“Nine dollars an hour?”
The barista shifts his green visor, nodding. He doesn’t stop working while he talks to me. It’s the Sunday lunch hour at the local coffee joint, and if this is what it’s like during a holiday weekend, then what the hell is it going to be like when all the students are on campus? As if reading my mind, he adds, “It’s more than minimum wage.” He doesn’t sound pleased about it, either. “I can give you twenty hours a week.”
I wince at both the number of hours and the wage. The guys are being cool about me finding a job, even suggesting this place, but I doubt they want me spending too many hours away from them. Being a Lady is an obligation I agreed to—it covers my room and board. Even if I could spare the time between classes and frat duties, making less than $180 a week after taxes isn’t even close to being enough to pay my tuition. I need to face the facts here. No entry-level job is going to be.
How are people supposed to lead straight, moral, legal lives when this is the alternative?
My stomach sinks.
“The application is online,” he says, moving to the next customer. “I plan on filling the position by the end of the week.”
I give him a wan smile, saying, “Thanks,” but I already know I’m not going to apply. Turning, I freeze at the sight of Tristian and Dimitri occupying a table in the corner near the window. I was expecting them to just drop me off and go do their own thing, but instead, they’re huddled close around Tristian’s opened laptop.
When I approach, I realize why.
Killian is on the screen.
Narrowing my eyes, I take a moment to process my irritation, but slowly let the tension slip from my shoulders. They’re closer than ever now when we’re away from home. Killian has spent less time in the weight room recovering from his injury and more time scanning the area for potential threats. And sometimes I think my wanting to go out is the only thing that’s pulled Dimitri from his dark, smoky bedroom these past few weeks.
“How did it go?” Tristian asks, standing up and pulling the chair between them out for me. I notice a plastic takeaway container, but don’t blink at it. I’ve gotten used to Tristian bringing his own food wherever we go.
“Not great.” I eye my brother’s image on the monitor. From the looks of the background, he’s in a brightly lit hotel room, the bed already tidy behind him. Idly, I wonder if he woke up and made it himself, or if he just never went to sleep at all. “There are jobs around, but the pay and hours are shitty.” I slump against the back of the chair. “The only way I’m going to afford tuition is if I go work at the Velvet Hideaway.”
“Don’t even joke about that.” Killian’s tone is hard, even over the tinny speaker. It takes a moment for some of that stony anger to bleed from his features, but Dimitri’s sharp gaze is still burning into me at the words. “There’s another solution to this. You’re just refusing to take it.”
“You’re right. I am refusing to take it.” I hold my stepbrother’s eye. This is the first real conversation we’ve had since Thanksgiving, and after worrying for two days whether or not the sex in the office was going to complicate things between us again, I’m relieved to find it still comes easy to insist, “You’re not paying for my education. It’s no different from taking the money from Daniel.”
“It’s not Daniel’s money, it’s Lords’ money,” Tristian says, pushing his food toward me. He’s not ordering for me anymore, but whenever he gets the opportunity, he ‘shares’ his meals with me. Reluctantly, I pick up a slice of avocado and pop it in my mouth. “It’s at our discretion to use. We’ll just have a few less house parties.”
I shake my head. “No. I want to do this on my own.” There’s no way Daniel hasn’t had some hand in making the frat’s money.
Dimitri’s eyes track something across the shop, but I’m so distracted by the rare sight of them, clear and alert, that I almost miss his mutter. “Fuck. What the hell does this joker want?”
I follow his gaze and watch a guy coming our way. An instinctive wave of rage and nausea rolls over me, but I don’t know why at first. I just know that face—those cheekbones—and the lip curled into a smirk. Unthinkingly, like an instinct, I lean into Dimitri’s side.
There’s a moment of tense, silent stillness, and then Dimitri is draping his arm over my shoulders and tucking me close.
His long fingers toy with my hair. “It’s okay, baby,” he says quietly. “Even though it looks like Nick, it’s not. That’s Simon, his brother.”
The instant he says it, it all clicks. Why looking at him invokes memories of that day at the Hideaway. The way it suddenly feels like there are too many eyes in here. The instinct to hide behind Dimitri. At first glance, this man looks nothing like Nick. He’s darker-skinned and cleaner-cut, possibly older. But the closer I look, the more obvious it is. Their eyes are exactly the same. The structure of their faces. Even the way he holds himself is just like Nick, broad shoulders a perfect line, chin lifting as he surveys the three of us.
His hooded sweatshirt is emblazoned with Greek letters. DKS.
“Pretty Nick’s brother is a Duke?” I ask, stunned.
“Simon? No,” Killian answers, snorting. “He’s just a regular frat boy.” I look at Simon again and feel like disagreeing. He may just be a frat boy now, but there’s an edge to him. An authority. It’s familiar because I live with it every day. This guy has aspirations.
“What do you want, Sy?” Tristian asks before he reaches the table.
“Why do you think I want something?” he asks, strolling up. He even sounds like Nick, his voice a perfect deadpan. “I can’t just come by and say hello? Inquire about Killian’s health? Nick says he took a pretty bad hit.” I realize instantly that this Simon fellow couldn’t care less about Killian. It’s the air of superiority he holds himself with, but also the boredom in his stare, like it’s a second away from wandering to something more interesting.
Killian answers from the speaker, “It’s healing,” and the guy—Simon—doesn’t flinch at the realization he’s on the other side of the screen.
Smoothly, he adds, “Well, good job standing up to your dick of a father. I’ve been trying to get my wayward little brother away from him since high school. Maybe seeing his idol taken down a notch will make him see sense.” His eyes dart over to me. “But dealing with family is always a bitch, right?” Being under the weight of his stare is unnerving—far too intense a thing—but it doesn’t last long. He lives up to his brother’s descriptor: Pretty. But unlike Nick, Simon works for his prettiness. His jaw line is perfectly stubbled. It’s not the look of someone who’s a few days behind a shave. It’s the look of someone who intentionally keeps it that length—immaculately, maybe even compulsively. I bet he’s the same way with the tidily trimmed sides of his hair, even though the curl in the longer, top part is clearly natural. Biracial, would be my guess. It makes me wonder about him and Nick. Which parent do they share?
“Spit out whatever you came over here to say, Sy,” Dimitri says, arm tightening, “or leave.”
Simon watches us for a moment, face giving nothing away. “We need to know if you’re in for the wrestling match.” Again, his eyes wander over to me. “The deadline was yesterday, but since our houses are…amicable, we wanted to give you notice, considering you’ve been occupied.”
“Wrestling match?” I whisper to Dimitri.
He shakes his head dismissively. “Nah, LDZ isn’t doing the match this year.”
“Is that so?” Simon stares me down, unbothered by the way it makes me tense. “Because there are a lot of rumors going around about your Lady. Bets are already in her favor.”
“Bets?” I say, looking between Tristian and Dimitri. “Why do I feel like I’m missing something important? What does a wrestling match have to do with me?” There should really be a frat event handbook or day planner or something. I’m getting tired of being blindsided.
“It’s just a dumb Royal tradition,” Tristian says, giving me a look. “A bunch of chicks get into a ring and wrestle for a shitty tiara. They call it Screw Year’s Eve, but still try to brand it as some silly charity thing. Nothing you’d want to do, trust me.” When I don’t look convinced, he adds, “Like everything else at Forsyth, even holidays are marked and branded. The Dukes get New Year’s Eve. The Princes, naturally, claim Valentine’s Day.”
Killian scoffs. “Naturally,” and then Simon arches a brow, echoing, “Naturally.”
“The Counts throw a big ass barbeque on the Fourth of July,” Tristian continues.
Dimitri jumps in, “The Barons claimed Halloween.”
“Obviously,” Killian says with a hint of annoyance.
“What about us?” I ask.
“Oh,” Tristian’s face lights up. “We get the big one: Christmas.”
It’s a lot to absorb, and that’s probably Tristian’s point—distraction. I get us back on topic.
“Is this something I’m supposed to do? One of the Lady’s duties?” The three of them don’t respond, so I look at Simon. “Are the other Royal women participating?”
Simon is far more stoic than his brother, glancing at the others before answering. It occurs to me that he’s seeking permission. “Of course they are. The gate goes toward the winning frat’s charity, and Screw Year’s Eve brings in a huge crowd.” His mouth curls up into a dark, lopsided grin. “Don’t tell the Duchess, but all things considered, the Countess is the one to beat. Word on the street is you’ve got beef.”
“You mean Sutton,” I clarify.
“The one and lonely.”
Leaning forward out of Dimitri’s embrace, my interest is piqued. “And I’d have to…wrestle her.”
Simon stares at me. “That’s the plan.”
“Violently.”
Simon’s smile grows, but it’s Killian who answers. “Story, there isn’t any reas—”
Reaching over, I slam the laptop shut. “And you say there’ll be gambling? How much will the winning wrestler get?”
Simon shrugs. “Last year it got up to fifty Gs.”
“Story,” Dimitri says, pitching forward to tuck me back against him. “We’re not going to make you do this.”
“Make me wrestle Sutton in front of all the house royalty?” I stare at him bug-eyed. “Hell, I’d do that for free.”
Simon gestures to me with his cup of coffee. “See? Your girl’s got the spirit.”
“She’s not a girl,” Tristian snaps. “She’s our Lady.”
I cut him a glare. “You’re right. And this is one of my responsibilities. Just because we’ve changed some parameters of my contract doesn’t mean I don’t want to help when I’m supposed to. Especially with the charity work.” And especially when it means pounding my fist into the Cuntess’ face. I still owe her one for kidnapping me and offering me up on a platter to that rapist, Perez. I nod to Simon. “Sign me up.”
He gives me one of those raised chin nods, saying, “Smart Lady,” before sauntering away.
Neither of them look happy.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Tristian says. “I’ll talk to one of the Dukes and get them to take your name off the list.”
“Why?” Hotly, I insist, “It’s for a good cause, and it’ll earn me money. I want to do it!”
Tristian growls, “Well, we don’t fucking want you to.”
There was a time that tone in Tristian’s voice—low, full of threat—would cow me. Now it just makes my hackles rise. “Why the hell not?”
It’s Dimitri who answers, and I realize now how still and rigid he’s become. “Jesus, don’t you get it? Watching you traipsing around like that in front of all those fuckers?”
“Like what? Dressed up in some slutty costume or something?” I roll my eyes. “I’m not stupid, Dimitri. If it’s not exploitive, it wouldn’t be the Royals’ brand.”
“It’s not just wrestling,” Tristian says. “It’s Jell-O wrestling.”
“Slicked up, string-bikini, tits out, hot pants, bullshit wrestling,” Dimitri adds, flopping back in his seat with a glower. “No one watches it for the wrestling, Story. It’s just your run-of-the-mill spank bank fodder.”
“And you’re not going to be a part of it.” Tristian shoots me a pointed look and opens the laptop, his tone brooking no argument.
My instinct is to argue anyway, but I’m coming at this all wrong. They don’t want to share me, and frankly, I don’t want to be shared. But this is it. This is the thing I need to get ahead—not just financially, but in this whole sick, twisted world of Forsyth. I reach out to touch Tristian’s arm, just letting my hand rest there, and he freezes. Calmly, I ask him, “Do you think I can beat Sutton? Be honest.”
He flicks his gaze from my hand to my eyes, lips parting. “Do I think you could beat Sutton?” Tristian finally concedes, “Well, obviously, but—”
“Then let me do it,” I plead, knowing full well what I’m doing with my eyes. “Let me get my revenge on that skank, and you can make sure the winner’s pot is nice and fat.”
“No.” Dimitri’s voice rings with finality, and while it’d be easy to sway Tristian with a little affection and eyelash batting, Dimitri isn’t so easily manipulated. He rubs the bridge of his nose, eyes clenched shut. “You’re not doing it. That’s final.”
Crossing my arms, I level him with a look. “How many times do I need to remind you that I’m not your poodle?”
He goes still, sliding his dark, stormy gaze to mine. I know before his lips even part that I’m not going to like what he says next. It’s in the razor-sharp gleam of his stare. “I don’t know, Story. How many times am I going to have to step between you and a room full of sweaty, horny assholes?”
It hits just like he wants it to, a twist in my gut, a blade slicing into my skin, a grip around my lungs. I try not to let it show, but I’m not like them. My armor is new and feeble, and I see my reaction reflected in the twitch of his throat.
“Rath,” Tristian says, voice full of warning.
“Fuck this,” he mutters, lurching from his seat. “My head hurts. I’ll be waiting in the truck.”
I watch blankly as he leaves the shop, and it doesn’t matter how much I refuse to feel guilty for what happened that day at the Velvet Hideaway. It still churns hot in my stomach.
Later that night, the two of us are in the den running through a list of suspects, and coffee is the only thing keeping me lucid. It isn’t until my fifth cup that Tristian’s eye twitches. He watched me down the first four without blinking an eye. But this, it seems, finally makes him crack.
“What is that?” he asks, trying to seem barely interested. “Your fourth cup?”
I take a sip of the coffee. “Fifth.”
“Hm.” He taps at some keys on the laptop, not raising his gaze. “It’s pretty late in the day for that much caffeine.” The words come out dripping with disapproval, but he tacks on a hasty, “It would be for me, at least.”
I stare at him as I take a slower sip. “It doesn’t bother me.”
“Hm,” he says again, and then, “Hmm.”
Hum all you want.
“So who is this guy?” I ask, pointing to a name on the spreadsheet. Dimitri should be here with us, but he’d begged off as soon as we arrived home, citing a migraine, and disappeared into his room again. It’s probably a good thing my thoughts are thick and muddied with exhaustion, else I’d be fixating on what he’s doing up there. Probably getting drunk or high. Running into him yesterday with all that liquor made it clear he hasn’t been bothered about my offer.
Idly, I wonder if he’d answer my call tonight.
“Lionel Lucia,” Tristian reads, looking almost as tired as I feel. “He’s another King, fronting the Counts.” Saul Cartwright from the Dukes is below him, and then two others, presumably the Kings of the Barons and Princes. “The Kings make our house disputes look petty in comparison. Imagine a shit head like Perez with all the resources of one of these guys at his disposal. We’re talking CEOs of Fortune 500 companies, state government, brokerage firms that can manipulate any commodity…”
I shiver at the thought. Perez had been behind my kidnapping—he’d planned on raping me. “So these guys are pretty bad, huh?”
Tristian tilts his head, forehead creased in thought. “Bad? Who’s to say? Life will get a lot easier for you when you realize there’s no such thing as good and bad. The world isn’t black and white, Story.”
Steaming hot take there from Tristian Mercer.
“Whatever,” I sigh, leaning in close to get a better look. His arm comes around me, loose but solid, and I swallow hard. “They’re like, enemies, though, right?”
“Kind of,” he answers, thumbing at my hip in a thoughtless motion. “Old beefs carry over, so sometimes there are alliances. Other times, it’s kill or be killed. The Lords have always been at odds with the Counts, though.” He taps the screen. “Lionel Lucia makes Perez look like a harmless infant, but the problem is, he’s never quiet about it. Lucia’s the kind of guy who’d brag. This cloak and dagger shtick isn’t his style.” He raises an eyebrow. “It’s really more Daniel’s.”
“Someone really wants us to think this is Daniel.”
He agrees, “And someone really wants Daniel to think we’re striking back.” He blows out a hard breath, clicking around the cells. “But none of these are jumping out at me. Maybe we’re looking at this all wrong.”
“Wrong, how?” I ask.
“We’re assuming this is someone tied to Daniel, but what if it’s someone tied to you?” He turns to look at me, his blue eyes boring into mine. “Or someone tied to your mom, even. An old boyfriend? A pervy john?”
I grimace, thinking back. “Before Daniel, I don’t really remember my mom dating anyone. She had some repeat clients, but—”
“Okay,” he interrupts, fingers poised over the keys. “What do you remember?”
It’s admittedly not much. My mom always tried to keep me out of that part of her life, even when she was forced to cart me around with her. There were quiet men, loud men, mean men, sometimes even kind men. “Most of her clients were one-offs, but there were a few bread-and-butter types—men that mom could always count on for a dependable cash flow.” It feels weird to talk about so casually, like I’m bringing some dark, dirty secret into an unbearably bright light.
Tristian doesn’t even blink at the words, however. “Anyone in particular? This person would need to be wealthy, have connections.”
I snort. “She didn’t really attract that kind of clientele. Daniel was the flashiest guy she ever landed, I guarantee you.”
This just piques his interest more. “Someone cheap like that…she’d probably have a pimp, right?”
I wince at the word—cheap—but he’s not wrong. “Once, I think, when I was really young. I don’t remember anything about him. I just know it left an impression. She was willing to take the drop in exposure if it meant being…uh, freelance.” He does me the courtesy of not laughing at the term.
“Well, if you remember something, write it down.” I watch as he makes a column for ‘Posey’ and then one for ‘Story’. “How about your old sugar daddies? The chances of some rich, old perv latching onto you is the most obvious option.”
“Like Cartwright?” I ask, still remembering that brief encounter with him in the athletic department. He’d played dumb, like he didn’t recognize me, but I don’t trust any of these men.
“He’s still a possibility, but he’d need a mole on the inside.” Tristian rubs his fingers over his mouth as he looks over the spreadsheet. “That’s what this column is for.” He nods at the screen, musing, “These are people who could be accomplices.”
Some of the names on the list surprise me. “Martin? Really?”
Tristian cuts me a look. “Would you trust a lawyer?”
Wrapping my arms around my middle, I admit, “I’m not sure I’d trust anyone at this point.”
“Exactly.”
“Wait,” I say, zeroing in on another name. “Augustine? The girl who works at the Hideaway?”
“The girl who runs the Hideaway,” he corrects. “She probably has more connections than eighty percent of this list. Plus, there’s all that drama with Rath.”
My eyes jerk up. “What drama with Rath?”
Tristian waves a hand. “Augustine’s been chasing his dick since high school. Girl’s got it bad, but he keeps letting her down easy.” Shaking his head, he adds, “A torch like that’s probably exploitable.”
I take in this information, remembering snippets of our interactions.
Tell Rath there’s always an open invitation…
For some reason, the first thing that comes to mind is, “She’s really pretty.” I can’t imagine Rath turning down someone like Augustine. She’s not just ‘pretty’. She moves, speaks, and breathes like sex personified. She’s someone I could never be, and suddenly I’m struck by something sharp and hot, stinging like razor blades in my chest. It’s something urgent and I don’t really understand it at first.
Not until Tristian touches my chin, turning my gaze to his. Gently, he says, “Not as pretty as you,” and I realize that’s what it is. Not jealousy. Just this burning certainty that if push came to shove, I couldn’t measure up. It’s the same way I feel whenever I see that tattoo on Killian’s arm. Tristian’s thumb sweeps against my chin as he searches my eyes. “Go talk to him, sweetheart.”
I bite my lip, considering. “I don’t think he’d want me to.”
“Because of what he said earlier?” The problem here is that Dimitri was partly right. I keep digging myself into these…situations. I stand by the fact the wrestling thing is a good idea, but at some point, maybe I do have to consider this becoming a pattern. Tristian’s mouth tightens. “Don’t let that get to you. He’s just a cranky shit on account of being sober for three days straight.”
Everything screeches to a standstill. “What?”
“You haven’t noticed?” Tristian’s eyes follow his fingers as they reach for my hair, sweeping it over my shoulder. “He’s been clean as a fucking whistle since Thanksgiving morning. Between you and me, sometimes it’s all I can do to not force something down his throat. Rath and detox go together like gasoline fumes and a Zippo. Don’t take it too personally.”
I blink at him, trying to reorient myself. “Are you…sure? Because I saw him yesterday coming down the stairs with a lot of booze.”
Tristian rolls his eyes, running a fingertip over my exposed neck. “Come on, you know Rath. Anything worth doing is worth doing in the most dramatic way possible. Apparently, you can’t sober up for a few days without pouring all of someone else’s liquor down the sink. That bottle of whiskey was fifteen years old, by the way. Although,” he adds, eyes narrowing, “it will be nice to open the liquor cabinet and find it not-empty for once.”
“Three days,” I realize. “He’s been sober for three days.”
Tristian arches an eyebrow. “He can, on occasion, do that.”
There’s a flash of surprise in his eyes when I lean forward to kiss him, but it’s quickly hidden by the way they darken, falling shut as he cups my neck. I know he wants more—all of them do, all the time—and it’s made obvious by the way he chases me when I pull away, rising to my feet.
I tap my thigh, feeling fidgety. “Thank you.” He doesn’t ask what for, just stares up at me with this glazed, dumbfounded expression. “I think…I’m going to go talk to him.”
Tristian blinks. “Okay.”
I nod back. “Okay.”
But the entire way up the stairs, I just feel anxious and guilty. I don’t feel much better about it when I’m standing in front of his door, rapping my knuckles against the wood. For a moment, I hear nothing, and I worry he’ll just ignore it. But then there’s a small, quiet series of thumps.
The door swings open and he’s standing there, shirtless and disheveled, eyes heavy with sleep. “What?”
It’s not said unkindly, but it still makes me shrink into myself a bit. “You were sleeping?”
He rakes his fingers through his hair, visibly trying to rouse himself. Behind him, the room is shrouded in darkness. “Headache,” he rasps, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Sometimes sleeping helps.”
My chest twists even further, remembering what he told me that day in his bathtub. Darkness and weed is what he’d usually use to alleviate his headaches. But he’s sober.
For me.
“Did it work?” I ask, wincing.
“Not really.”
A long beat passes between us, neither of us wanting to admit to what we really want. Really need. But the truth is that I’m the reason he feels like shit. He did this for me, and the fact he hasn’t shoved it in my face tells me it’s about something more than getting me back in his bed.
If Dimitri Rathbone can give up his crutch for me, well, then it’s time I give something up for him, and right now that something is my stubborn pride.
“Maybe I can help,” I suggest.
His eyes hold mine for another lingering moment. “Yeah, maybe you can.” He pushes the door wider and steps aside.
As I step over the threshold, it’s not lost on me that Dimitri has given me the choice. He made me decide, just like I demanded.
I think it’s time for me to show him how much I appreciate that.
