“May and Rick are tackling the kid’s playroom while we’ve been left in charge of the main room,” Brad offers up, when he spots me lurking in the doorway.
“Cool.” Walking to him, I curl my hand around his biceps, pulling him clear across the room. “If we’re to make any progress, you two need to separate. There’s more paint on you than on the walls.” I grin, running my finger through the streak of blue paint smeared across his cheek. “You tackle that one.” I point at the peeling expanse at the side of the café area. “Ky can stay where he is, and I’ll paint the area around the desk.”
“Bossy much?” Brad teases, slapping his brush against the wall.
“You’ve no idea,” Ky retorts.
“Get over yourself. I am not!” I stick my tongue out at him as I bend down to open the lid on the white paint pot.
My instincts kick in a fraction too late, and I jerk to the side just as Ky’s hand glances off my butt. I jump up and attempt to rugby tackle him to the ground. He’s laughing as he grabs my waist, swinging me around and pinning my back to his front. He holds me firmly, even as I wriggle relentlessly to free myself. “Now, now, Faye. That’s no way for a Kennedy lady to act.” His mocking has a definite flirtatious edge to it.
Angling my arm, I thrust it back, digging my elbow into his ribs. He grunts, staggering back with a half-laugh. “I never claimed to be a lady.”
His boisterous laugh is like music to my ears, and I have to stuff my hands in my pockets to avoid flinging myself at him.
Brad clears his throat. “Are you two … together?”
Ky and I stare at one another as Brad articulates the question of the century. All the air rushes from my lungs as I wait for Ky’s response. He locks a hand behind his head as his gaze alternates from me to Brad. With every passing silent second, that swirling kernel inside me loses a little enthusiasm. I’m sure it shows on my face.
Kyler’s arms sweep around me unexpectedly, and he hauls me against his delectable body. “She’s mine,” he snarls, treating Brad to one of his death-glare specials.
No doubt, feminist movements up and down the country would be aghast at his possessive statement, but I’m practically swooning at his feet. This is significant, for all it implies.
“But you’re cousins.” Brad’s face shows his discomfort. “Doesn’t it feel … gross?”
Kyler stiffens. “We’re not doing anything wrong.” His tone is glacial. “And it’s anything but gross, I can assure you.”
Brad’s mouth puckers unpleasantly as his gaze bounces between us. “That’s not the way most people will see it.”
“We don’t care what people think of us. It’s none of their business,” I interject.
“You say that now, but will you still feel that way when you’re fending off hostile looks and innuendos? Dealing with abuse and snide remarks on an hourly basis?”
“We can handle ourselves, and if you won’t support us, you can keep your petty opinions to yourself,” Ky bites back.
Ky jams the car in gear and swings out of the track. Brad left before us, the air heavy with a multitude of things left unsaid. My earlier euphoria has frayed at the edges, and now I’m wondering if Ky regrets his “She’s mine” statement. I don’t want to come between him and Brad, not when they’ve just gotten their friendship back on track.
As much as I’d like some assurance with regards to our relationship, there’s also a part of me that’s terrified to confront it head-on. Addison damaged Ky’s trust in girls, and if he commits to me, I need to know that it’s because he’s in the right headspace and not because he feels backed into a corner. I was serious when I told him he needed to find himself. Would he have declared his intent if Brad hadn’t called him out on it? Does he wish he could take it back? And, more importantly, is he prepared for the backlash if we go public?
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t feeling a little sore at Brad’s reaction. I’d assumed he, of all people, would’ve shown more empathy. If his reaction is typical, I guess it’s going to be harder than I’d envisaged.
We are completely silent on the journey back home, both mulling things over. Except this time, the silence is loaded with unspent words, and the atmosphere is tense.
When Ky parks, I curl my fingers around the handle of the door, ready to leave this hotbed of simmering tension behind.
“Faye. Wait a minute.” He unbuckles his seat belt and rests his head back on the leather seat. “Look.” He flips his head to the side. “About what Brad said. What I said.” He pauses, clearly unsure of himself, and I throw him a lifeline.
“It’s fine, Ky. Honestly. You don’t need to explain yourself or us. I’m happy with things as they are, and there’s no need to make anything formal or official.”
Deep lines furrow his brow. He lifts his head off the headrest. “You mean that?”
“Yup.” I jump out of the car, holding the door open. “It’s cool. We’re cool. Don’t sweat it.”
“Sweet.” He exits the car, slamming his door shut with more force than necessary. “Glad we’re on the same page,” he snarls, stalking into the house as if I’ve just offended him in the worst possible way.
He fails to make an appearance in my room that night.
And the next morning, Kalvin is waiting to drive me to school.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“Are you pissed with me?” Brad asks, lounging against my locker when I arrive.
I slam the door shut, narrowly avoiding his fingers. “Why would you think that?” I lay the sarcasm on thick.
“Okaaayy.” He pushes off the locker. “I’m going to hazard a wild guess and say that’s a yes.”
I clutch my books to my chest as Brad falls into step beside me. “I wish you hadn’t said anything yesterday.”
He takes hold of my arm and turns me to face him. “I’ve known Ky virtually my whole life, and I can tell when he’s messed up, but my intention wasn’t to cause any issues between you, I swear.”
“You think he’s messed up over me?” I spot a few inquisitive gazes as others are forced to walk around us.
“Ky has to sort out his shit before you should even contemplate anything official. He cares about you, I can tell, and I see the way you look at him. You care about him too. But you both need to be solid to deal with the prejudice.”
“And you think I don’t know that?!” I hiss.
Brad stops outside my class. “Knowing and dealing are two very different things. Are you prepared to be called an inbred, a hillbilly, sick, depraved, a weirdo?”
“Is that what you think?”
“I don’t know what to think, to be honest.” He swallows hard. “I can’t quite wrap my head around it.”
I clutch the door handle. “I expected more understanding from you.”
He winces. “I’ll try.”
I eyeball him with the door half-open. “For Ky’s sake, I hope you do.”
Lana is off school sick today and Rose is working on some project, so I avoid the cafeteria at lunchtime, not wanting any further confrontation with Brad.
At the end of the school day, I head to the pool with Rose for my try out. Coach puts everyone through their paces, wanting to gauge my performance against the team. After, he asks me to stay behind for a little while so he can time my individual lengths. When he finally blows his whistle, I leave the pool with aching limbs, happy in the knowledge that I’ve secured my place.
That exhilarating feeling lasts about 10.5 seconds, or however long it takes me to reach the empty locker room. I search high and low, but my clothes are long gone, along with my towel and sneakers. I hadn’t the foresight to stow spares, and considering my cell phone is out of charge, my bag offers little in the way of a solution. I fiddle the locks on all the other lockers, hoping to find one open and praying it contains something I can use. But it’s a null score on both counts.
My eyes flit to the clock over the door, and I jump up, anxious to catch Brad. Football practice ended ten minutes ago, and I’m hoping he hasn’t left yet. While I’m still a bit sore with him, he’s currently looking like my only option. I don’t relish the thought of rocking up to the boys’ locker room in my swimsuit, but it’s preferable than having to navigate the parking lot in the same attire.
I edge out into the corridor, my feet squelching off the shiny floor. Loud applause mixes with girlish giggling behind me, and I take a deep breath before I turn and face the mob. Cameras flash in my face, and bile rises up my throat. “I see your sense of fashion hasn’t improved,” Peyton drawls, sauntering toward me in her finest hooker gear. She eyes me with disgust. “What a boring suit.”
“What did you do with my clothes?” I ask as one of her cronies approaches, holding her cell aloft, clearly recording the proceedings. “Turn that thing off.” Hell will freeze over before I’ll allow any other scandalous pics to become fodder for gossip or grounds for bullying.
“Or what?” Peyton challenges, projecting superiority.
“Or I’ll do it for you.” I eyeball the girl with the cell. She sends me a simpering look and that gets my back up. I dart forward super-fast and pluck the offending phone from her hand.
“Hey, that’s my …”
She trails off as I throw the offensive cell at the wall, watching it smash into smithereens.
The girl shrieks as Peyton steps into my face. “You really shouldn’t have done that.”
“Do I look like I give a crap?”
A few other idiots are recording from the sidelines. Pushing Peyton out of my way—none too politely—I make a beeline for them. Two of the girls turn on their heels and make a dash for it, but the third squares up to me, tossing her long hair defiantly over her shoulder. “Delete the recording and I’ll leave your cell alone.”
“Screw you, bitch.”
Making a fist, I clock her right on the nose. She staggers back, screaming, dropping the phone in the process. It clatters noisily to the ground, breaking apart on contact.
My work here is done.
A sharp tug on my hair causes me to wince out loud. Peyton yanks fistfuls of my hair and starts dragging me back across the corridor. I struggle to maintain my balance from this position. Shoving my elbow back, I repeatedly thrust into her stomach, but it lacks substance. She doesn’t release me, but it slows her down, and I use that to my advantage. Ignoring the agonizing pull on my hair, I twist around and shove my clenched fist in her face, hitting the side of her jaw with one powerful right jab.
She staggers back, shrieking as she cradles her chin in her hands. Fire burns in her eyes as she kicks her heels off, both shoes flying into the air as she storms toward me. Straightening up, I wiggle my fingers at her. “Bring it.”
She charges at me like a bull, and it isn’t difficult to slip sideways, out of her way. Before she knows what’s happening, I thrust my foot in her back, and she is thrown forward, her face slapping painfully against a locker. When she turns to face me, a trickle of blood seeps out of her nose. Her eyes are wild and out of control as she lunges at me. Screeching, she knocks both of us to the ground. My head smacks off the cold tile, and stars form a dizzy layer over my eyes.
Her hands lock around my throat as she straddles me. Approaching footsteps pick up pace as I arch my body, bucking up and down, flipping her off. Loud masculine shouts ring out around me, but I can see nothing, hear nothing, over the puissant anger coating my insides in liquid fury. I jump up and pounce on her, raining my fists on her face. She reaches up, dragging her claw-like nails across my cheek, ripping skin and unleashing a steady stream of blood. Momentarily distracted, I lose the upper hand. She lifts her head, slamming it into mine, and I fall back, completely dazed. My head is spinning, and shards of pain dance around my skull.
Strong arms lift me up. At the same time, Lance hauls Peyton off the ground, wrapping his bulky arms around her waist to restrain her thrashing form. She’s spitting vitriol and bucking violently in his arms, screaming blue murder.
I wriggle in Brad’s arms. “Stop, Faye,” he whispers in my ear. “Let it go.”
As he drags his demonic girlfriend out, Lance snarls something over his shoulder at Brad.
Peyton’s posse splits up. Some follow her outside while the remaining girls try to look casual as they ogle the football players surrounding me. “You’re shivering,” Brad acknowledges, whipping his shirt off without request. He slips it down over my body, and I’m grateful for the cover. A few of the girls salivate at the sight of his naked upper torso, but he pays them no heed, delving into his bag and retrieving a spare shirt which he wastes no time in putting on. Audible grunts of complaint surround us, and it’s hard to contain my mirth. Adrenaline still courses through my veins, and I’m feeling wired. It’s a strange, jittery, alien feeling.
A warm, soft towel is wrapped around me, and Brad tucks me in under his arm. “Thanks, guys. I’ve got it from here.” I ignore the interested looks from some of the boys and keep my head down as Brad steers me out of the building.
I pull myself into the car, shuddering under the towel.
“She took your stuff?” Brad guesses, sliding the keycard into the slot. The SUV powers up smoothly.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Now that my adrenaline rush is dissipating, I just want to get the hell out of here. I’m more shaken than I’d like to admit.
When we move out onto the road, he reaches over and hands me a wad of tissues. “You okay?”
I exhale deeply, telling myself to pull it together. I’m not the same girl I used to be, and this isn’t the same situation. I can handle Peyton. Even if this situation develops, it won’t be like before. Because I have Brad, Rose, and Lana, and even though I’ve only known them a short while, I know deep down that I can rely on them.
They won’t abandon me.
It won’t be like before.
That acknowledgment calms the remaining embers of my frustration. “I’m okay. Thank you—for the shirt and getting me out of there.”
“No sweat. I’ll drop you home and go back for your bag, and I’ll find out what she did with your clothes, too.”
“Thanks, but I’m more concerned with the video footage and what she plans to do with it. She’s welcome to the clothes.” I dab at my cheeks, examining the blood-speckled tissue.
He takes his eyes off the road for a split second. “I’ll sort it. Don’t worry.”
Despite our differences of opinion over my relationship with Ky, I am glad that it doesn’t appear to have affected our friendship. It gives me hope that the three of us can work through stuff.
Ky is speeding up the driveway just ahead of us. He swings the car in front of the house, hopping out and running toward Brad’s SUV. Ky yanks my door open, and his strong hands grasp my hips, lifting me out of the car. He cradles me in his arms. “Are you okay?” Gently, he touches my injured cheek.
“If it’s any consolation, Peyton’s nose was gushing blood,” Brad says. “Faye gave as good as she got.”
“This isn’t fucking funny,” Ky seethes. “She could’ve been seriously injured. Peyton is a dangerous bitch. Imagine Addison without the privileges of wealth and esteem, and that’s exactly what you’re dealing with.”
“Gutter Barbie,” I murmur, and Brad nearly chokes on his laughter.
Ky carries me up the steps and opens the front door.
I wriggle in his arms. “Put me down.”
“Let me take care of you for once,” Ky implores, although it’s less of a request and more of a demand.
“Remember our surroundings. We have to keep up
appearances.”
With great reluctance, he puts me down. I don’t want to face any of my other cousins looking like this, so I head straight for my room. Brad and Ky talk in hushed voices as they trail me. I push into my room, leaving the main door open as I slip into the bathroom and start the shower.
Both boys are sitting on the edge of my bed looking up at me when I emerge a couple of minutes later wrapped in a towel. “What?” I send them a suspicious look.
“Brad has an idea worth considering.” Ky looks miserable as sin.
My eyes flit to Brad’s.
“I can pretend to be your boyfriend. If you like,” he adds urgently when he spots my wide-eyed look, “and then Peyton will lay off, or Lance will have grounds for convincing her to lay off. There’s an unspoken rule amongst players—we don’t mess with our own. And it means you could keep your relationship under wraps.”
I’m not sure I like the sound of that. “Why would you do that when you don’t approve in the first place?”
Brad looks sheepish. “You are still my friends, and I want to help.”
“You’re into this?” I ask Ky.
“If it means we can be together without any drama, and that you’ll be safe, then yeah.”
Disappointment flares up at the realization that Ky would rather keep me as his dirty little secret than face up to our dissenters. That’s not who I thought he was. And I don’t know if that’s what I want either.
I instantly disguise my reaction, not wanting either boy to sense how much this upsets me. “How would that work in practice? Will we have to kiss and act all lovey-dovey in public?”
“Like fuck you will.” Kyler’s jaw is working overtime, popping in and out.
Brad tries, and fails, to hide his grin. “We can work around it, but the odd make-out sesh might be in order.”
I swat at his head but he ducks down in time. “Knock it off.”
Kyler looks like he’s about to go all ninja on Brad’s butt, and that goes some way toward appeasing my aching heart.
Finding Kyler (The Kennedy Boys #1) Page 30