Born Wicked

XX

I take my coat off as soon as we step through the door. There's a coat tree by a newspaper stand at the front, but I carry mine with me to the red vinyl booth in the back corner. Our booth. Thankfully it's empty.

Call me nostalgic, but I like that we came here for our first "get to know you" date. Ethan shrugs out of his jacket and sets it in the booth before he sits. He's wearing a baseball tee, white with navy blue sleeves that he has rolled up is forearms. The cord of muscle is taut and impressive.

I tear my gaze from his arms, the edges of a tattoo peeking out from under his left sleeve, and meet his. "So, tattoos? What are they of?"

He shrugs. "I have one on my right bicep that's essentially a symbol, like a crest. It's my father's family symbol."

"What's your dad like?" I ask, eager for more information. The past few days have been pretty epic for me, but it hasn't escaped my notice that Ethan is a hot commodity at school. He's the tall, dark, mysterious New Kid. Salem High is buzzing with gossip, I don't have to have friends to know that.

"He's a military man," he shrugs. "He pretty much fits the description."

I nod. "And your mom?"

"Gone," he says simply.

Sympathy lances through me, making me flinch. "I'm sorry, Ethan."

He grimaces. "No, don't be. She's not dead, she's just gone. She left when I was six. She's, uh, ten years younger than my dad, blond, spoiled and self-entitled. Kind of like Blythe."

I nod my understanding. I remember hearing his thoughts about Blythe earlier this morning. Yikes. A small part of me feels sorry for her. I mean, it's a tiny part. "Okay, well, that still sucks. So, military dad and flaky mom. Gotcha."

He smiles. "What about you?"

I feel very vulnerable all of a sudden. "Dead. My parents are dead. They were great though, you know, before."

"Oh, shit," he hisses under his breath. "Jayme-Lynn, I'm sorry."

I wave him away with a limp hand. "Please. It's not your fault," then with a sick twist of my lips, I add, "It's mine. They died in a fire I accidentally started on my twelfth birthday." His eyes widen in shocked horror. "Yeah, I'm that kid. Don't worry, none of what I just told you is a secret, it seems like everyone knows. Small town, right?"

"I don't even know where to begin to tell you how fucked up that is," he says harshly.

I cringe. "Yeah, well I told you we shouldn't be friends."

He frowns. "When did you tell me that?" –oh, damn, see? I knew I'd mess this up. "Anyway, that's not what I meant. I understand guilt, trust me, but it's not your fault. Twelve. Jesus."

My lips twist laconically. "That's sweet, but you must have missed the part where I said I started the fire."

The look he gives me is intense, the green of his eyes dark hunter. "I heard the part where you said accidentally. That's the difference."

I shrug. "Agree to disagree?" I offer one of Gran's famous platitudes. "Why don't we change the subject? This one kind of sucks."

"Okay," he agrees. "We'll put a pin in it."

I laugh. Shaking my head I say, "So, back to the tattoos. I realized a while back," no sense telling him it was yesterday after seeing his, because that is creepy and weird, so a little white lie, no big deal, "I want one. Problem is, I don't think Gran'll go for it."