Entangled Hearts

"Andra," my sister's soft voice seeped through the door, and I didn't move from the bed as I heard her continue speaking, "my friends and some guys from college are here to work."

"Yeah, sure," I muttered.

She was foolish if she thought they were actually going to do any work; it was clear that my sister, with her gentle and peaceful nature, would end up doing everything herself. I knew she was terrified because nobody hung out with her just for who she was, without eyeing our parents' money, and that's why she tried to keep the idiots she called friends around her. Idiots; that's how I defined my sister.

Three hours of boredom later, I found myself descending the stairs to go to the kitchen for some food and to retrieve the pack of cigarettes my father had confiscated from me days ago. I heard female and male voices, some of which I recognized with disgust. Dakota's voice was the loudest, almost shouting at who—I assumed—was my sister. She was obnoxious, and we'd had more than a few run-ins that involved punches from my side and her whining.

As soon as I stepped into the living room, almost everyone fell silent, and I frowned, continuing on my path. There were indeed some guys I didn't know, but the one seated in the corner of the couch with his tattooed arms flexed over his knees and his tattooed fingers intertwined under his chin... that guy I wouldn't mind getting to know. What caught my attention the most was the ink on his arms, hands, fingers, and neck.

"I thought you weren't coming down."

I looked at my sister, sitting alone near that guy and another one with the same rough look. I liked that at least Samay didn't seem to be doing it alone, but it burned me to see another university asshole and two girls next to Dakota doing nothing.

"I wasn't going to," I frowned when I saw Dakota holding a necklace that I considered lost; I approached her, curious about the things on the TV cabinet, and snatched the necklace from her hands, grabbing the front of her thin gray shirt tightly. "Haven't you been taught to respect things that aren't yours? I mean, I wasn't taught to respect sluts' boyfriends." I let her go; it was stupid to fight with her. "Do the damn work and get out of my house, silicone Barbie."

My fingers itched to slap her, but I didn't. I didn't want to make a scene, let alone hurt myself over a bitch. I had made it clear several times that she couldn't touch anything in the house, and that I didn't even like seeing her here or with my sister. But of course, I was seventeen, and she was nineteen. It didn't surprise me that her father worked his back off to pay for the university for an ungrateful daughter who treated him like crap after her mother's death.

I walked through the living room, passing by the pool table we had almost against a large window that occupied half of the wall. I loved that space, especially when I spent afternoons with my friends playing and watching the rain soak the artificial grass in the garden. It was comforting—sometimes—to be alone at home and sit in front of that large window; I liked to look at our large garden, and in the summer, I liked to see the neighbor's kitten walk through our garden and rest under a tree that always shaded me when I wanted to take a little nap outdoors. From the kitchen, I could see the living room; it was spacious, and as I searched for my pack of cigarettes and rummaged through the drawers, I kept an eye on my sister to make sure they weren't crossing the line.

"Do you need help?"

Shit.

As a reflex, I threw the cloth I had in my hands at the guy and mentally cursed myself for throwing a rag at the tattooed guy who made me wet. But it was his fault; didn't he know how to clear his throat or cough to make himself noticed?