Steel Crew : Books 1-3 (Steel World Box Set Book 7)
Page 24
But, lucky them when he comes saying her name, it won’t be their actual sister.
I.
Hate.
Him.
“It’s the song they were practicing all weekend, Kiki!” she squeals. “It’s Brand”—she pauses after she says his name, and I roll my eyes—“new.”
“Yeehaw.” I try to fake some sort of excitement for her sake.
When she laughs, I know it worked.
I look back at the TV as he turns around and cups the mic like he did my face when he kissed me. I have to stay calm and not allow myself to pick up my TV and hurl it out the window.
When he begins to sing, I remind myself how much I hate his voice.
Does it eat you up when you hear that song I used to sing in the car,
While we’re driving down the road.
I turn it up,
You turn it down.
You always hate that I liked it so loud that I crank the radio.
Oh, that girl, she’s gasoline.
Fire explodes from the stage behind him and the band.
“Hot damn!” Truth laughs.
To the fire in her heart,
Then she’s burning down your home.
Oh, that girl, she’s bad for me.
She gives you that can’t sleep,
Can’t breathe,
Can’t eat kind of thing.
Does your conscience bother you,
Because I figured out the truth,
About the games you play.
You play kiss and tell,
And I heard from a friend that you, you like it that way.
And you don’t want to change.
He glares into the camera. He truly looks pissed, and I physically lean back like an intimidated little bitch, and then I remind myself of that thirty seconds and lean forward and glare at him.
Yep, I have completely and totally lost my ever-loving fucking mind.
Truth groans, “So hot.”
“He’s Brand, not Memphis Black.” I force a laugh.
“Yeah, he is.” She chuckles.
I decide it’s best to just shut up before she catches on that I really hate him. Like, really hate him as I try not to watch him sing … but I can’t look away.
Oh, that girl, she’s gasoline.
To the fire in her heart,
Then she’s burning down your home.
Oh, that girl, she’s bad for me.
She gives you that can’t sleep,
Can’t breathe,
Can’t eat kind of thing.
Oh, that girl, she’s gasoline.
To the fire in her heart,
Then she’s burning down your home.
Oh, that girl, she’s bad for me.
She gives you that can’t sleep,
Can’t breathe,
Can’t eat kind of thing.
Oh, that girl, she’s gasoline.
To the fire in her heart,
Then she’s burning down your home.
Oh, that girl, she’s bad for me.
She gives you that can’t sleep,
Can’t breathe,
Can’t eat kind of thing.
Oh, she’s gasoline.
Yeah, she’s gasoline.
Oh, that girl, she’s gasoline.
“Damn, that boy’s got moves,” Truth moans obnoxiously.
“Yeah, he sure does.”
“Oh my God, what is wrong with you? We’re happy for Brand, remember?”
“Yeah, of course, but all he did was dance, or whatever that boot scootin’ bullshit was. And, and it was only for all of, like, thirty seconds, and you’re giving him props?” Grrrr. “You dance your ass off for an entire song and actually know what you’re doing, and you’re damn good, Truth, so don’t oversell mediocre at best.”
“I love you, Kiki, and you’re good for my ego, but let’s be truthful. That was hot. And that song was, too. ‘Gasoline’ is my new favorite country song, possibly ever.”
“I love gasoline, too.” I’d like to douse him with some gas and drop a match on that asshole after the thirty seconds of … stupid that I someday hope to be able to laugh at, but three weeks later, I grow angrier and angrier.
“They’re announcing the Best Male Artist of the Year.”
I lean forward, feeling bad for him. He’s up against Luke Bryan, Eric Church, Kenny Chesney, and Thomas Rhett. Then again … fuck him.
I watch, trying my best not to root for him, but the little girl in me probably always will. I don’t even hear the winner announced over Truth’s piercing screaming then cheering, but it’s obvious.
When he comes out, he’s not even smiling like he was last year.
He thanks the fans, Xavier and Taelyn, his parents and family, and then he looks right at the camera. “This is the second time this month the stars have put on a show for me. Gonna promise you I’ll never stop thanking my lucky stars and reaching for the ones I’ve yet to catch.”
The crowd goes wild, and then he thrusts the award in the air, smiles, winks, does a shaka, and walks off stage where some tall, blonde goddess-like presenter hugs him, links her arm through his, and whispers something in his ear that makes him chuckle.
Thirty seconds, sister, enjoy, I think.
Nun Nonsense
November
Katherine
“Could you turn this shit off?” I groan to Max who’s riding shotgun and messing with the sound system.
“I legit like this one.” Max laughs but turns off the genius that is Brand Falcon’s newest number one hit, “Girls Go Bang.”
Gross.
“Can’t you time-hop back a couple years to when you couldn’t stand him?” I ask, pulling up to the local drive-thru coffee shop.
Max pushes down his shades and looks at me. “You liked him enough a couple months ago.”
“Like hell I did!” I huff.
“I call bullshit. You two were getting along just fine the day you stole my wave.”
“Stole?” I shake my head.
“Tell me that wasn’t the best thirty seconds of your life.” He pushes his shades back down and flops back.
“Best thirty seconds of that long weekend.” I laugh, mostly at myself.
I mean, who would have thought the artist, the ego that is Brand Falcon would basically be a two-pump chump?
I hate him. And, yes, I choose to fixate on the fact that he sucked over the fact that he came inside me then said my sister’s fucking name! Otherwise, I get way more emotional over the thirty seconds of regret it deserves.
“Can’t wait to go back there,” Max sighs then turns toward me. “You think we could get Dad to buy that place?”
I’d rather burn it to the damn ground, I think.
“No.”
“Why not? We do the shore thing twice a year; spend a shit load of money for a week at a beast-like house. Why not buy it and save bank?”
“We are a family of five—seven including Carter and Luna—and don’t need a nine-bedroom house, with a three-bedroom guest house.”
“I know,” he grumbles. “Just hate this fucking place, this dead-ass town, and the shitty school.”
“Just think, Max, you have less than three years to go now.”
“Sucks,” he sputters.
“No, what sucks is not starting school until you’re six and graduating at nineteen.”
“ The rest of us are gonna be stuck in suck without all of you.”
“The four of you will be just fine, Maximus.”
He huffs as I roll up to the window and order eight—yes eight—iced almond milk lattes.
Rolling up next to Justice’s Hummer, where they’re all waiting, I put my car in park and roll down the window to hand out the drinks.
“You’re late,” Justice says as he reaches for the carrier.
I pretend like I’m going to drop it, and he smirks, but only for a split-second.
“Don’t fuck with my caffeine.”
I hand it to him.
I step out of my car then reach into the back to grab my backpack as I yawn.
“Not getting enough sleep?” Truth asks.
“Apparently not.” I shrug and step back.
I start to shut the door when she stops me. “You’re gonna need the caffeine to stay awake through this boring-ass day then.” She reaches in and grabs my latte.
Taking it, I nod. “Thanks, T.”
“I got you.” She winks.
“Same, girl, same.”
Once inside, I watch as the girls still stand in the hall, not giving a shit if they’re late, just as long as they can check out the guys. Not that they’d get in trouble if they were. The nuns hate us.
“Judge not,” my ass.
I hear Truth laugh quietly and glance over at her.
She rolls her eyes. “Not one of them has a chance.”
“They’ve been there, done that.” I cringe.
“Seriously, these bitches think, once they’ve been on their knees for more than one of them, they have a chance for a repeat?”
“Don’t tell them that. They kiss our asses because they think they have a shot.”
“After all these years, you’d think they’d figure it out.” Truth laughs as she forces a fake smile and waves to a group of five who have all been there, done that.
“Heads-up,” Max says, and I glance toward him as he tosses me a breakfast burrito. I catch it.
“Want half?”
Truth shakes her head. “Ate already.” The bell rings. “You were late again.”
I shrug. “Story of my life.”
After walking into first period—religion class—I drop my bag beside my chair, having had no time to hit my locker. Then I unwrap the foil and take a bite.
As soon as it hits my stomach, a wave of nausea hits and my mouth fills with saliva.
“Fuck,” I moan as I get up and hurry toward the door.
“Miss Steel! Sit down,” Sister Mary-Margret snaps.
I don’t stop; I run for the door and hear her scream, “Miss Steel!”
“Here.” I hear Truth answer.
The room explodes in laughter and the sound of Sister Mary-Margret’s voice, mixed with the laughter of my classmates, fades as the nausea rolls to a boil inside of me.
Pushing through the door to the bathroom, I run to the sink just in time to throw up.
“Miss Steel!” I hear as the door swings open, and I throw up again.
I turn on the faucet and splash my face. Then I grab a paper towel from the dispenser and pat it dry.
Still trying to calm my stomach, I stand up and look at her.
“Next time, you need to ask for a pass,” she snaps.
As if God Himself is disgusted with her, I feel my stomach curl again, but this time, I don’t bother turning and hitting the sink. I throw up, right on her fucking shoes.
It only took Mom five minutes to get to the school, which meant she must have driven pretty damn fast, even though I told her I was fine and could drive.
“What are your symptoms?” she asks as she reaches across the SUV and feels my head.
“Not a fever.” I turn toward the window.
“Do you still feel sick to your tummy?”
I look at her and arch a brow.
She laughs silently to herself. “I mean, does your stomach still hurt?”
“Not bad. I think it was the breakfast burrito. Haven’t eaten meat in a while.”
“Since Labor Day weekend,” Mom says, thinking out loud.
“I think I’m just tired.”
“You’ve been sleeping quite a bit lately. Maybe we should see if Dr. Sheppard could see you? Run a few labs. Maybe your iron’s low or—”
“I’m good, Mom, really.”
“If you’re not feeling better tomorrow, then we’ll make an appointment,” she says with a bit of firmness to her voice.
I love my mom as a human being. She’s super smart, like, uncannily intelligent. I can’t help smiling when I think of the way Dad looks at her when she goes all nerd girl and starts spewing random facts about whatever topic we’re discussing. But that’s where all logic ends; otherwise, she’s a hundred percent quirky, snuggly, and totally … Mom.
When the phone rings and Dad’s name shows on the dash display screen, she smiles and hits the control on the steering wheel.
“Hey,” she answers.
“Hey, baby, how’s our girl?”
“She’s—”
“I’m fine,” I cut her off. “Just a little off. No need to worry or book an OR.”
“Should I have Thomas reschedule your conference call with—”
“No need. I can connect at home.” She nods once, like he can see her.
“If Katy needs—”
“She’s fine. Her skin isn’t pale, she’s not clammy, no fever. My guess is she’s running a perfect ninety-eight point—”
“Carly,” Dad says on a sigh, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Rambling, I know. But you don’t need to question—”
“I know, baby. Should I grab Katy’s car after—”
“Truth is gonna drive Max home in it. She rode with Justice.”
Dad chuckles. “You all got it covered, huh?”
“Always do.”
Dad huffs, “Fine. Love you, C. Love you, Katy. See you at five. Send me a text if you need anything from the store.”
Lying in bed, bored, I look around my room. If I turn on the television, I’ll get sucked into re-watching Stranger Things. If I open up the TikTok app, IG, Snapchat, or any other social media app, I’m bound to see … him, even though I blocked his ass after a ridiculous amount of messages on social media, and then on my phone when someone gave him my phone number.
Yep, I’m badass like that.
But I’m also an idiot who periodically unblocks one Brand Falcon to see if there are any new messages, apologies for blowing it too soon, or pleas to just message back.
He also drunk video messaged me on the one month blow-a-versary. It started when he sighed then flopped back on what I assume was the sofa in the big black tour bus with gold wings.
“You’ve been after me since we were kids; didn’t hide shit from anyone about how you felt. Not one person. Now you’ve had me, and you avoid me? That’s fucked up, Katherine Steel. Not at all the girl I’ve known most of my fucked-up life. So, here’s what’s gonna happen, you can go fuck yourself.”
I typed a message:
Probably last more than thirty seconds, stud.
That was the only video message I received.
My finger hovers over unblock, wanting to see where he is, if he’s sent another message.
Thirsty bitch, I scold myself.
It’s infuriating, maddening, fucking disgusting that I even give him a second thought when …
A) He totally ruined the fantasy.
And, B) He said my sister’s name when he blew.
I toss the phone on the bed and wrap myself up, willing myself to fall asleep.
I feel my bed buckle then a hand on my forehead.
Dad.
I cautiously open my eyes, not wanting the sun to blind me.
When I open them, he narrows his eyes. “You good, Katy girl?”
My stomach rolls again when I start to sit up, so I decide against it.
“I’m good, just tired, and a little nauseous still.”
“Mom thinks your iron might be low. Gonna grill some steaks tonight; you think you can handle that?”
“Not sure,” I admit.
“If you’re gonna follow in her footsteps and do the vegetarian thing, you gotta make sure you’re eating enough protein, Katy girl.”
My stomach rolls again, but this time at the thought of that nickname. Dad’s the only one who’s ever called me that until him.
“Hey, Katy,” Mom says as she walk
s in, carrying a tray. “I made you a spinach and egg salad. High protein, no dressing, so it’s bland, and some sweet potato fries, if your tummy can handle it.” She sets the tray on the bed beside me. “I also made that three-bean salad you love. Beans have a lot of protein.”
Dad runs his hand through his hair, and I suspect they’ve “discussed” my meat consumption, and Mom is overcompensating for something that’s not her fault, not at all. Dad knows it, and he obviously feels bad.
“Hope you made extra; I love your bean, Carly.”
I watch her jaw drop and realization kicks me in the stomach.
“Move.” I push Dad off the bed as I run to my bathroom where I crouch over the toilet and pull my hair back, vaguely hearing Mom scolding Dad in a harsh whisper as she hurries toward the bathroom.
“Katherine, I’m so—”
I throw up.
“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry,” Mom says, running water over one of my new violet washcloths.
I sit back and lean against the tub. “It’s okay.”
“Bath.” She reaches over and turns on the water. “I’ll make some dry toast, and then bed until you feel better.”
Dad leans in the doorway. “I’ll grab it. Take care of our girl.”
“Take the tray down, grab some Gatorade, Tylenol, and a thermometer.”
“No problem,” he says as he walks away.
“I think it’s the stomach bug,” Mom says as she feels my forehead. “Looks like you and I will be home a few days.”
“Gotta go back Wednesday. I have three tests, Mom. Big tests.”
“We’ll see.”
This Can’t Be My Life
Wednesday
Katherine
I spent all of Tuesday in bed, doing exactly what I said I wouldn’t. App by app, I unblocked Brand Falcon on all social platforms and reread all his messages. I looked through all his posts. None are selfies, just ones his PR has taken of him on stage and during interviews.