“Monroe,” I finally answered.

“Monroe,” he repeated, as if he didn’t believe me.

I tugged my cami strap back into place.

“You have a problem with my name?”

He shook his head, “nope,” and ran his hand across the back of his neck. I’m sure he did it because it pushed his chest out.

Pushed his chest out and emphasized his abs. Not that I was looking or anything, but it was kinda hard not to notice when he was so…naked.

“I’m just here to do a job.” He stood back. “Do you know where the family bones are buried or not?”

I considered lying, but what was the point? Gram wouldn’t be impressed, besides, it’s not like I had to stay out there and keep him company. The sooner I showed him where the crypt was, the sooner I could get back to the important business of having a nap.

“Follow me.”

I pushed past him and waited for the door to slam shut behind me before heading down the front steps and out to the back of the house. His supplies were set on the back porch, and I waited for him to grab them—a paint can and a couple of brushes—before following the stone path that led into the fancy gardens.

Gram’s plantation is one of the fanciest in Louisiana. A Greek revival, it’s been used in movies a few times, and while I don’t find the house all that impressive—it’s old—I’ve always loved the gardens. There is a maze to the left of the house, one I used to spend a lot of time in when I was younger, playing pretend or reading a book. And beyond it, set back on a small hill surrounded by mature oak trees, is the family crypt. It doesn’t look as though it’s far from the house, and I suppose it isn’t, but by the time we reached it, I was breathing heavy.

Which was embarrassing, because I’m Soccer Girl—I’m in good shape—or at least I used to be back before I started taking naps every afternoon and not caring.

I turned and felt my cheeks flush when I found his eyes already on me. After clearing my throat and attempting to sound as normal as I could, I spoke. “What’s your name?”

“Nathan,” he said.

“Does Nathan have a last name?” Crap. Now he was going to think that I actually cared.

A hint of a grin touched the corner of his mouth, and God help me, but my cheeks stung even more. I bet they were as red as the apples in the bowl on Gram’s table.

“Last name is Everets, and you?”

“Blackwell.”

He tossed his brushes on top of the paint can at his feet. “Where are you from, Monroe Blackwell?”

Nathan approached the iron fence, which was faded and chipped and looked like a black and white cow had exploded all over it.

I shoved my hands into my back pocket and blew a curl out of my eye.

“New York.”

“And you’re here because…”

I’m here because no one knows what to do with me.

“Look, I don’t really want to do this talking buddy thing, so I’m just going to let you get started, okay?”

He shrugged but didn’t say anything, and for some reason that irritated me. I wasn’t used to being dismissed like that. I was used to being under a microscope—used to having every action analyzed and picked apart. I was used to my parents, teachers, and friends hanging onto every word that came out of my mouth as if it was gospel.

Of course, the gospel according to Monroe isn’t exactly full of rainbows and unicorns, but as long as I was talking, they were happy. Because a talking Monroe wasn’t as scary to deal with as the nonverbal version I’d been several months ago. Back then, I was almost straitjacket material.

Back then…I shuddered. Nope. Not going there today.

Once more, I yanked on my cami straps, pulling on the material a little so that it wasn’t plastered to my chest. Even though there was shade from the oak trees, I thought that it would be pretty awful to spend the afternoon out here painting. Because it wasn’t just hot, it was oppressive.

It made me wonder about Nathan.

His shorts were Abercrombie, his boots Doc’s—his aforementioned boxers, again Abercrombie. He didn’t talk like an idiot even though the bandana was hick, and he looked like he came from money. It made me wonder why he was stuck out here painting some old lady’s iron fence on an afternoon meant for pools or beaches. Or anyplace other than here.

He glanced back at me, and I turned quickly, because even though it looked like I was staring at him—I wasn’t. Well, I wasn’t staring at him exactly.

“What does your tattoo mean?” I said in a rush.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk.”

“I don’t,” I stammered, hating how flustered I felt.

He didn’t say anything for a moment; in fact, several moments passed before he looked at his shoulder and shrugged. “It’s Celtic.”

Wow. Wasn’t he just brimming with information?

“Celtic, as in…”

He cleared his throat in that way my dad does when my mom grills him about something and he doesn’t want to answer. For whatever reason, this Nathan was more closed off and unfriendly than I was, which made me even more interested in him—or rather, in why he was like that.

“As in I don’t know what it means, I just thought it looked cool.”

I didn’t believe him. You don’t get ink for no reason.

“Well, at least you didn’t get your girlfriend’s name on your skin because…”

His head snapped up.

I did not just say that.

God. Now he was going to think that I was fishing to see if he had a girlfriend, and I wasn’t. My cheeks stung and I knew they were even more red than before. Well, crap. Now he was really going to think I was into him, in that way.

Instead, he looked at me as if I was a retard. “That would be stupid.”

Okay, so the girlfriend thing was a sore subject, and he totally didn’t care what I was thinking. In fact, he seemed kinda pissed. “It’s been known to happen,” I retorted.

His eyes narrowed as if he was trying to figure me out, and that’s when I realized it was time to go. I was sinking out here, and suddenly the effort to stay on solid ground was too much. I felt a little woozy and thought of my bed.

I took a step back. “Okay, I’ll leave you to it.”

“Sure. Nice meeting you, princess.”

“It’s Monroe,” I shot back with the voice of a five-year-old. Hello. What was it about this boy that turned me into an immature child with no filters?

Nathan bent over to open up his paint can without saying another word, and I hurried back to the house. Not once did I look back. Not even when I reached the maze and could have snuck a peek without him seeing.

I marched straight into the house and, once inside, drank two glasses of water before the weariness of my life—my very existence—pulled me down. It took way too much energy to be anything other than apathetic.

It was a heavy feeling and one I was used to, so I did what I always did when it hit. I trudged upstairs, flopped onto my bed, and thought longingly of the little blue pills that were no longer mine to enjoy.

I closed my eyes, turned and snuggled into my pillow, and prayed for sleep.

Chapter Four

Nathan

When my cell dinged for the fifth time in just over an hour, I swore and yanked it out of my shorts.

Rachel.

Did the girl not understand that some of us have to work? Didn’t she know that some of us have court-appointed work dates to keep our asses out of juvie? Anger rushed through me with a hot, hard thrust, and I had to take a minute. What part of that didn’t she get?

Ever since the accident, she acted as if nothing had changed. Like we were the same. Like she needed us to be the same to deal with the fact that Trevor was in the hospital and probably never coming out.

But I couldn’t do that, and whenever I tried to talk to her about it, she shut me down. She tried to change the subject or tried to have sex. She was willing to do pretty much anything not to talk about that night, but pretending that everything was going to be okay was freaking exhausting.

God, Rachel was so exhausting.

I heaved a sigh and glanced at the text message.


Find a way to come. I miss u.

Her words were like sugar, but they made me angrier than I already was, and I considered calling her right there and then. I considered having it out right there and then, but after a few moments, I turned off my cell instead and shoved it into my front pocket. This had to be done face-to-face.

I dunked the edge of my paintbrush in the can and spread another coat of fresh black paint over the iron fence section I was working on. It was close to five and I was about half done with the job. I figured if I got an early start on Monday, I’d have the entire fence finished by noon. Or I could just keep painting until dark, because it’s not like I had anything better to do.

I paused for a bit and grabbed a bottle of water out of my bag, my gaze focused on the smaller house, beyond the plantation home. I took a good long drink, not taking my eyes from the place.

Monroe.

No, more like Princess Monroe. I smiled at that. Princess Monroe with the big chip on her shoulder.

What the hell was her story?

I suppose most guys would consider her hot. Heck, I considered her hot. That little tank top she had been wearing showed some curves, and with all that dark hair and big eyes, she was definitely nice to look at. But her attitude was not something I wanted to tangle with. I was pretty sure she was high maintenance and a snob to boot. She was from New York City, after all.