Forbidden by Abbie Williams Page A

unshaven cheeks…his chest, rippling with muscle…the way he had brought himself all the way into her with the first stroke. She coughed and almost choked on the last of her smoke, and the cigarette came from a finite amount, she reminded herself. It wasn’t likely she would be able to procure another pack until she boarded her bus come this Thursday. So these better last; she drew the remainder of it, savoring, and then journeyed down to the grass to grind it out, careful to flush the butt upstairs in the tiny bathroom linking her room with another.
    She was dying to explore the house a little, but the shower stall lured her, and she stood beneath near-scalding water for a good 15 minutes, letting it race over her body, hugging herself in the steam, pretending that he would be waiting for her on the bed in the guest room. There was a phone beside the roses, and as penance for her thoughts, she called Wade the minute she emerged from the shower, wrapped in a thick pink towel. No one answered at the Thompsons’. The phone rang and rang, and she finally left a quick message on their answering machine… Hey, I’m here, see you soon . It wasn’t until after she’d replaced the receiver that she realized she hadn’t left a return phone number.
    Bryce curled around herself on top of the puffy white quilt, not meaning to fall asleep, but sunlight beamed lazily through the tall window and over her exhausted limbs, and she let her eyes drift shut, wishing that she at least had a name for Motel Man, something to make him seem more real. Let me dream about him, please, please …
    ***
    She woke hours later, opening her eyes upon a room in which the light had subtly shifted. She started, sitting up too quickly, her skin sore and red in long stripes from lying on the damp towel. Shit, shit, shit . She hadn’t meant to sleep so long and was sick with anxiety again, hearing what sounded like an entire high school class in the rooms below. Someone was coming up the stairs, and she clutched her towel tightly around her naked body, thankful that her bag was at least in the room with her, and she didn’t have to dress in her bus-ride clothes. Seconds later a gentle tap sounded on her door.
    â€œBryce, you awake, honey?” asked her aunt Erica.
    â€œYes,” she whispered, then cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes!”
    â€œSupper’s almost ready down here, if you feel like eating. You must be starving. You were sound asleep when I got home at 5:00.”
    â€œI’ll be right down,” she assured her aunt, hurrying to make herself presentable. She bolted into the bathroom where she squeaked at the sight of her hair. No comb would help the situation, so she settled for scooping the sides back into a barrette. She dressed in cut-offs and her navy-blue hooded sweatshirt, spread a little gloss on her lips and squared her shoulders. Fuck it, she was Michelle’s daughter, and at the very least, she could handle this situation. So what if everyone was judging her, wondering about her, dying to ask her as many questions as she wanted to ask them? None of this is your fault , she reminded herself. But she dreaded the thought of showing emotion about the dead grandpa. Was she supposed to act sad, wistful? I have never even seen a picture of him.
    She did recognize her uncle Wilder right away…his face looked so exactly like her mother’s. He saw her coming down the stairs and moved toward her immediately, a handsome man with a long, dark-blond ponytail and clear blue eyes. Bryce almost smiled, thinking he looked like the very essence of a country singer, down to the tight faded jeans and darkly-tanned face. Hand him an acoustic guitar and a cowboy hat . He was much taller than Bryce or her mother, his shoulders wide and his arms strong as he gave her a quick, hard hug. His eyes were intent as he studied her at close range; searching for traces of his sister? Bryce