FREE STORY WITH EXCLUSIVE CONTENT. This is *not* a Paid Story.
Eighteen-year-old hockey prodigy Elliot Wexler has three goals for senior year. One: somehow graduate with a 3.5 GPA. Two: hide his bipolar disorder from his peers. And three: make it in...
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JUNIOR HOLDS THE BACK DOOR open for me, and I blink at him. This kid is on some next level weed if he's inviting a literal thief into his house right now.
Of all the times I've seen him, I never took him as the stoner type, but all that does is make me feel even dumber for being caught by him. Now my entire plan is ruined; I was supposed to get in, grab some tools to sell, and get out, just like I have for the past few weeks. Now I'm screwed for money. But I have to count my blessings, too, because of all the people I could have been caught by, Junior must be the most harmless one. I was terrified at first, but getting him to feel sorry for me was easy. All I had to do was bat my eyes and he melted like butter to the floor.
"Are you coming in?" he asks, and I study his face. I've met bad men. I know bad men. I know that dangerous glint they get in their eyes, that primal rage and thirst for prey.
Junior has none of that. His movements are hesitant and awkward, and it's not only because he's stoned. This guy is a dork. Still, his height of six-foot-something towers over my measly five-three, and I'm not in the business of entering strangers' houses. Even if they seem about as dangerous as a sloth.
"I'm good," I say. "I'll wait here."
"Okay, gimme a sec." He leaves the door open, and I cross my arms.
High or not, I admit, he's cuter up close than he is from outside a window. His skin is snowy-pale, and his blue eyes are framed by the inkiest eyelashes I've ever seen.
Pfft. Pretty boy.
Through the windows, dim lights reflect off the hardwood floors. It's so quaint and Christmassy in there, like a gingerbread house. The warmth seeps into the night while an icy gust blows through my flannel and stings my skin. I've been out here for way too long.
Oh, screw it.
Clenching my eyes shut, I hop inside, enveloped by the smell of potpourri and cinnamon. A relieving heat thaws my thighs beneath my jeans, and the noises of the house settle around me: the rumbling of a furnace, the ticking of a clock. Aside from that, dead silence.
I'm standing in the kitchen next to a coat rack littered with hoodies and jackets. This place reminds me of one of the showcase kitchens I've seen in the old magazines they keep at the shelter. A warm palette of colours, a granite island, stainless steel appliances...
So, this is where the Johnsons have their breakfasts and make their meals. I eye the cupboards, which must be stocked full of food. Maybe I have time to grab—
Junior's feet thump down the stairs. Moments later, he slides into the room, eyes wide when they see me. "Oh, hey, you came in."
