by Angel Lawson
“Partying late this week, I assume.” Her gaze shifts past me to Dimitri. “Oh Dimitri, you’re looking as handsome as ever. How’s the music?”
“Mrs. Mercer,” Dimitri greets, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “Everything’s going well. My classes are a bit more complicated this year, but I think I had a bit of a breakthrough last night.” His lips curve into a grin. Despite our little spat, I find that it’s actually quite nice to see him smile, especially knowing that my lesson had something to do with it.
Mrs. Mercer pats him on the shoulder, her gold bangles clicking together. “Pushing through an artistic block is part of the process. I know the program is very challenging. Tristian’s father gives generously to the music school every year.”
“Mother,” Tristian says, placing a hand on my lower back. “I’m sure you remember Killian’s stepsister, Story.”
She finally settles her gaze on me. “Oh, Story! Yes, I’d heard you were back in town. I figured you might be another one of Tristian’s…friends.”
Her smile is pleasant but tight, and I can’t help but shift uneasily as she assesses my outfit. No one told me we were going to a fancy suite. If they had, I probably would have chosen something a little more dressy and a little less bleacher-friendly. “I’ve actually invited your mother and Daniel to the box today. I didn’t realize you’d be available, or I would have extended an invitation personally, of course.”
“Oh really?” I ask, fighting down a wince at the thought of seeing my mom. My mom and Daniel. This box is a certifiable circle of hell. “I haven’t had much of a chance to see them since I got back.”
“That’s right. You spent some time…away, didn’t you?”
“Boarding school,” I explain, but her tone makes me wonder if she knows about my disappearing act, too. The suspicious way she keeps looking at me makes me uneasy.
“It’s about time for kickoff,” Tristian says, hand pressing into my lower back. “I’m going to get a drink before the game starts. Anyone want something?”
“Count me in,” Dimitri says, heading to the bar.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Mercer,” I say, ready to make my escape.
“Same, dear.” She spins off, scarf fluttering behind her, and joins some other women her age.
When I catch up to the guys at the bar, Tristian shoves a glass in my hand. “Drink this.”
“Why?”
“Because you look one step past freaking out.”
“Why would I freak out?” I ask in a whisper, inspecting the brown liquid. “Because I almost ran into someone who probably still has naked pictures of me as a teenager? Or because I just got ambushed by your mom, who probably thought I was one of the tacky whores you sleep around with, but then realized I’m just Killian’s fucked-up little sister?” I toss the glass back, letting the cool liquor coat my throat in one big swallow. “Or is it the fact my mom and stepfather are coming, and I have no idea how to be your Lady in front of them?”
“Chill out, Sweet Cherry,” Dimitri says. “We’re not animals. We can behave in polite society.”
Maybe they can, but I’m not sure I’m able to. What I do in that house, with these guys…it’s something I’ve had to compartmentalize while I focus on staying safe. But around all these other people, I keep thinking about what Tristian and I have done all over campus, and what I did to Dimitri last night. Can people tell? Do they know?
Mostly they ignore me because the game starts, and everyone is focused on Forsyth U’s golden boy, Killian “Killer” Payne. Seeing his broad shoulders and confident stride as he commands the field triggers the memory of what he did to me on the hallway floor. I can feel his hot breath on me, the pain in my arms and legs, his scent, how red his face looked when he grew closer to—
“Story! Oh my goodness, I can’t believe you’re here, too!” Spinning, I see my mother and Daniel have arrived. I push back all the thoughts and plaster a smile on my face.
“Mom! Hi!” I give her a hug. She’s still elegant and thin, although she’s cut her hair shorter than I’ve ever seen it, curling around her ears in a tidy bob. She’s dressed in similar clothes as Mrs. Mercer. She’s no longer the hard-working single mom that had two jobs just to keep the lights on. She’s a fancy real estate magnate’s wife, from head to toe. “Tristian invited me.”
“What a wonderful surprise.” She takes in my jersey, eyes bugging out. “Daniel! Look, Story is wearing Killian’s jersey!”
“Well, look at that,” Daniel says, grinning. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
I tug at the knot, working around the fist in my throat. “Just trying to show my team spirit.”
“You look good,” Daniel says softly, “like things are going well?”
“They are. Really well.” I bob my head reassuringly, even though I want nothing more than to go hide in a closet somewhere.
Mom grabs my hand, gushing, “I’m just so glad to see you! I want to hear everything about college so far. How are your classes?” Her voice lowers. “Have you met any handsome boys?”
“Blair!” Mrs. Mercer calls, diverting her attention. My mother squeals and they hug like two teenagers. A moment later, her interest in my academic and social lives has been overtaken by a discussion about a fundraiser. Thankfully, Daniel seems bored of me too, leaving to find a seat with a good view of the field. The other men clap him on the back, obviously impressed with how his son dominates the field. The distraction is a relief. The last thing I need is her seeming like the doting mother, probing into my life. Even if Ted isn’t Cartwright, he’s still out there. Watching, waiting.
“Who knew our parents were such close friends?” Tristian says, sidling up to me. The smirk on his face tells me that he definitely knew.
“Yeah, who knew?” I suppose I should have. Tristian and Killian are so close. Why wouldn’t they be? “Isn’t it a little weird that we’re here together?”
He waves it off. “Don’t be so high school, Sweet Cherry. No one carries those old grudges into college. Plus, no one could blame us. Who knew little Story Austin would grow up to be such a fox?”
I shy away from his compliments, feeling uncertain and out of place. Everyone else here fits in, but I know I stick out like a sore thumb. Do they all know I’m the Lady? Do they know what a Lady is forced to do? If so, no one mentions it. Maybe this is just how things operate in their world, because I do notice a few other young women in the room. One is sitting next to Mr. Mercer and is acting particularly friendly.
“Who is that?” I ask Dimitri.
His dark eyes take in the blonde. She could’ve been one of the girls Killian tossed out of his room at the party. “Oh, that’s Ruthie Jones. She’s Mercer’s side-piece.”
“Side piece? Here?”
I have so many questions.
He shrugs. “Things operate differently with rich people, you know that. Mistresses, lovers, sugar babies,” his eyebrow lifts, “it’s part of the lifestyle.”
“But what about his wife?” She’s right there!
“I’m sure she’ll get back at him by getting railed by her tennis coach tomorrow.”
“Jesus.”
“Story, we live in a mansion with a housekeeper, personal lawyer, and a sexually indentured servant. You’re just now figuring out things operate differently around here?” He gives me an incredulous look and then heads back over to the bar for another drink.
I try to adjust to the new normal of my life. Does my mom know about all of this? Does Daniel? I think back to Killian’s threat that he had leverage on my mom. God only knows.
Despite everything, spirits continue to rise as the game proceeds, and then bubbles right over when Forsyth wins. Mr. Mercer has the staff pass around champagne, toasting Killian’s leadership. Even after the field and stadium clear, there’s no sign of this little party ending. I’m starting to feel a little tipsy from all the drinks and more than once rely on Tristian to keep me standing upright.
“How about you and I
go score a touchdown of our own,” he whispers in my ear. “You can show me your pom-poms.”
I roll my eyes, buzzed enough to feel okay about saying, “You’re ridiculous. Don’t you think someone would notice if we suddenly went missing?”
“Do you think I care?” I know he doesn’t, and when he snakes his hand up under my shirt while my mother—Jesus, and his mother—are two feet away, he proves it. “I know you wore this for me,” he says, nosing into the space behind my ear.
Before I have a chance to decide if I’m going to fight him off or not, the door opens and Killian enters the room.
Now, it’s definitely a certifiable circle of hell.
He’s cleaned up, wearing an FU sweatshirt and jogging pants. His hair is damp from the shower. Even with my family here, I feel uncomfortable—like I don’t belong. These are his people, not mine, and I know he doesn’t want me anywhere around him. He never has. Unfortunately, as he steps into the suite, mine seem to be the first eyes he meets. I shift anxiously under the weight of it, especially when it drops down, taking in the jersey I’m wearing.
Killian stares.
And stares.
And stares.
A moment later, he’s swarmed—first by his dad, then the other adults, congratulating him on a good win. Someone presses a beer in his hand while a large, older man claps him on the shoulder. I take the opportunity to escape, but before I can, my mom grabs my arm and pulls me over. In what I have to consider an orchestrated move, Daniel has done the same with Killian.
“I’m so glad to see you two getting along better now,” Daniel says once we’re in a tight circle. “I know things were rocky for you two back in high school, but a little space and some maturing has probably helped you both.”
Killian doesn’t answer, but even though he looks at me, it’s without the aggression and open hostility I’m used to. Instead, he just looks tired and hard and massively confused.
“I have a great idea,” she says, eyes lighting up, “how about the two of you come to dinner tomorrow night?”
“Dinner?” I ask. An image of the four of us, gathered around a table in stiflingly uncomfortable silence comes to mine. And that’s a best-case scenario. “At the house? Together?”
Killian rubs the back of his neck. “I actually think I have a—”
“No excuses,” Daniel says, holding up his hands. “We finally have our family back in one place. I think it’s time to celebrate.”
It’s a terrible idea, Killian and I, back at home together after all these years. He didn’t behave himself then, and he doesn’t behave himself now. Just accepting the invitation would be putting myself at risk for personal harm. At least back in the Lords’ house, I have Dimitri and Tristian as buffers.
Killian is the greater of three evils.
‘No,’ is on the tip of my tongue, but my mom is looking at me with such hope. It’d need to be a really good and convincing excuse. Stupidly, I look to Killian for a life raft.
He just stares back at me.
Biting back a sigh that’s sure to be full of misery, I say, “Sure. I think that sounds great.”
My mom gives me a tight hug around the neck and everyone looks at Killian for his response. He glances at his father, mouth pressed into a tight, unhappy line, and grunts out a curt, “Fine.” He turns to me, eyes boring into mine, and adds, “How about I give you a ride tomorrow, Story? We can catch up on the way.”
“Perfect,” my mother cheers, hands clasped together, unaware that Killian’s offer to drive me has nothing to do with generosity. It’s just another opportunity for him to torture me.
And there’s no way out.
20
Killian
“Not so fast,” I say, catching up to Story as she makes a beeline toward her room. She and the guys were hanging out in the downstairs living room when I got home, but she bolted as soon as she saw me. We’re in the upstairs hall and I can feel the tension rolling off of her, those big eyes of hers darting frantically around, as if searching for an escape route, just in case. It’s reasonable. Two days ago, I pinned her to the floor beneath our feet and fucked her tits. But she doesn’t need to worry. I’m not here to hurt her.
I just have a question. “Why the hell are you wearing my jersey?”
She ducks her head, her wide eyes taking in the orange shirt, my number emblazoned across the chest. “It was in my closet,” she stutters, lifting her chin. “I was trying to be supportive. Isn’t that a Lady’s job?”
I narrow my eyes at her tone—sulky and a touch insolent. Seeing her up in the suite wearing my jersey…it sent a tremor of warm heat, deep in my lower belly, that still flickers like a burning ember. For a moment there, I’d looked at her in the jersey, my name and number plastered all over her, and thought that maybe…
Maybe she was letting herself be mine.
Just a little.
I should have known it’d be like this—nothing more than a little malicious compliance. “Whatever,” I sneer, pretending that I’m not disappointed. “This is about tomorrow—”
“Jesus, my mom,” she groans, rolling her eyes. “Don’t worry, I don’t plan on telling them I’m working here—or for you. There would be way too many questions.”
“I know you won’t.” I level her with a look. “I was going to tell you to be ready by six. I don’t want to be there all night.”
“Oh,” she says, clearly taken off-guard. She rubs her palms on her thighs, gaze jumping to the knob of her door. “Sure, fine. Six, it is.”
She shuts her door and I hear the lock turn with a snap. I’m left with her clinging, cloying scent. That, plus one glance down at the floor, floods my mind with images of her down there. Trapped beneath me. Squirming. Begging. She’d been scared, sure. But more than that, she’d been seriously pissed off.
Well, so was I. The girls I’d brought up to my room hadn’t done the trick. If anything, they’d made it worse. Sure, they’d bounced on my dick, sucked it, offered up their asses, but none of that worked like it usually did. If I were being honest with myself, I’d admit that it’s been a gradual thing. The usual shit’s been doing it for me less and less. What happened the night of the party was just a culmination of three years’ worth of lousy lays.
My eyes flick to her door and I let the truth pass through my head.
Only one thing gets me hard lately.
This is the same shit that happened in high school. The same thing I told myself over and over again that I wouldn’t let happen. When I wake up, I hear her, moving around in her room, doing her hair, dressing. When I eat breakfast, there she is. At school, I see her, walking in the courtyard, roaming the halls. When I get home, she’s there. When I eat dinner, she’s there. At night, the one time I actually let myself look and want and have, she fills my nose with her scent, my eyes with the pale porcelain of her delicate skin, my mind with thoughts of everything I want to do.
She’s all I can think about. It feels like I’m fucking choking on her, begging for a single gulp of fresh air, but never able to find it. Everything is Story. The only moment of freedom I’ve managed to carve out are the minutes I’m on the field, too busy focusing on the game to be obsessed about the way my bruises look peeking out from the hem of her skirt; my mark on her, my claim made flesh.
Now even that’s tainted, the sight of her in my jersey already perverting it. I can see it now, being out on the field, thinking of all the people who’d seen her wearing my name, claiming me back.
I’m the guy who always gets what I want. I have money, looks, athletic ability. I don’t have to kill myself on the football field—I do it because my goal isn’t just to just be good, it’s to be great. I’ve accomplished that with a winning record, trophies, and an incredible scholarship that I didn’t even need. But it’s not all about sports. Academics comes almost as easily and so does being at the top socially. From high school to college, people just fell in line, allowing my social stature to rise. It didn’t hurt that I had t
wo loyal, equally impressive best friends. And girls? Girls have always been easy. Always so, so insipidly easy.
Except my stepsister. Story is the one person who gets in the way of my life being exactly the way I want it. I shouldn’t need to have her. I’ve got everything going for me. Story Austin is nothing. So why can’t I stop thinking about the way she smells? The way her shiny fucking hair sways when she walks? The cut of her hips when she rolls over in bed? The way my fingertips look, digging into her skin? Her tight, fuckable tits?
Why can’t I be around her without being consumed by it all?
The rest of the team is partying right now, while I’m at home obsessing over our Lady. I have no choice. The last thing I need is to have to turn down more girls. The other night was a loophole in the contract—my pregame ritual. Otherwise, I’m not allowed to be with any other women, which I’m starting to think was a really stupid deal to make. Especially since popping Story’s cherry relies on who wins the game. All of this is just one giant cockblock designed to make me obsess over her harder. I’m horny all the goddamn time now. I’ve got girls, I’m pumped up on adrenaline, yet my dick wants one thing. One.
This is exactly the frame of mind that’s going to get me into trouble. All I need is to go out to some bar and take all this energy out on the wrong thing—the wrong person.
I go into my room and change, pulling on loose shorts and an FU T-shirt. I should be worn out after the game, but I’m more keyed up than ever. I open my laptop, intent on finding some porn—the one thing that does seem to work for me lately—but instead see a message pop up about the weekly points tally.
Shit. The points.
I open the spreadsheet and do a double-take.
No fucking way.
The guys are both relaxed when I storm downstairs, and why shouldn’t they be? “How in the hell,” I growl, snatching Rath’s tumbler of whiskey right out of his hands, “are you scoring so goddamn high?!”
Rath looks momentarily pissed that I’d taken his drink, but it’s gone in a flash, replaced with something smug. “By having so much game that she’s begging for it. Sucks to be the two of you.”