The Bad Boy's Dance by Vera Calloway Page A

project.
                  Me: Hephaestus no.
                  He responded instantly.
                  Asher: You’re such a dweeb.
                  Me: It’s the trend nowadays, you’re the weird one buddy.
                  Asher: Doesn’t make me any less awesome.
                  Me: Or arrogant.
                  My family was oblivious to my distractedness, too busy railing on Spencer for something stupid he’d done. Only Paul was watching me sharply. I mouthed “Dana”. He relaxed marginally, and I felt a little guilty for lying. But if he thought I was talking to a boy, he’d flip his schnitzel. Even if I patiently explained that I’d sooner make him road-kill than be another of his conquests, Paul would go ape.
                  My entire family would, actually.
                  Asher: I noticed you didn’t deny that I was awesome.
                  Me: I thought you were joking. I, personally, thought the assessment was funny.
                  Asher: Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt. Why can’t you come over today, exactly?
                  Me: My older brother is home from college. I’m spending the day with him.
                  Asher: I see. Monday it is then
                  Me: Yup. See you tomorrow.
                  Asher: If you can drive there without turning your car into a pretzel.  
                  Shaking my head, I closed my phone. He would never let me live that down, even though he jumped in front of my car. I think it was a show of my amazing skill behind the wheel that I didn’t squish him under those circumstances.
                  “Ivy, go help your brother unpack his things. Victor and Spencer, get dinner ready. I’ll get the mail. Scat!” Mom commanded. Victor was Dad’s name, and she only used it when she meant business. We scuttled in different directions, with me trailing behind Paul up the steps.
                  He opened the door to his room and flopped onto the mattress. “Ah, it’s good to be home!” he mumbled against a pillow.
                  Grabbing his biggest suitcase, I settled on the ground. His clothes were neatly folded, making my job easier. “It’s good to have you home,” I replied sincerely.
                  He slid to the ground in front of me. Brushing his curly brown locks from his face, he assessed me. “You look good.”
                  “Thanks,” I said cheerfully, hoping he wouldn’t open the subject I knew was eating at him.
                  “No more panic attacks?”
                  “Not recently, no.” I hadn’t had an attack for months.
                  “And there hasn’t been any contact?”
                  “Drop it, Paul,” I said sharply.
                  “How can I? The bastard sent you letters every day because of some promise you made him.”
                  My hands stilled on the clothes as the memory swallowed me whole.
                  He slid to knees, head bowing. Honey-colored hair- the same color as his eyes- covered his face. I wrapped my arms around him on the ground, and we held each other tightly on the floor.
                  It was before he’d changed. He was still the boy I’d fallen in love with, not the monster I feared.
                  “Ivy,” he choked. “Promise you won’t ever leave me.”
                  Rubbing my thumb against the hollow behind his ear, I nuzzled his cheek. “Why would I?”
                  His fingers curled against my side. “Promise me. You can’t leave me. I can’t get through this without you.”
                  Maybe I should have sensed something then. Maybe I should have been disturbed by