I dig more pots out of the box and put them in their desired location. After finishing, I move onto the next, relishing the work in silence. Jenna doesn’t try to say anything else. She slips off at some point to stay unpacking her things, too.
That’s why I love Jenna. She knows when enough is enough and doesn’t insist on pushing things when you’re not comfortable. There’s a line in the sand, and she respects that.
I just have my doubts that Hunter will do the same.
Actually, I know Hunter won’t respect it. He’s never respected anything in his life.
“Let’s just get our stuff unpacked, then we’ll order in and watch some Criminal Minds!”
Jenna whoops from inside her bedroom, making me smile. “That’s my girl!”
CHAPTER 6
My mind is everywhere on my way out of town. On Cass and her clingy ways. On my boys that I’m supposed to meet up with for a few drinks tonight. And lastly, on the ghost who’s made herself corporal once more.
Did she really think coming back here was going to be as easy as snapping her fingers? Fuck no. This is my town, and I own the people in it. Not her. She gave up that right the moment she left town at my behest. So, fuck her. Fuck the reason she came back here.
Just fuck every God-blessed thing that involves her.
I slam on my brakes, my car nearly sideswiping my brother’s. A smile drifts over my lips when I catch that it’s Owen’s. Shoulda ran right into the motherfucker, I nastily think to myself, shoving my car in park and stepping out. Just for good measure, I stick my key between my fingers and make a lovely engraving of a giant hairy dick with a question mark. He’ll know what it means and who did this, but he won’t do shit about it—fucking pussy.
My feet slap against the pavement as I make my way toward the front door, climbing the steps two at a time.
Earlier, I didn’t get a chance to grab my things. Cassandra had called, inviting me over to her place for a little some-some before we had to be at GOU. Let’s say it took a little longer than planned, and I couldn’t come back for my shit.
Thus, here I am, stepping back into the devil’s den.
Pushing the door open, I slam it behind me and make my way toward the kitchen. When I step through the archway, I come to a complete stop, narrowing my eyes out of habit.
Owen steps back from the fridge, lifting his head. Once he sees it’s me, he rolls his eyes and grabs a Gatorade. Claiming his usual spot against the island, he twists off the cap and takes a huge drink, never once taking his eyes off me.
“Got a staring problem,” I retort in a no-nonsense tone.
For several seconds, he stands in silence, watching me. Then, all of a sudden, he gets pissed off and slams the Gatorade down onto the counter beside him, causing the contents to splash out onto his hand, which he ignores. His fiery attitude is set on me, and I’ve been spoiling for a fight.
“Are you ever going to get over that, Hunt?” he asks, exasperation lingering in his tone. “Fuck, man, it’s been three years already. You got your justice, now give it a rest. She—” He sputters to a stop, seeing the cold, hard look on my face.
Three years? Like that’s enough time to get over a betrayal as deeply engrained as the one he committed. He hasn’t seen justice yet.
Quirking a brow, I regard him with a serious expression. I’d love nothing more than to wring his neck, but dear mother would never approve of her babies fighting. It doesn’t mean I’m not still pissed off, though. And he’d do well to remember—just because I’m younger doesn’t mean I’m weaker.
“Say it, O,” I challenge, widening my stance as my fists clench by my sides. “I. Dare. You.”
The last time we went at each other, my older brother, Owen, packed around a black eye for a solid two weeks. It was dark and garish looking, never once turned into a putrid yellowish-green, and the girls in Golden Oaks wouldn’t even come close enough to sniff around his junk.
News travels fast in a place like Golden Oaks, so by lunchtime, after he’d told me what had happened, everyone freaking knew the events that happened surrounding my and Harloe’s elusive breakup.
No one would give him the time of day, let alone jump in the sack with him. He ribbed me about it for weeks about it and tends to bring it up every now and then now like he’s trying to play on my conscience.
News flash: you have to give a shit before you can have a conscience.
Plus … fuck him. He deserves a hell of a lot more than what I gave him.
A commotion down the hall captures our attention. Our youngest brother waltzes into the kitchen with a cigarette stuck between his teeth—well, a marijuana cigarette—and nearly rips the fridge door off its hinges. “What’s good, motherfuckers?”
“Mom will shit kittens if she sees you smoking, let alone doing it in the house.” Owen dismisses me altogether. Good. Wasting my time on a piece of shit wasn’t exactly in my plans for the day.
There’s a reason for that, too. Owen dropped our conversation like a hot potato because he knows how fucked I get over the topic. He knows nothing good will ever come of opening that can of worms again.
We may tease around the edges, possibly flirt with the idea of more.
Hell, we may even get off within spitting distance.
But we never, ever flick that lid all the way open. That shit is like Pandora’s fucking box, and we all know what happened there.
Complete and total chaos.
Emmerson’s lips tug up at the sides as he flashes us both a mischievous look. “All the more reason to do it.”
There’s something about Emmerson that most people don’t know. Actually, I’m almost certain no one—except little con, of course—knows about.
Emmerson isn’t really our blood brother. I know, I know—how can he be a Prince, right? Well, long story short, our aunt—mother’s side—had a little accident and went to heaven. She’d been trying to get clean for a while, and nothing was doing the trick. Not even the thousands of dollars my dad wasted trying to get her sober, it just never took. After her death, Emmerson’s biological dad didn’t want him. Said he didn’t need the reminder that his love—the woman he cheated on every chance he got, so obviously, she must be his true love—was no longer here, and he couldn’t bear looking at the child they made together. And the rest, as they say, is history.
We got a new brother, and Emmerson was surrounded by people that love him. But, on the other hand, he has his genetics—he loves pissing our mom off, just like his mom did.
Shaking my head, I push off the wall and start toward my room. “Rebellion isn’t your style, Emmer.”
I hear him squawk behind me, probably about to say something stupid, and it causes a chuckle to fall from my lips as I climb the stairs. It’s never boring when Emmerson is around, I’ll tell you that. He’s the life of the party. Even with the starting of his life being as ominous and dreary as it was, he never let that get him down. He’s a true survivor in all aspects of the word.
When I get to the top of the steps, I heave out a sigh and make my way to my room. Shoving open the door, I slam it with a jerk and cringe at the mess laying in front of me. All over the room, there are clothes, dirty and clean, strewn across any available surface.
Usually, I’m a neat freak—a person in need of control in all things that matter in his life. But since I’ve been spending most of my time this summer either getting high, drunk, or lost between Cassandra’s thighs—sometimes, all three—I haven’t been home much. Maybe to shower, and then toss on some new clothes before I’m gone again.
Moving. Nonstop. That’s what I’ve been doing. And I can’t put it on pause or bring myself to try. Distraction is what I’ve needed since sophomore year, and while I’ve been doing a surprisingly good job up until now, something tells me that nothing will be able to be enough again. Especially if she decides to stay at Golden Oaks Uni.
No. She can’t stay. Don’t give a damn what her situation is, she needs to leave. Stay gone jus
t how she has for the last three years.
Yes, I may have pushed her to leave by my actions, but in hindsight, she shattered me first. While it may have been petty to retaliate the way I did, I couldn’t let her know her actions broke me as tremendously as they did.
I’m a hollow shell filled with rage and hurt, and she’s the motivation for my beautiful façade.
Fake, flirty, and profoundly fucked up.
That’s exactly what I am, and the game I have to play in order to survive without hurting.
Harloe will never see underneath the hatred. She will never know that, while she was within arm’s length today, my very cracked soul bled as it yearned to be pieced back together by the one who hurt it the most. That I thought about what she’d feel like pressed up against me with her luscious new curves as I wrapped her thick, wavy locks around my fist.
Seeing her for the first time after three years nearly unmanned me. Harloe has been the only girl to evoke such raw, animalistic feelings. No other girl could ever compare to her. Not even the girl who’s been under me, in more ways than one, since that night.
I lost myself a long time ago, and never really wanted to find my way back. Harloe was my guide, my anchor, and for the past three years, I’ve been drifting around in a sea of lust, confusion, and a deep-seated need to make her pay for her actions.
Closing my eyes tightly, I can’t help it when the fake, conjured images reappear behind my eyelids. For every image, a knife pierces my black heart. Over and over, I do this to remind myself that nothing is perfect. No person is ever exempt from betrayal.
A knock at my door pulls me from my reverie. Turning, I watch as Emmerson opens the door, taking one look at me, then steps inside and shuts the door behind him. He shakes his head sadly while leaning back against the door.
“Even after all this time, you can’t let that girl go.”
“Stuff it, Emmer,” I growl out, then resume what I came in here to do.
Trudging my way toward the closet, I toss the doors open and grab my duffel. It’s not like I need anything since I can travel back and forth on the weekends. Just some clothes, my school supplies, and a little of this and that, then I’ll be golden to get the fuck out of this house and away from the ghosts that haunt me.
“Bro, we’ve been over this a thousand times. She was playing you. She played the family. After what she did, you shouldn’t want anything to do with her.”
I shake my head, grunting, “I don’t.”
Grabbing a pair of jeans I haven’t seen in years, I tug them toward me. But something else falls out and drops to the ground, causing me to stop. My brow furrows as I toss the jeans in my bag and then bend down to retrieve the fallen object. Upon closer inspection, my blood runs cold.
The small, threadbare bracelet practically melts in my hands when I run my fingers over the strands. It’s the same homeless-looking bracelet that she made me our ninth-grade year—for our first anniversary because she had no money to buy me a present. I remember telling her that all I wanted was her and I’d be the happiest man alive. But she came carrying a bracelet with five beads on it.
Our initials with a heart between them.
Unbidden memories rise to the forefront of my thoughts.
“You will never be able to move forward if you are constantly reminded of the past,” he informs me in a no-nonsense tone. “Stop being bitter and let it go.”
At his words, I swallow my laugh of frustration. Giving him a look, I say, “Hard to do when I’ll see her every day.”
“What?”
I lick my lips, throwing the bracelet back into the depths of the abyss. “Yeah. Guess who’s back, little brother?”
His head thumps back against the door as a short bark of laughter falls from his lips. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Wish I was,” I say with a shake of my head, hurriedly grabbing what I need and zipping the back up. “Saw her this afternoon before orientation. She’s going to Golden Oaks, too.”
We’re both silent for a moment before he says, “Who the hell did you piss off to get such shitty luck?”
No clue, but someone is clearly getting a kick out of my life.
I shake my head, gathering my laptop and all my school supplies. “Don’t know, but I’m through letting her rule my life. You’re right. I need to let it go.”
“Sure enough.” He gives me a quick head jerk, and I know what he’s indicating.
Walking back to my closet, I quickly find the bracelet. It’s old and worn from being too freaking old for its own good. But instead of thinking about what it stands for, I see it as nothing more than just another lie she plied me with.
Emmerson leaves the room at the same time I throw it, and all the memories connected to it, into the trash can. He’s right. I can’t move forward if I continue to stray to the past. Cassandra isn’t such a bad person—a little territorial, but she’s not too bad. She’s been with me ever since that night, and she has single-handedly built me up into the man I am today.
Through sex and distractions, but she’s been there for me when no one else was.
Instead of being a dick, maybe I should give her a shot. Not at my heart, but maybe with something I can offer her that she’s been jonesing for. Exclusivity.
All these years, Cassandra has been my main squeeze. However, that doesn’t mean I haven’t dipped my dick elsewhere, either. I did who I wanted when I wanted and didn’t think of consequences because they were beneath me.
Now, I don’t think I will anymore. Cassandra has earned it, putting up with my mood swings and arrogance all these years. She’s never fought back and allowed me to come to her at my own pace. She is what I need, and what I’ve been bucking up against.
Well, no more. I’m going to give Cass a shot, all the while I chase my past right back out of town.
CHAPTER 7
“Mommy, four weeks is one-hundred-twenty-two days!” Maverick howls in my ear. He’s not the only one getting antsy not being able to see the other. “That’s a lot!”
Goodness, his speech, and comprehension of the English language have come a long way, even since I left him with my dad and Duncan. He’s speaking as if he’s nearly four, instead of just a few weeks after turning two.
“I think you mean months, baby boy,” I quip, smiling to myself.
“Months,” he inserts, sounding adorably confused. “What’s months?”
“Months are what comes after weeks. It starts with minutes—remember? Minutes are linked to …” I start singing, knowing he’ll pick up on the tune of our made-up song. It sounds coincidentally like The Skeleton Dance.
“Oh!” he squeals. “I know this song. The minutes are linked to the hours. The hours are linked to the days. The days are linked to the weeks. And the weeks connects us to months.”
I laugh, beside myself with how sharp and clear his words are. There’s no lisp in sight, not like there was when he said his first word at nearly seven months old.
“Yes, baby boy, that’s it! Then, lastly—months link us to years.”
It’s always so good to hear his voice. Even if I’m having the hardest time, one little “I love you, Mommy” makes everything all better. There’s just something so infectious about being near a child, especially your own. They just suck up all the gloom from your life and leave it bright and cheerful.
“I love you, Mav,” I whisper, tears burning my eyes from missing him so much.
“I love you, too, Mommy!” he croons, giggling. “Gotta go. Poppy’s takin’ me fishin’.”
After saying our goodbyes, I allow myself a good, long cry. Not having Maverick here is akin to breathing without oxygen. You go through the movements, but you get nothing from it.
Still, no matter how hard this is, I am going through with it for a reason. Mine and Mav’s future are all that matter to me, and I don’t care if I have to wade through Hell’s lake of fire, I’m going to make my little boy proud to call me his mom.
Wiping my eyes,
I take a deep, calming breath, then toss back my covers. I run my fingers through my bedhead and push to a stand, immediately remaking my bed. No sense in putting something off that can be done right now.
Dropping my cell to my bedside stand, I take off toward the closet and grab my things to take a shower and get ready for the day. I open the doors, my eyes trailing over the various outfits. Like what I’ve done with Maverick—putting an outfit together on the hangers when putting our clothes up—I’ve adopted the same technique to save on time.
My eyes land on a burgundy maxi dress with a soft white sweater. Swear it was cashmere, but I’m too poor to afford anything like that. Both items are thrift shop finds, and I love the way they fit.
Comfortable. That’s what I want my first day of classes to entail. I’m not going to go out of my way to impress anyone. My only focus is making the grades, getting my son here with me, and then graduating with honors. I’ve no time for distractions.
Even though there’s a large one probably walking around campus right now.
Pushing him out of my head, I grab my items, get a comfortable underwear set, and take off toward the living room. I grasp the handle and pull open the door. The second I step out and look up from my feet, I drop everything in my hands and slap my hands over my face.
“What the fuck, Jenna?!”
“What—like you haven’t walked around naked before,” she counters with a grunt. “Not a morning person but needed a shower. Forgot my clothes but too lazy to turn ‘round and get ‘em.”
“You couldn’t use your towel to cover up?” Surely, she remembered she actually dries off with something that can be used for coverage. Right?
“This is all you’re getting outta me, and I’m not even sorry.” Then I hear her bedroom door slam behind her, which is the only time I allow myself to chance a look around the apartment again.
My cheeks burn as I laugh to myself, bending over and gathering my clothes again. I get about halfway bent over when her door opens once more. Sighing, I peer back up at her because surely, she put some more clothes on.
Our Secret: A College Bully Romance (Golden Crew Book 1) Page 7