by Angel Lawson
The guys are nowhere to be found when I make my way upstairs, pouring myself a glass of whiskey. I throw it back and savor the burn, but now it’s worse. Now I’m remembering that kiss from before, back in my old bedroom. I’m remembering the way she kissed me back, those hands pulling me closer. She’d tasted bitter but somehow still sweet. I know she got off riding my thigh. I had to clamp my hand over her mouth just to quiet her sharp, surprised cry. But I could still hear it, trapped in her mouth. I could still see the way her face collapsed in pleasure, eyes squeezing shut, and fuck.
How the hell did I go from such great heights to…this.
Huffing, I throw back another glass before searching for the guys. They’re not on the first floor, so I check the second, then the third. As I pass Story’s room, I linger, trying to hear something behind the door.
There’s nothing.
Clenching my fists, I descend the stairs and go out back, but the garden and hot tub are empty. It isn’t until I round the side of the house that I find them, standing in the shadow of the basketball court, sharing a cigarette like two goddamn degenerates.
Tristian shakes his head as soon as he sees me. “You don’t want to be near me right now, Killer.”
I hold my arms out. “Got something to say? Say it.”
“It was too much, dude.” It’s Rath who steps up, handing the cigarette over to Tristian. “There’s a reason you didn’t tell us what the hell you were doing. You knew we’d say no.”
“This isn’t a fucking democracy,” I snap, feeling the anger swell up in my chest. It’s good. Better than the weight of that goddamn boulder. “I don’t remember either of you asking me permission for jack shit. She got what she deserved. She’s been fucking cheating on us!”
“You don’t know that!” Rath argues, thrusting a finger into the center of my chest. “You suspect it, but you don’t know anything. She’s done everything we’ve ever asked of her. Jesus Christ, she even did that! If you can’t look at the facts and see that she’s loyal, then you’re just too fucking hot-headed to think objectively.”
“He’s right,” Tristian says, tossing the cigarette aside. “I know you’ve got issues, but ever since she walked through that door, you’ve been losing your grip.”
“My grip is just fucking fine,” I growl.
“Bullshit,” Tristian disagrees, eyeing me with displeasure. “It’s one thing that you leave us to take care of South Side business while you go off to your bogus family dinner, but taking our Lady down there and doing that to her? She’s not just yours!”
“I let you two go unchecked on her every goddamn day, but the second I do something, you’re up my ass about it!” Ticking off on my fingers, I say, “I can’t withhold meals, I can’t leave marks, I can’t make her blow me. I’m getting sick and tired—”
“We don’t break her,” Rath says, interrupting me with another one of those chest pokes. This guy’s about to fucking get it. “Neither of us has ever corrected her out of anger. But that’s all you fucking do. You don’t even pick up the pieces after—you leave that to us.”
“She isn’t your goddamn punching bag, Killer.” Tristian run his fingers through his hair, visibly trying to calm himself down. “It’s fucked up.”
I raise an eyebrow, feeling my blood boil. “Oh, it’s fucked up now, is it? That’s rich, coming from you.”
His eyes narrow dangerously. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Maybe you’re so high on that horse that you can’t see it, so let me spell it out for you.” Lifting my chin, I look down my nose at him, seething. “Making her suck a dick in front of our brothers wasn’t a concept you had a problem with three years ago.”
His face contorts, voice lowering. “That was different.”
“No, it fucking wasn’t, and you know it.”
He points at the house, eyes flashing hotly. “You humiliated her in front of forty-five people in there!”
“Yeah, and she’s still here.” I shrug, even though there’s a little voice in my head telling me to stop. To salvage this. Like always when I hear it, I barrel forward. “But you fucked her up so bad, she ran away.”
His laugh is cold and mocking. “No, I didn’t. The more I get to know her, the more I see the truth. She could have handled what me and Rath did to her, however fucked up it might have been.” He steps up to me, chest puffed out. “It’s you, Killer. You’re the reason she ran. You drove her away on a daily fucking basis, because you’re so messed up that you can’t even fall in love with someone without sabotaging yourself.” He gives my fuming expression a cold smirk. “Don’t deny it. All three of us know the truth. You didn’t just want to own her. You got attached. You fell for her, and you couldn’t handle it. So, you let every man in your life get a piece of that ass first, and you want to know why?” Closer—quieter—he hisses, “It’s because you’re a pussy.”
The shove sends him to the ground instantly, sprawled on his back. He doesn’t stay down long, jumping to his feet to throw the first punch. Tristian is faster than me, but I’m bigger—stronger. I can’t dodge his punch, but I hit him back twice as hard, sending his head whipping to the side.
Before I can get in another, I feel a hit to my jaw, cracking up through my temple. Rath. These motherfuckers.
I tackle him next, getting him to the ground easily. Rath is even slower than I am, but he’s also a malicious little shit. His knee catches me right in the balls, sending sparks through my vision for a moment.
But then Tristian is there, dragging me off of him. I plant a hard elbow into his side, but he barely reacts, burying a knee right into my kidney. I grunt, kicking Rath before he can lever himself up. It’s all a crazed whir, taking one out just to swat at another. Fucking gnats. That’s all these two are.
With a big burst of power, I shake Tristian off of me and regain my footing.
But so have they.
The two of them stand there under the light of the court, breathing hard, stares sharp like daggers, and suddenly I’m just done with it all.
I spit, my blood splattering on the pavement. “She’s a liar and a whore and she’s got you two so pussy-whipped you’ve forgotten that this is a game. That’s all it is, a game!” I take a step back, spreading my arms wide, knowing what I have to do. “But if you want her so bad, then you can fucking have her.”
25
Story
* * *
Eight.
That’s how many dresses I find in the closet that are like the one I’m wearing. Cute. Pretty. Perfectly innocent.
Chosen by Killian.
I lay them out on the bed and look at them, but something isn’t quite right. I reach down, fingering the dress I’m wearing. It’s wet down the front. When I got into my room, I vomited into the toilet and then brushed my teeth for ten minutes. It didn’t really make me feel any cleaner—not until I take this fucking dress off.
Ripping it off, I stand there in nothing but my underwear, throwing the dress with the others. That feels better, seeing them all lined up like that. I don’t need these anymore—if I ever did at all. Today was the first and last time I dressed to please him.
I only use the scissors to get me started, cutting a notch into the skirt of one of the dresses. After that, I grip it in my hands and pull, ripping it until I can’t anymore. One isn’t enough, so I do it again and again, until the first dress is a pile of sad, limp shreds.
I work my way through the dresses methodically, thinking about what I overheard earlier. The basketball court is right outside my window, and if I crack it the smallest bit, I can hear everything. It’s especially easy to hear when there’s yelling and fighting.
I grunt against a particularly stubborn seam, arms trembling with the struggle. Eventually, it gives, making a satisfying sound as it tears all the way to the neck.
There’s a soft knock at the door before Tristian’s voice comes through. “Story?” He tries the knob, but even if it were unlocked, he wouldn’t be
able to get through. The knob goes still. There’s a suspended moment of silence before he adds, “Fine. You don’t need to open the door. Just say something so we know you’re good.”
Good?
I pick up another dress, ripping it down the side. “Something.”
There’s another beat of silence before he answers, “Do you…need anything?” The words sound uncertain and stilted, like he’s testing them out, and maybe he is. His sisters aside, he must not have much experience with things like concern.
I’m just about to tell him to go away when a thought hits me. Clenching my teeth, I rip my blanket from the bed to cover myself with. The desk, which I’d wedged in front of the door, scrapes loudly against the floor when I push it out a few inches—just enough to crack the door.
“There’s something you can do for me,” I answer, peering out the crack at him.
Tristian looks back at me, half startled, half apprehensive. He’s sporting a split lip. “We didn’t know he was going to do that.”
Ignoring that, I continue, “You can get me something to wear that isn’t skin-tight, see-through, short, or in any way marketable for paid internet porn.”
He catches the scraps of dresses I throw at him, unflinching. He looks down at them, inspecting the jagged, frayed fabric, and gives a slow, sure nod. “I’ll see what we can scare up.”
When he turns, heading toward the stairs, I notice that Dimitri is here, too. He’s leaning up against Killian’s closed door, holding an ice pack to his jaw. When he sees me watching, he shoots me a roguish grin. “Should see the other guy, baby.”
I prop myself against the door jamb, knowing my eyes are red. I didn’t let myself cry for long, and it wasn’t like last time. These were bitter, exhausted tears—the remnants of whatever this hard thing inside of me are driving out. “The whole point of this,” I say, kicking the desk in front of the door, “is to avoid that.”
His lips purse. “Finally worked out that he’s got a key, huh?”
“I assume you all do.”
He lowers the ice pack, revealing a large, angry bruise. “Just him. Sneaking into bedrooms isn’t really our style.”
Tristian returns then, a bundle of clothes in his arms. “These are going to be big, but maybe you can make do.” He feeds them through the crack in the door and I grab hold, clutching them to my chest.
I mumble a small, “Thank you,” and step aside, just out of sight. The blanket falls to the floor and I unfold the clothes. Sweatpants, a loose undershirt, and an oversized hooded sweater. Tristian’s right—everything is way too big. It’s a nice change.
“Will you come downstairs?” Tristian asks, sighing. “Have a drink with us, decompress.”
Dimitri adds, “Killer won’t be back tonight.”
Slipping the sweater over my head, I hug my middle, not feeling any warmer. “How do you know?”
Tristian snorts. “He’s doing his own decompressing. Trust me.”
Inching closer to the door, I softly wonder, “Are you going to make me…do things?”
“What?” Tristian sounds unjustly offended. “Of course not.”
Dimitri jumps in. “Look, we’ll be downstairs. If you want to be alone to wallow and stew, fine. If you don’t, come chill. Consider yourself off the clock, either way.” Quieter, to Tristian, he adds, “Come on. Stop hovering, let her work her shit out.”
Their footsteps recede moments later, down the stairs. I peek out of the crack, seeing that I’m alone. Deflating, I try to reconcile two competing forces. Tristian and Dimitri obviously hadn’t been okay with what Killian did to me. They sounded really mad about it, actually. They turned on him—someone they’ve been best friends with since they were just little kids. I didn’t think anything could ever come between them. That means something, doesn’t it?
On the other hand, they’re not blameless. They’ve dished out their own malice, over and over again.
It takes a moment to move the desk far enough that I can slip out of the room. I leave it close, fully planning on moving it back the next time I’m inside. Mostly, I feel stupid. Thinking a lock makes me safe? When has that ever been enough?
The house is quiet when I descend the stairs, following their low voices to the den. This is where they hang out most of the time, but aside from the interview and the party, I haven’t been in here much. It’s a den for wolves, waiting to eat me whole.
Tugging the sleeves over my fists, I warily shuffle into the room.
Killian did leave. I heard the whole fight, so I know that he stormed away. I even heard the sound of his truck as it sped out of the garage. Still, a part of me still expects him to be lurking around a corner and my heart builds to a crazed tempo, racing with the possibility that everyone is still here. I can still remember the sounds of their laughter and jeers, all those cold, heartless men watching my debasement like it was entertainment.
Luckily, it’s just Tristian and Dimitri. They’re mirror images of one another, perched on different sofas, speaking in low tones across a bold-looking coffee table, each holding a tumbler of brown liquid.
They both pause when I walk in, curling my fingers into the large, soft sweater. The sweater, like the sweatpants, has ‘Varsity Swim’ emblazoned on it—a relic from our old high school.
It’s Tristian who stands, moving fluidly to where the glasses and liquor await. He pours a glass and refreshes his own before returning to his seat, sliding mine down the table. “Go easy,” he says, nodding at the glass.
Reluctantly, I perch on the couch farthest from them both, tucking my limbs in close. The booze smells strong and sharp when I lift it to my nose, sniffing suspiciously. Being anything but stone-cold sober in this house is a mistake. I know that. But maybe it’ll help. Maybe it can quiet this chaotic storm that’s tearing up my chest.
Still, I wait for Tristian to take a drink of his before following suit.
Instantly, I start hacking, pulling a face at the contents of the glass. “This is worse than the wheatgrass.”
Dimitri barks a small laugh, but Tristian gives me a look. “That’s fifty-year-old bourbon. It costs more than most people's rent.”
Grimacing, I say, “You got ripped off.”
“It’s an acquired taste,” Dimitri assures, swirling his around.
I’m not sure it’s a taste I want to acquire, but the burn does begin warming my chest. It spreads outward, a comforting tingle settling in my gut. For a brief moment, I actually feel my muscles relax. Giving it another look, I pinch my nose and throw it back, downing the whole thing in one go.
“I said easy,” Tristian chides, sounding all at once distressed and disappointed. “I can’t believe you’re drinking aged bourbon like it’s cheap tequila. Jesus Christ.”
I set the glass on the table and shudder at the aftertaste. “You always give me the grossest stuff,” I tell Tristian.
He rolls his eyes, taking a much more delicate sip. “If you drank the wheatgrass that enthusiastically, you’d be healthy as a horse.”
I swipe at my mouth, looking around the room. It’s dimly lit and smells of something sharp and sweet. A stuffed buck’s head hangs with prominence over the bar, its bold antlers reaching like skeletal fingers over the room. There’s a stuffed bear’s head, too. A large fish of some kind, mounted on a huge chunk of driftwood. On the mantel rests a large bronze LDZ skull, just like the one on my wrist cuff. In the corner, there’s an enormous vase filled with bare, brittle-looking, vein-like limbs. They reach into the air and spread like a web over the entrance.
This house is full of dead things.
“Do you know anything about Killer’s mom?”
Tristian shoots him a hard look, voice full of warning. “Rath.”
Dimitri holds up a hand. “I’m just asking. I won’t tell her anything.”
Everything’s a little softer and warmer now, the bourbon making my arms feel heavy. “I never met her,” I admit, wading through the comfortable fog to think back to when I lived wit
h him. “They never talked about her much. I know he keeps a picture. She was pretty, I guess.”
“Hm.” Dimitri finishes his glass, setting it on the table like I had. “Guess it doesn’t matter. Killer was out of line.”
I’m curious about her, this Darla Payne, but it’s clear from the look the two of them share that they won’t tell me anything. They might be in a fight with Killian, but they aren’t about to spill his secrets. “What’s going to happen?” The cuff of the sweater rides up, revealing my wrist band. I pick at it like a scab, shoving a finger underneath to rub the sensitive skin.
Tristian’s lips press into a thin line. “Nothing is going to happen. We’re going to go to bed in a minute, then wake up and go to classes, just like we always do.”
I look up at him, pleading, “Can’t I miss a day? Just one?”
He actually looks rueful as he shakes his head. “Things have to stay routine. We can’t let everyone think—”
“All those guys have seen me,” I lament, pressing my fists into my stomach, feeling sick at the prospect of facing them all. Yet again, their words and laughter drift back to me. Not even the booze is enough to dull the flush of shame and humiliation that washes over me. “I recognized some of them from my classes. Everyone will know.” Tears come, unbidden, but I blink them rapidly away.
“It won’t be like that.” Tristian slides down the couch, reaching to touch my knee, but I recoil. He drops his hand, sighing as he leans back. “People like this—” Like me, he doesn’t say, “—they smell chum and they get worked into a frenzy. Hiding from them is like blood in the water. The best thing to do is act like it doesn’t bother you. Isn’t that what you told Izzy and Lizzy?”
I narrow my eyes at him, sniffing back my tears. “That’s not even remotely the fucking same.”
Dimitri pipes in then, “We’ll send everyone a warning. Let them know what’s going to happen if they so much as glance at you.”
Tristian agrees, “They’re assholes, but they’re also sheep. They’ll do what we say.”