Chapter Text
Celine’s POV
I raise an eyebrow and smile at Michael. “Can’t a girl come to visit her childhood best friend on his birthday?”
Behind Michael stands a very cute blonde teenage girl. She is wearing a striped T-shirt, dark blue jeans, her blonde hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. Her blue eyes watch me closely as a fiercely protective look crosses her face.
Mm. Someone cares a lot about Michael’s wellbeing.
“You followed us,” Michael replied, clearly not shocked, as an Asian girl and a red-head girl come down the stairs.
“Followed,” I repeat lightly, bringing my gaze back towards Michael. “Bribed some people to keep tabs on you. Same difference.”
I turn my attention back towards the pretty blonde and bite the inside of my lip. “You must be one of Michael’s friends. I’m Celine.”
“You faked your own kidnapping,” she replies bluntly. “It is my understanding that is highly abnormal behavior.”
Straight to the point. I like this girl.
I bite back a smile and shrug. “Did I fake a ransom note? Call in a phony tip to the police?”
“You’re saying you didn’t do anything illegal,” another blonde boy says as he walks into the room.
“I’m saying that if someone wants to trash their own art studio and skip off to one of their vacation homes for a week, it’s hardly their fault if someone assumes there’s been foul play,” I fire back.
“And I’m saying,” the cute blonde girl counters, “I’m saying…” she trails off, clearly trying to think of a proper comeback. “I’m saying that the average miniature donkey lives between twenty-five and thirty-five years!”
Oh my, she’s so cute when she’s flustered.
I let a grin spread across my face. “I like her,” I tell Michael decisively. “She says what she’s thinking. Our social circle could use more of that, don’t you think?”
Honest, protective, and cute. There couldn’t be a more perfect combination.
“In the interest of saying what we’re thinking,” the Asian girl interjects, “if you’re really here to celebrate Michael’s birthday, perhaps we should get this party under way?”
Michael’s expression instantly shifted to one of alarm.
If Michael is alarmed, that means this girl likes to stir up chaos even more than Michael.
“I’m thinking a game might be in order,” she continues, ignoring the concerned look on Michael’s face.
“A game?” I arch an eyebrow, my curiosity peaking. “What kind of game?”
Oh, this is going to be fun.
The Asian girl looks at Michael and smiles wickedly. “How about Never Have I Ever?”
I take a seat next to Michael on the concrete floor near the pool in their backyard. The Asian girl, Lia I learned her name was, takes a seat on the other side of Michael, silently shooting daggers at me with her eyes as she does so. I ignore her glares, instead fixating my gaze on the pretty blonde girl, Sloane, sitting across from me.
“The rules are simple,” Lia says, dipping her painted toes into the pool. “Everyone starts with ten fingers up. Each time someone names something you’ve done before, a finger comes down.” She pauses to let the rules sink in before asking, “Never have I ever been kidnapped, threatened, or shot by an UNSUB.”
I have no idea what UNSUB stands for, but it’s clearly not good.
The red-head girl, Cassie, Michael, and the blonde boy, Dean, all lowered a finger.
So, they’ve all been in this kind of danger before?
Without missing a beat, I reply, “Never have I ever used the word UNSUB like that’s a perfectly normal thing for a teenager to say.”
Dean, Michael, Lia, and Cassie all lower their fingers…but Sloane didn’t.
Lia clears her throat to get Sloane’s attention. Sloane looks at her and clarifies, “I don’t say anything like it’s perfectly normal. Ninety-eight percent of the time I’m not normal at all.”
Interesting response. She doesn’t think she’s normal.
Sloane pauses before adding, “Never have I ever not known the first hundred digits of pi.”
Michael groans and lowers his finger, making me stifle a laugh. Everyone but Sloane lowered a finger. Most of the others were down to seven fingers, and we’ve only been through three rounds.
“Your turn,” I tell Cassie. “Make it a good one.”
She glances at Lia. “Never have I ever lived in a bathroom at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”
Lia smirks, then slowly lowers the middle finger on her left hand.
Really? She lived in the MoMA bathrooms?
“Seriously?” I ask, unable to keep the incredulousness out of my voice.
Lia meets my gaze, a dangerous glint in her eyes. “Seriously.”
Understanding dawns on me.
She used to live on the streets.
Dean glances at Lia, his face hardening instantly. “Never have I ever,” he says slowly, “made out with Michael Townsend.”
Cassie and Lia both lower their fingers.
“Someday, big guy,” Michael tells him with a wink. “If you’re very, very good.”
Of course Michael. Good luck with getting Mr. Silent-and-Broody over there to agree to that.
Relief floods me as I notice Sloane didn’t lower her finger.
There’s a chance. If she never kissed Michael…
“Never have I ever,” Michael says after a moment, “rashly assumed that my significant other was in love with a girl that I’d never met.”
Lia lowers a finger and rearranges the fingers on her left hand so that only the middle finger was sticking up. “Never have I ever used the phrase significant other,” she retorts.
“Technically,” Sloane points out, “you just did.”
I snort in amusement at her remark and decide to take my shot. I fix my gaze on Sloane and shoot her a dazzling smile. “Never have I ever had a thing for blondes.” I lower my own finger as Sloane cocks her head to the side.
“Never have I ever not wanted a miniature donkey,” she offers in return.
Is she oblivious to the fact that I’m trying to flirt with her or is she not interested? I’m going to have to ask Michael what her emotions were later.
“Never have I ever,” Cassie started, “faked my own disappearance because of something Thatcher Townsend said to me.”
Cassie was clearly trying to pry into my business. I didn’t appreciate it, but I lower a finger anyways.
“Never have I ever been threatened because of one of my father’s business dealings,” Dean tries next.
I clench my jaw slightly at their clear attempts to get me to reveal whatever that lying, cheating monster called Thatcher Townsend said to me.
I turn towards Michael. “This getting tedious,” I say, indicating that I’m in no mood to share any details.
I’m about to stand to end this game, when Lia speaks. “Never have I ever let someone beat the crap out of me.”
Michael immediately turned towards Lia. “You got me,” he says, gesturing towards his swollen lip. “Very insightful.”
That monster has beaten the crap out of Michael as long as I’ve known him.
To my surprise, Lia dropped her left hand silently in response.
She’s trying to tell Michael that she’s been in his position before.
I stare out into the surface of the pool, watching Lia’s toes make subtle ripples in the water.
She seems like a guarded person, full of bite, danger, and recklessness.
But she told Michael that she had also been physical abused before. That she pushed until someone beat her and she let them.
She reminds me a lot of me.
After a long stretch of silence, I speak. My voice is rough in my throat as I painfully force the words out: “Never have I ever been publicly acknowledged by my own father.”
Sloane stares at me, eyes going wide. Everyone else lowers a finger, but Sloane keeps hers up.
“Are you illegitimate, too?” she asks. Her voice wavers, but there’s no judgement in it.
Michael whips his head towards me, searching my face for answers. “CeCe?” he whispers, shock clearly evident on his face.
I don’t look away. I let him read me, let him see the deep secret Thatcher Townsend had hidden from him, hidden from the world, for all these years.
My mother cheated on Remy Delacroix, the man who is supposed to be my biological father, with Thatcher Townsend, who is my actual biological father. Thatcher Townsend never publicly acknowledged me as his daughter, and he never would.
I had seen the similarities in my facial structure and his face long ago, but I never told anyone. I didn’t even tell Michael, knowing that he would certainly do something stupid which would only lead to Thatcher Townsend beating Michael within an inch of his life.
That day that Thatcher Townsend came to my house, to my studio which was my safe haven until then, my anger boiled over. I trashed my studio in a fit of rage and decided I was going to make him pay.
Michael turns away from the secrets he saw written on my face before clearing his throat. “As the birthday king, it is within my rights to demand a rumpus of Where the Wild Things Are proportions. And as it happens,” he continues, masking his own emotions with a mischievous grin, “as the recipient of a recently released trust fund, I have a few ideas.”