Page 72 of Forever Golden
Before more can be said, Dane walks up and interrupts, draping an arm around both twins’ shoulders. “Nice outfits, guys.”
Stoney nods and thanks Dane, but River stares up at the sky, like he hasn’t even heard a thing that was said.
“I see you two are still stealing shit.” When Dane finishes speaking, he tears off the price tag dangling from Stoney’s sleeve.
“Fuck,” he whispers under his breath, turning red as a stop sign.
“You assholes are fucking loaded,” Dane points out. “Anything your parents don’t buy you, Grandpa does. Mind telling me why you still think it’s okay for your happy asses to weigh twice as much when youleavethe mall than you did when you went in?”
The twins glance at each other and I don’t miss the wicked grins curving their lips.
“Because… we’re fucking good at it?” River proposes with a shrug.
Frustrated, Dane snatches the glasses off River’s face before he can stop him, then proceeds to stomp them into the dirt.
“What the fuck, dude?” River protests, clearly pissed, but also seeming to understand that Dane could kick his ass if he wanted to.
“And what ditz told you you look smart wearing glasses you don’t even fucking need? No one does that,” Dane concludes, walking away after effectively calling the pair out.
It probably goes without saying, but they scatter now that Dane’s thoroughly ripped them both new assholes. But from what I just heard, they needed it. Sterling walks the fourth cousin over and he’s the first that seems even remotely quiet. Not shy, and definitely not innocent, maybe just careful with his words.
“Ladies, this is Keaton.”
We’re offered a half wave, but Keaton’s obviously high off his ass right now. Kid probably doesn’t even know what day it is.
I wave back and so do Joss and Scar, but when he rubs his hand down the scruff on his chin, that’s when I notice his knuckles. They’re bruised like he’s been in a fight recently. I should know. I’ve had bruises just like that on more than one occasion.
Or, you know, maybe he punched a mirror or wall like someotherdumb-ass I know.
I can now safely assume that this somber, quiet version of him is simply the result of whatever he’s been smoking.
“West tell you these guys are in a band?” Sterling asks.
“No, this is the first I’ve heard. That’s pretty cool. What do you play, Keaton?” I ask, not even sure the guy’s coherent.
“Drums.”
I stare, waiting for him to elaborate, but nothing.
Okay. Good talk.
Shaking his head, Sterling gives up trying to pull conversation from him and walks away. At which point Keaton stumbles back to the lawn chair Sterling plucked him out of and stares at the stars.
I laugh a little to myself. He must’ve sprung for the strong stuff, because I swear this kid is no longer in this world.
Posted against the trunk of a nearby tree, another of the boys peers up and his fingers go motionless on his guitar. The final, lingering note of the riff he just played dissipates into the night and it’s suddenly silent.
He’s got that stormy look in his eyes that I often get from West, but instead of the heartbreaker greens I’m used to seeing, his are dark. Like staring down a well in the middle of the night. His skin looks sun-kissed, which I can easily see even with the dim light of the bonfire, but that doesn’t make much sense. It’s the dead of winter, so I can only assume this smooth, bronzy tone is natural for him.
Curtains of nearly jet-black hair stretch to his torso, covering most of his face, but I see enough to know he’s laser focused, honed in on a target.
My sister.
The twins are standing at either side of him now and he leans left to speak to River, but his eyes never leave Scar. As I watch him through the flames, it isn’t lost on me that this moment is so familiar. Then it hits me—the many parallels to the night in Bellvue when I first spotted West.
The one with the physical makeup of a certified heartbreaker is walking toward us now. He’s confident beyond his years, like he’s lived more life than he has, but it doesn’t fade even a little as he draws closer.
I glance over at Scar and she’s mesmerized, gawking as the length of his hair moves with the breeze. Short of being rude and stepping directly between these two, there’s not a damn thing I can do about what’s getting ready to happen. It might seem silly to not even want these two to meet, but I know for a fact that my sister has a type—tall, bronzed skin, dark hair. And add to it that he seems to possess that ability to control a room with his presence, just like the Golden boys.