As soon as we get home, I realize the pledges have already arrived to help set up the party. Not in the mood to deal with the toadies, I go right out back to meet Ms. Crane for a cigarette. My blood is pumping with something black and hot. Fucking bullshit, failing my report. I could have worked my way out of it, but no, I had to go up there and make a fucking effort.
What a goddamn joke.
Ms. Crane is in a mood of her own, barely sparing me a grunt as she sucks down her own cigarette. You know we’re both over the day when we don’t even bother insulting each other.
Once again, I curse myself for letting Story get to me. For allowing her to creep under my skin. Inferiority isn’t something I’ve ever copped to, and it’s especially not something I ever want to air out to other people—unlike Story, whose entire persona screams weakness. She’s a walking billboard advertising her vulnerability. She always has been. It’s a part of what makes fucking with her so enjoyable. It’s also like watching a train wreck.
By nature, I’m an empath. Not one of those touchy-feely soulful types. No. I can assess strong emotions and quickly determine how to capitalize on them—how to dominate. On the soccer field, I knew within moments how a player would react. It’s like having another sense that could hone in on my opponent. Were they nervous, intimidated, filled with adrenaline, high on ego? I reacted accordingly. Successfully. Winningly. In music, it’s even better. It’s the knowledge of how to evoke feelings, where to lead people, how to coax them.
There’s no one easier to read than Sweet Cherry. It was obvious the first time I saw her, anxiously hiding in the shadows of Killian’s house. A mouse afraid of being exposed. She was terrified of him, but that wasn’t all. She wanted something from her stepbrother. Approval? Acceptance? Whatever it was, it was cloaked under the heavy musk of fear and impossible to achieve.
I was the one who sensed her up in the laundry room that night. It’s like I could smell her all the way down in the basement, taste her special brand of defiance, fear, and want. I couldn’t resist tracking her down for Tristian, whose slut of a girlfriend had fucked his head all around. Considering how Story had done the same to Killian’s head by choosing his dad over him, it seemed like the perfect little game.
Things escalated faster than I expected, all of us high on the way she tried so hard to bluster her way through it. Killian’s easy agreement had come as a surprise, but he was always good at hiding any emotion other than rage. That night, we all revealed a little bit more about ourselves. Especially Story. When I realized how wet she was—how fucking into it she was—it was like a whole other side of my mind opened up.
When it comes to Story, every twitch, every gasp and every stare practically screams ‘break me’. Underneath all that flimsy bravado is a girl who needs to be put in her place. It was no different back then. If anything, it was more potent. A little more fear, a little less artful in her attempt at hiding it. She was younger than most of the girls we fucked with and Killian’s stepsister. But that didn’t stop us. It just made it more exciting. Something we’d been thinking about for so long that we wanted to savor it. But we didn’t get to—not that night.
Not until now.
Those same emotions followed her into the interview, then later into my bedroom. The stink is on her all the time. Defiance, fear, want. But this morning in the truck, it was different. I felt the panic rolling up her spine. It was in her badly hidden gasps, the way she held onto the door like she was looking for an escape. I knew exactly how to handle it. How to handle her.
I’d wanted to claim her first kiss as my own, but almost as strongly was the urge to be the one who took that panic away. The one who controlled it. And that’s exactly what I did.
But the problem is that she knows about me.
She has a piece of control of her own, and that’s not fucking acceptable.
When Ms. Crane and I head back inside, Tristian and the toadies are in the kitchen, setting up stacks of cups.
“We need some snacks,” Lahey says. He’s a twiggy little fuckface, entirely void of charm, but he’s a legacy. “Are these for the party?”
Tristian makes a snide glance at the tray of food Ms. Crane has already prepared. “Only if you want to eat garbage. What the hell are these? They’re barely a step up from chips!”
Ms. Crane sneers right back. “You have arms and legs. Cook something yourself if you don’t like it.”
Tristian’s nostrils flare and Killer and I share a glance at the impending bitchfest. “I said I wanted a vegetable tray!”
Ms. Crane goes to the fridge and pulls out a bag of half-thawed baby carrots. “There,” she says, dumping them on the counter with a loud ‘thud’. “Go fucking wild, you useless rabbit disguised as a man.”
Tristian instantly tosses them in the garbage. “I’m useless?!”
Lahey laughs, looking between them. “Yeah, you stupid hag. How hard is a vegetable tray, anyway? A trained poodle could do a better job than this.”
The kitchen goes silent.
Big mistake.
All our eyes shift to him, but he’s too busy arranging beers inside a cooler to notice the absolute mountain of shit he’s just dug himself into.
In a low, even voice, Tristian asks, “What did you just say to her?”
A lot of people think Tristian hates Ms. Crane. And he does, in his own way. But it’s a petty sort of hate. The kind of hate that’s more like a game than anything. Above all that, Tristian might respect her more than anyone ever has.
He was the one to suggest we pull her out of South Side.
Lahey looks up and then does a double-take at the expression on my face. “What?” He jostles when Killian’s hand lands on the back of his neck, body stiffening at what I’m guessing is a bruising grip.
“What the fuck did you just say to her?” Killian growls, face hard with fury.
Lahey’s gulp can probably be heard all the way upstairs. Idly, I glance toward the hall, and then unexpectedly make eye contact with Story. My eyes narrow and she flinches out of sight. Little fucking mouse.
“I was just agreeing with Lord Tristian, that’s all!”
Killian looks about five seconds from just taking his head off at the neck. If he doesn’t, I might. “That’s not your place, Pledge.”
“We’re allowed to talk to Ms. Crane like that. Do you know why?” Tristian’s smile is all sharp malice. “It’s because Ms. Crane is a part of us. She’s family. What exactly are you? You’re nothing.”
I take my place beside Ms. Crane. The look on her face, eyes cast down, makes me fold my arms to stop myself from punching this fucker in the face. Ms. Crane should never look like that. Cowed. Less than. Pissed off, but too smart to act on it.
She’s spent too much of her life looking like that, and at the hands of worse people than some pampered little college pledge fuck.
I ask, “You think the help is beneath you, Lahey?”
His wide eyes ping around us. “Wha—no! No, she’s not beneath me.”
Tristian slaps a hard, heavy hand down onto his shoulder. “No, she’s not. And I think you owe her an apology.”
I stress, “I think it’d better sound sincere as fuck.”
Lahey swallows, finally meeting Ms. Crane’s gaze. “Sorry.” I scoff and Killian gives him a jostle that results in a wince. “I—I was wrong. The food looks fine. Good, even! You probably worked hard on it, so I’m really sorry.”
Tristian prompts, “You’re sorry, what?”
It still takes Lahey a moment to stutter out a hasty, “Ma’am! I’m sorry, ma’am.” He stumbles forward when Killian lets him go.
“You’re not invited tonight,” Killian says, throwing him his messenger bag. It hits Lahey’s chest hard enough to almost topple him over. “You can sit out front, in a car, and be the fucking DD. If you even step foot in the house, you’re done. And if you want to be invited next time, you’d better come up with a gesture to show Ms. Crane exactly how sorry you are.”
Lahey skitters out of the house without so much as a peep.
“Come on,” I say to Ms. Crane, gently placing her hand in the crook of my arm. “I’ll light your cigarette for you and say something fresh.”
She snorts. “Nothing fresh about you, Lord Fuckface.”
I pat her hand. “That’s our cranky old bitch.”
“Don’t you fuckers forget it.”
