?"
I put my arms over my head and run my hands through the tangles in my hair to keep everything light and easy, but also because I thoroughly enjoy the way it makes his mouth drop open when he notices how my breasts strain against the front of my shirt.
"No." He snaps his mouth shut, and I like it. I love it, actually, the effect I have on him. "College isn't for me."
"How would you know if you didn't try?" I challenge, raising my arms higher over my head and smoothing my hair
