We might appear mismatched, but the Cobalts are totally put-together—and Luna and I can hold our fucking own. I might be more nonconfrontational at the moment, but that doesn’t make me a wilting flower.
Charlie lets a cigarette burn between his fingers. “If they wanted a fight, they would’ve provoked Moffy by now.”
“Like you always do,” I mumble, which I thought would only be audible to myself.
Beckett is in the middle of me and his twin brother—the three couch dwellers. And he must hear my statement because he puts a protective arm around my shoulders while Charlie leans over him to confront me.
“Instead of failing at whispering, just say it to my face, Sulli.” An insult and a challenge. I’m not interested in the mental-fuckery from Charlie—not before tomorrow’s 400m free.
“I’ll fucking pass.”
“Coward,” he says plainly.
I bristle, hating when Charlie thinks he can walk all over me. “I’m not chicken-shit.”
Except for the fact that I just fled from Jane, and Charlie knows this. He knows I’m pregnant because I figured if Maximoff, Beckett, and Luna know—it’d only be right that Jane and Charlie do too.
To prove that I’m not chicken-shit, I tell him to his face, “And I said like you always do. Happy?”
“No.” His tone is unbothered. He puts the cigarette to his lips and blows smoke a little carelessly.
Beckett wafts the air, then snatches the cigarette. “She has an event tomorrow.” He snuffs the cigarette in an ashtray. My best friend is doing his best to limit my inhalation of secondhand smoke.
Charlie glances to Beckett. “Smoke won’t make or break her.” But he doesn’t light another one.
“Dude, are they laughing?” Tom asks, aghast and pissed.
I peek again.
Wyatt and Wesley have angled their bodies and observe us like we’re observing them. Only difference is that they’re smirking. Ugly fucking self-satisfied grins, and Wesley snickers a little as he sips whiskey on ice.
My stomach simultaneously curdles and blazes on fire.
Eliot clenches his squared jaw. He flips open and closed a Zippo lighter. “How should we strike, brothers?”
“In the front,” Tom says. “What they didn’t do. You want to talk about cowards? Those three are leagues above Sulli in the chicken-shit department.”
I put a hand to my face. How did I get dragged into this? Oh yeah, I have no fucking filter.
“You’re not chicken-shit at all,” Beckett whispers.
“Thanks, Beckett.”
Eliot bows forward. “Lex talionis.”
“Who?” I ask, fucking confused.
“The law of retaliation,” Beckett defines.
“An eye for an eye,” Tom chimes in, just as Eliot tosses his little brother the Zippo lighter. He’s about to stand, but his bodyguard along with Oscar and Akara are sending warning glances.
Eliot’s ass stays on Luna’s armrest for now. And he continues to eye-murder Wesley. “A foot for a foot.”
“They can’t be serious,” I say more to Luna since these are her best friends.
“They’re not not serious,” Luna replies.
Beckett asks Eliot, “Why are we invoking the law of retaliation again?” Again? How many times has Eliot said lex talons or whatever-the-fuck? Beckett adds, “It’s pointless.”
“It’s justice.”
“It’s revenge,” Beckett refutes.
“It’s deserved,” Tom rebuts.
“It’s stupid,” Charlie says in finality. “Little brother.” He directs his pierced gaze onto Eliot, who turned twenty-one on June 1st. “Are you really prepared to create a Royal Leaks 2.0 and expose the Rochesters’ secrets? Because that is a foot for a foot in this instance.”
“If I had secrets to spill,” Eliot says, then eyes me.
Oh fuck.
Beckett slips Charlie a look. “Not helping.”
“He won’t,” Charlie notes like he’s ten moves ahead on the chessboard. Like he knows his brothers too fucking well.
Still, Eliot asks me, “What dirt do you have on your ex-boyfriend?”
On Will? “Nothing. He was nice to me and never said a bad thing about anyone…at least not to me.”
“What about his siblings?” Eliot interrogates. “Did he ever talk about them?”
I frown, realizing that he almost never did. Just like I rarely brought up my family. “Not really.”
“Dude, she’s in Ben’s grade, isn’t she?” Tom says to Eliot, and it’s clear he’s speaking about Winnifred. “They went to Dalton together. Ben has to know something.”
Wesley laughs louder while eyeing us.
Beckett is glaring. “He’s such a prick.” I think only Charlie and I can hear Beckett’s quiet words.
Eliot lifts his phone to his lips. “Text Ben: what do you know about Winnifred Rochester? Send.”
The Cobalt brothers’ phones ping, and I’m guessing Eliot used a group chat that doesn’t include me or Luna.
“You really think he’ll respond?” Tom flicks the Zippo lighter, then tosses it back to Eliot. “He chose to stay in Philly over New York with us.”
“So did Luna,” I point out. “And you three are still fucking close.”
At this, Eliot, Luna, and Tom use their thumbs and pointer fingers to create a W, and they each raise the finger-letter to their own foreheads.
The Rochesters suddenly go quiet. Solidifying. Like the resident troublemakers in my family have mocked them and their names.
I’m pretty sure they’re just calling themselves weirdos.
Wesley takes a tight sip of whiskey. None of them shout inciting words. Mostly, they just glare.
Eliot checks his phone. “Still no reply.”
“Ben wouldn’t last a day with us in Hell’s Kitchen,” Charlie says plainly. “He’s smart to stay away.”
None of the Cobalt brothers disagree. Ben probably fits in better with my family, the Meadows, than with the Cobalts anyway, and he’s my sister’s best friend. He just graduated high school, and I’m glad he’ll still be in Philly, attending University of Pennsylvania while Nona is a junior at Dalton Academy.
Ping.
Ping.
Ping.
Ping.
A text reaches all four of their phones. Eliot uses audio to hear the message against his ear.
I peek over at Beckett’s cell. He shows me the reply.
Winnifred doesn’t speak very often. She might be selectively mute. I think she only talks to her older brother Will. – Ben
My frown deepens. I’m not shocked I didn’t know this. But if Will is nice to his sister, is this a notch in the Will’s Not a Bad Guy category? Then why would he participate in The Royal Leaks?
Why would he actively try to hurt me?
No one speaks.
Eliot is studying Winnifred Rochester like she’s a theatre partner he hasn’t quite figured out yet. Like he might need to rehearse ten more scenes, ten more times, to truly understand, and the longer he stares, the more his gaze reddens. Is he conflicted?
Upset?
I wish I fucking knew, but I’m so much closer to Beckett than to Eliot.