“Still locked out, huh?” Tristian asks, snorting. I ignore him and cross the room, heading straight to the bar. Both the pain in my gut and having to deal with my father all afternoon make me want to down the entire bottle, but I pull out three shot glasses instead.
Story went straight to her room when we got home, locking the door behind her. Whatever transpired between us in Daniel’s office obviously doesn’t apply here. I knew it was a long shot, anyway.
At least I got laid, which is more than I can say for these two pitiful fuckers.
“So? She told us it would be on her terms.” I pinch the glasses in my fingers, carrying them back to the sitting area. Rath sprawls next to Tristian on the couch, looking limp and listless. I hand them each a shot and ease into the armchair, wincing. Okay, so I may have overdone it with Story on the desk. Not that I regret it. She was so fucking hot, spreading her legs for me, fingers shaking with impatience as she drew my dick out and pulled me close. The thing about fucking Story when she’s asleep is that it’s total control. I can make her mine in any way I want. But the thing about fucking Story when she’s awake is that it’s comprised of a short, frantic series of electric surprises. When she’s awake, I can only make her mine in any way she wants. And that?
It might just be the better of the two.
Although my opinion on the matter might be a little muddled by the fact she wants to be mine at all. Still, a nice dinner, good scotch, and some truly fucking fantastic revenge sex means that I haven’t felt this relaxed in weeks.
So why can’t I stop thinking about that goddamn locked door?
“Is that what happened during dinner?” Rath asks, staring at the liquor for a long moment before placing it on the table. “Her terms?”
“That?” I swallow back the burning liquid. “That was therapy.”
Rath raises a skeptical eyebrow. “I don’t think people usually give therapy with their dicks.”
“Did you see Daniel’s face when you walked back in? I thought he was going to break a tooth, he was grinding his teeth so hard.” Tristian laughs and swipes Rath’s shot off the table. “You fucked Story during Thanksgiving dinner.” He holds up the glass in a toast. “You have balls, my friend. Huge fucking brass balls.”
“Was it that obvious?” I ask, glancing between them. It’s not that I really care. My dad’s probably already watching the video, and a part of me wonders if it could possibly look as scorching hot as it felt. A bigger part of me knows it couldn’t. There’s a reason I didn’t rip the straps of that dress off. We might have wanted him to know what we did, but the rest of that was ours and ours alone.
“I don’t think her mom noticed,” Rath says, rolling his eyes. “She was too busy flirting with Tris.”
Tristian disagrees, “I was trying to distract her from the fact her stepson was defiling her sweet daughter in the other room. You’re welcome, by the way.”
I shake my head, unsure why I need to explain, but feeling like I should. “We’re not the only ones she needed to gain some control back from. My dad’s been pulling those strings since before I ever knew there were any. That room—that office—something happened there. Sure, we fucked, but it wasn’t about me. It was a message.”
Rath smiles wryly. “You’re saying she used you.”
“Like a cheap piece of meat,” Tristian adds, eyes dancing with mirth. “I respect that.”
I don’t refrain from rolling my eyes, pouring myself another shot. “What do you think about what my dad said? About Cartwright being involved in this? The Dukes?”
Tristian sighs, suddenly looking tired. “Man, who knows. The frats around here have our own drama, but the Kings? They take it to another level. I didn’t think murder would be a part of it, but it wouldn’t exactly shock me. We all know how Kings are made.”
Rath’s eyes narrow. “There’s no real motive, though. Dukes and Lords aren’t exactly cuddle buddies, but we give each other our space, which is more than I can say for other houses.” Disregarding the glass I slide his way. He leans back, face pensive. “If anyone should want to take Daniel out, it’s you. You’re the heir.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t want it.” It’s the truth, but I also know it’s futile. Football—getting out of here—all of that is a long shot. South Side has its tentacles in me, and they’re latched on deep and painful.
“No, but think about it,” Rath goes on, and I’m surprised to see some life spark back in his eyes. “You have the clearest, most obvious motive. Daniel fucks with your Lady. His boot-licking foot soldier tries to kill you. Plus, those initials? This isn’t about Daniel. It’s about you.” Head snapping back in realization, he adds, “It’s about us. All four of us. Someone wanted Daniel to think we were responsible. But why? To get us all pissed at each other? What’s the end game there?”
“We’re going to have to figure out who’s behind all this,” is my answer. “I don’t like not knowing who’s got a gun pointed at my fucking temple.”
“Speaking of which, we shouldn’t be talking about this without Story,” Tristian says, pointing to the ceiling. “We promised.”
“I have no intention of making any moves without her.”
There’s a knock on the library door and we look over, startled to see Martin in the doorway. He’s dressed casually, in a sweater and khaki pants. A manila envelope is in his hand.
“What are you doing here so late?” I ask, putting my glass down. “It’s Thanksgiving. Don’t they give you the day off?”
The Lords employ Martin and he provides legal counsel for the frat—primarily us. But all said, we have nothing to do with his job. Even my father, the King, is only loosely involved. Martin’s firm has been representing LDZ since long before any of us were involved. It’s a testament to Forsyth’s foothold in this town that a tradition like this isn’t even thought about twice. He’s just here to serve us as needed.
“I took a few hours,” he says. “I didn’t expect you to be back so soon.”
“Yeah, we booked it after pie,” Rath says, resting a hand on his stomach. “Sitting through another hour of father-son-step-Lady tension isn’t anyone’s idea of a good time.”
“Well,” he says, walking in the room. “I wanted to drop off Marcus’ discharge paperwork. He’ll be fine.”
I blink at the envelope, remembering. The three of us have been a little busy with more pressing matters, but LDZ is chugging along. Some of the more senior guys organized a prank against the Counts last week, ambushing the rival frat members’ poker game. Marcus had been caught speeding away from the scene of the crime and graciously took the fall.
“You got him off?” I ask, only giving the contents of the envelope a cursory glance.
“Of course I did,” is Martin’s response. He doesn’t even sound arrogant about it, just matter-of-fact. Tapping his temple, he sagely says, “A good lawyer knows the law. But a great lawyer knows the judge.”
Tristian and Rath share a low, appreciative chuckle, but it makes my eyes tighten in suspicion. “You know a lot of people, don’t you?” I shift to stand, wincing at the tug and pull in my side. The alcohol and pills aren’t enough to cut through all the pain. I lift the hem of my untucked shirt, revealing the healed bullet wound. Martin’s expression is neutral, carefully contained to nothing but a quizzical slant of his eyebrows. “Do you know who did this to me?” I ask.
His gaze flicks down to the wound and back up to my face. “There’s been chatter, sir. Gossip and such.”
Tristian leans forward at this. “What are people saying?”
Martin nods at my gut. “Well, I don’t put much stock into scuttlebutt, but Lord Killian was shot, and no one’s seen Nick Hoplite since. There’s been varying speculation as to how those two situations might be connected.”
I take a guess. “They think I killed him.”
Martin doesn’t even bat an eye. “That’s the gist.”
Lowering my shirt, I offer, “I didn’t.”
That one belongs to Story.
He shrugs. “Might as well let them think you did. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the frat this well organized to retaliate against the other houses. Have you seen the board? Those boys are out for blood.”
“Wait,” Rath says, a divot appearing between his eyebrows. “They think the other frats are involved?”
Martin’s eyes flash in surprise. “Aren’t they?”
Tristian and I have a short, concise discussion with our eyes, but I’m the one who decides, “You’re right, Martin. Let them think whatever.” We’ve been slacking when it comes to The Game, so it can only benefit us to have the frat fired up. Plus, it’s not like the truth is so far divorced from the gossip. I didn’t kill Ugly Nick, but I would have, given half the chance, and whoever put the hit out on me was the same person who killed Viv. Even my father suspects another house. No skin off my back. “I don’t know what you hear or how much you’re privy to, but if you hear anymore gossip about who put this hit out on me, I want to know. Immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
Nodding, I wave him away. He takes one slow step back and then saunters off. A moment later the front door opens and closes with a click. I lumber back to my seat, lowering myself slowly.
“Was it just me, or did he seem really composed?” I ask, lifting the bottle of whiskey.
“Stick-up-his-ass Martin? He’s always really composed,” Rath says. “Why?”
“More composed than usual,” I elaborate.
Tristian looks over at me. “You’re paranoid.”
“Fuck yeah, I’m paranoid.” I tip the bottle to my mouth and take a huge gulp. “Martin has access to the house, the cameras, our computers. Did you ever think about that?”
Rath sighs and stands, grabbing the bottle from my hand. “Paranoia’s going to get you killed. It’ll get Story hurt. We’re Lords. We’re logical. Calculated. Controlled.” He carries the bottle over to the bar, snatches up the cap and puts it away. “We’re going to find the motherfucker that did this and take him down. But until we know, we do this the right way.”
“Is this what sobriety does to you?” Tristian asks. “Because I think I like it more when you’re the house substance dumpster.”
“Fuck you.” Rath heads to the door, giving him the finger. “I’m going to bed.”
“Same.” Tristian follows, stopping to look back at me. “You really need a good night’s sleep, Killer.”
“I know.” We stare at one another for a long moment, before he shakes his head and vanishes down the hall. He’s right. I need to sleep. Even if I’m not playing this weekend, I have to travel with the team, but that doesn’t quell the urge that sends me to the second floor. To test the door. To pace the hall.
I’m not just out here hoping she’ll let me in.
I’m out here making sure no one else gets in.
It’s on my third pass up and down the hall that I glance into my room and see something on the foot of my bed. I leave my post and cross the room, curiosity getting the best of me. It doesn’t take long to recognize the items—or know who put them there. It’s all of my superstitions lined up neat and straight: the socks, the guitar wire, the baseball card and gum.
The ribbon.
I think back to the night she took them from me, my memory still hazy around the edges. Story got me good that night. Fucked me good, too. That’s what I remember the most. She could have done anything to me, and she did. She tied me up, stole my things, and got me to reveal my secrets. But she also climbed on top of me, sheathing her body over my cock and rode me hard. Little sister isn’t just here for the revenge. I know that now. She wants more. She wants us.
I’m here to make sure that no one takes her away from us ever again.
