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little piece of my history I’ve never shared with anyone outside my family before. "My mother said she stared at my father's Winchester revolver the entire time she was in labor, and thought about getting it off the wall and shooting him with it a few times. I was a ten pound baby."
    Her laugh this time is bright er and a little too loud.
    "Ten pounds! Your poor mother. No wonder she wanted to shoot your dad. How did they get a gun into the hospital?"
    She moves a shiny, dark strand of hair away from her face with the back of her wrist.
    "I was born at home. All of us were. My family is kind of old school that way , and they all hate hospitals ."
    I'm done painting this wall, but I have a really nice view of her back and the curve of her neck. I have a weakness for girls' necks. Evan's is perfect, long and graceful, and I have this insane urge to bury my nose at the crook and breathe in deep. I wo nder if she'd moan if I kissed her there.
    "All of you? How many Youngbloods are there?"
    She looks over her shoulder and gives me a smile that's less toothy than the one she tricked the officer with and way wider and sweeter than the one she threw me a little while ago. It knocks the wind back down my throat.
    I recover in time to strangle out an answer.
    "The world is crawling with Youngbloods , and all the worst ones are related to me. But as far as siblings go, I'm one of five."
    "Five." She tilts her head to one side. "Are you the oldest?"
    I shake my head.
    This is detailed. This is already more than I tell anyone outside our circle. But this community service is only a few weeks long at the most. Evan and I don't cruise any of the same places or have any similar friends. The only place we'll ever connect is at this site, so why not? Why not let her get a peek behind the infamous Youngblood family curtain? I’m so used to protecting this information at all times, it feels traitorous to share. It’s also a little like a weight’s being li fted off my back, like I’m not burdened with every single asinine family secret they demand I keep.
    It feels good.
    "I'm second oldest. Remington, my brother, is a year older. Benelli , my little sister, is two years younger than me, and the twins are Colt and Ithaca. They're five years younger." I roll extra paint on the wall that's already completely coated. "You?"
    "I came after three miscarriages, one stillborn, and probably a good half a million in fertility treatments. Once they had me, they called it quits." She wipes her hands on her jeans absent-mindedly, leaving light blue finger smears at her hips. "Um, it looks like we're almost done in here. Wanna look busy when the officers come around and stretch this out?"
    She takes a little pot of lip stuff out, spreading it on her sexy lips with the tip of her finger, using slow strokes that make my mouth dry up.
    Did I want to spend all day in a sweltering little government building painted dirty-sky blue, smelling paint fumes so strong they were making my head spin?
    If Evan Lennox was with me, then answer was a clear and definite 'hell yeah.'
     
     

Evan 3
    I h ad a hard time falling asleep the next Friday night.
    That was never a problem before I moved in with my grandparents, because I was usually so blitzed after beginning my Friday drinking binge during last period study hall, that, by the time night came, if I was even aware that it was night, I was so out of my mind sleep wasn't a conscious thing. I knew I'd fall onto some couch or bed or pillow on the floor and black out until I woke up to a huge hangover, cured by a long day at the beach wearing dark sunglasses, nursing Bloody Marys while I got a nice, toasty tan, and letting the crash of the waves dull my pounding head ache .
    But I'd cleaned up my act after the arrest, and now my Friday nights are all about laundry, homework, painting my toenails, cleaning my room , cleaning underneath my laptop keyboard with Q-tips ...if I didn't deserve every boring second plus a