study, or at least a fleeting glimpse of a feeling of her. When that doesn’t work, I channel Taylor. Then I pick up my phone.
Obadiah picks up on the third ring.
“Hello?” He is breathless with laughter. Jealousy pings in my chest for whatever carefree moment he’s cultivated. I haven’t experienced a single one since leaving Twig City—and even then.
“It’s me,” I say, shoving through to the other side of business.
“Oh. Hey.” Concern spikes on the vowel. He draws it out longer than necessary. I know he wonders what would make me call him after a socially respectable hour of the night.
“I need you to do something for me,” I say. My voice is light and only hinting at sultry.
“What’s this, Raven Rogen asking me for a favor?” Someone in his background chuckles. It’s male. I don’t bother asking who. There’s no time. If Linc’s listening, he’s going to storm in as soon as I say the next part. If someone else is on duty tonight, well, I can’t waste time imagining the thrill they’ll get. It’s part of the plan anyway.
I put a soft purr into my voice. “Now that you mention it, the favor is definitely more beneficial to you.”
“Excuse me?”
I add a pout and explain, “Daniel’s gone. Caine’s busy with a supermodel from Denmark. Everyone else on my speed dial is either too old or too attracted to farm animals. I’m bored, and I think this ruse has gone on long enough, don’t you?”
“Ruse?” No laughter now. Just his confusion and hesitant willingness to play along. Once he figures out the game. I don’t wait for him to add it up.
“Please.” I snort, putting some of the ice in my voice I channel from Taylor’s image. “You think our friendship is real? You think I give two shits about your sorry attempts to break free from your antagonistic daddy? I’m sick of playing sympathetic bestie. I want to be entertained, Obadiah.”
“Entertained how?” I’ve got him. And whoever is listening. I hope.
My purr is back. Low and full-on sultry. “Tell you what. I’m going to wait for you right here in my bedroom wearing, well, not much, and you’re going to figure out the answer to your own question while you drive.”
“Raven, you’re being—”
“Don’t disappoint me, Obadiah. If you do, we can’t be friends anymore and that would be a shame. I need you. Twenty minutes.”
I hope he understands that’s the honest part of the call. I don’t wait to find out before I hang up.
I have twenty minutes.
I saw a show once that depicted rituals and rain dances performed by indigenous tribes throughout various African countries. Some used animal sacrifices, many danced and swayed around fires, all of them used drums. Heavy on the bass, no treble or strings to accompany, and the pounding was low and constant. Something that seemed to work directly into the veins of the men and women swaying and dancing and staring into the flames, willing the answers to whatever questions they asked.
My chest feels like a ritual drum now. Beating and burning its way into my veins. I hope it carries answers too.
I change into something with more lace than fabric and strut around my bedroom. I turn my hip this way and that, pretending to study myself in the full-length mirror. I toss my hair, reapply lip gloss. This promiscuous side of Raven Rogen wasn’t nearly as quick a study as Titus may have liked but much of it is built into the female psyche; it isn’t hard to figure out.
When I’ve sufficiently paraded, I cut the lights. Please do not let the infrared be working yet.
In the darkness, I stuff my pillows into my bedcovers, hit play on the sexiest jazz album Raven owns—there were several choices—and creep into the hallway. I breathe a prayer to whatever god exists for soulless creations that Linc has gone home for the day. He is the only one in the entire house I don’t want to run into. Well, next to Titus, of course.
No one meets me as I dart down the darkened
Obadiah picks up on the third ring.
“Hello?” He is breathless with laughter. Jealousy pings in my chest for whatever carefree moment he’s cultivated. I haven’t experienced a single one since leaving Twig City—and even then.
“It’s me,” I say, shoving through to the other side of business.
“Oh. Hey.” Concern spikes on the vowel. He draws it out longer than necessary. I know he wonders what would make me call him after a socially respectable hour of the night.
“I need you to do something for me,” I say. My voice is light and only hinting at sultry.
“What’s this, Raven Rogen asking me for a favor?” Someone in his background chuckles. It’s male. I don’t bother asking who. There’s no time. If Linc’s listening, he’s going to storm in as soon as I say the next part. If someone else is on duty tonight, well, I can’t waste time imagining the thrill they’ll get. It’s part of the plan anyway.
I put a soft purr into my voice. “Now that you mention it, the favor is definitely more beneficial to you.”
“Excuse me?”
I add a pout and explain, “Daniel’s gone. Caine’s busy with a supermodel from Denmark. Everyone else on my speed dial is either too old or too attracted to farm animals. I’m bored, and I think this ruse has gone on long enough, don’t you?”
“Ruse?” No laughter now. Just his confusion and hesitant willingness to play along. Once he figures out the game. I don’t wait for him to add it up.
“Please.” I snort, putting some of the ice in my voice I channel from Taylor’s image. “You think our friendship is real? You think I give two shits about your sorry attempts to break free from your antagonistic daddy? I’m sick of playing sympathetic bestie. I want to be entertained, Obadiah.”
“Entertained how?” I’ve got him. And whoever is listening. I hope.
My purr is back. Low and full-on sultry. “Tell you what. I’m going to wait for you right here in my bedroom wearing, well, not much, and you’re going to figure out the answer to your own question while you drive.”
“Raven, you’re being—”
“Don’t disappoint me, Obadiah. If you do, we can’t be friends anymore and that would be a shame. I need you. Twenty minutes.”
I hope he understands that’s the honest part of the call. I don’t wait to find out before I hang up.
I have twenty minutes.
I saw a show once that depicted rituals and rain dances performed by indigenous tribes throughout various African countries. Some used animal sacrifices, many danced and swayed around fires, all of them used drums. Heavy on the bass, no treble or strings to accompany, and the pounding was low and constant. Something that seemed to work directly into the veins of the men and women swaying and dancing and staring into the flames, willing the answers to whatever questions they asked.
My chest feels like a ritual drum now. Beating and burning its way into my veins. I hope it carries answers too.
I change into something with more lace than fabric and strut around my bedroom. I turn my hip this way and that, pretending to study myself in the full-length mirror. I toss my hair, reapply lip gloss. This promiscuous side of Raven Rogen wasn’t nearly as quick a study as Titus may have liked but much of it is built into the female psyche; it isn’t hard to figure out.
When I’ve sufficiently paraded, I cut the lights. Please do not let the infrared be working yet.
In the darkness, I stuff my pillows into my bedcovers, hit play on the sexiest jazz album Raven owns—there were several choices—and creep into the hallway. I breathe a prayer to whatever god exists for soulless creations that Linc has gone home for the day. He is the only one in the entire house I don’t want to run into. Well, next to Titus, of course.
No one meets me as I dart down the darkened
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