His tongue trails from the side of my chin to the corner of my mouth. I'm frozen on spot, barely breathing. When he pulls away, his eyes are the same shimmering silver I had seen the other night. My breathing spikes, and his eyes dart to my mouth. B...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
— 6 —
The alarm goes off, wailing so loud my ears are cringing. I reach over Lesley to hit the top of the clock but end up accidentally knock it off the nightstand.
"Shoot," I mutter.
Austin, whose spread over my legs, rubs his eyes, burying his face in my comforter. "Sissy, stop the noise," he whines.
"Workin' on it," I grumble, skillfully crawling over Les without waking her.
As soon as my feet hit the white, nylon carpet, I pick up the noisy contraption and unplug it from the wall, letting it clatter to the floor again. Kaleigh and Les stir, Kay throwing an arm around Les and nudging Austin with her foot. Austin whines softly, slapping Kay's foot without any strength, before snuggling deeper in the comforter.
So cute.
I smile a little, kissing them on the forehead.
The sound of Cassadee's alarm pulls me back to reality, and I groan softly, dreading hearing her voice so early in the morning.
Quickly, I head to my dresser, grabbing a pair of pastel pink skinny jeans and a dark grey, off-the-shoulder shirt. I change in the bathroom, slipping out of my cow pajamas and into the outfit in my hands before fixing my make-up. I settle with a thick line of eyeliner on my top lid, letting it trail out to the corner of my eye in a wing, and a thin line of black on my waterline, putting on some Soft Lips ChapStick just to moisten my lips—thankfully, the stupid cut from Noah has healed mostly, not even noticeable now. When I'm finished, I leave my room, going downstairs.
No one's in the kitchen yet. The mess from last night is still plastered everywhere—lasagna sauce painting the walls, dirty dishes piled in the sink, even portions of last night's sandwich are on the floor. Mother must have passed out before she could order some poor cleaning company to take care of the chaos. Unless she expects me to do it, but there's no chance in hell that's happening.
Shaking my head, I pull a water bottle out of the fridge and go to the living room to scrounge for my brush. It's on the arm of the plastic-covered couch, I notice, beside the black leather jacket Mr. Kingsley had lent me. My fingers trace the smooth fabric, absently remembering Friday, before I grab my brush.
"Where's breakfast?"
I ignore her, raking it through my hair.
"I said: where's breakfast?" she repeats, more impatient this time.
I turn to see Cassadee standing on the last step, face scrunched in irritation, hands on her hips expectantly.
Her hair is going in all sorts of direction, defying gravity as she flips it out of eyes. The giant t-shirt she's wearing isn't covering as much as I wish it would, one sleeve hanging off of her shoulder, the end of it barely covering her underwear, and I can't help but cringe at the sight.
