I flip him the bird because he’s being a cocky shit, as usual, which is enough for the tension between us to simmer down somewhat.
“It’s good to see you, man. I honestly thought I wouldn’t get the chance to hang out with you and the guys before returning to Richfield tomorrow,” I admit, squeezing his shoulder.
“Linc sent me a text last night asking me to come over. If I knew you’d be coming, I might have blown him off,” he taunts, widening his trademark grin.
This time I elbow the fucker in the stomach, making him yelp like a little pussy. His laughter outshines his discomfort from the gut punch, which leaves me feeling a bit better for being here.
“Yeah, Lincoln sent me a text, too. Do you think Colt’s going to show up?” I ask, turning around to face the massive house that looks so eerily empty. I guess it’s to be expected now, seeing as only one person inhabits it.
“Don’t know, but I doubt it. You know Colt prefers to spend his Sunday mornings between the thighs of whoever he hooked up with the night before.”
“I never did understand the fucker. He does the longest hit ‘em and quit ‘em I’ve ever seen,” I joke playfully.
If I’m the crude asshole in this group, and Easton is the cool, collected prick, well, Colt is definitely the Romeo in our quartet. Guy gets more tail than anyone I have ever met. And the thing is, he doesn’t even have to be sleazy about it. Women just flock to him like moths to a flame, and even after he gives them their walking papers, they still get starry-eyed when they see him again. It’s the weirdest fucking thing since I know what a cold-blooded bastard he is.
“And that, my friend, is why the ladies love him and hate you. He gives them what they want while you only get what you want.” Easton laughs, while my scowl deepens.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing or something?” My question gets another howl from the friend beside me, increasing my confusion. “What?” I exclaim, not getting what’s so funny.
So I’m a no-strings-attached kind of guy. What’s wrong with that? I don’t make any false promises, so I’m not a complete asshat. I make sure the girls I mess with have just as much fun as I do. I’m just not the kind of guy that cuddles afterward or spends the night faking interest in anything they have to say. I really don’t see what the big deal is. I’m upfront right from the bat. Doesn’t that deserve some recognition?
“Shit, what did I tell you about thinking too hard? You’re giving yourself wrinkles, dude. Just stop. But if you’re really interested in knowing the difference between you and Colt, just ask any girl you’ve been out with what they think of you, and then compare it to Colt’s lays. You’ll see that their answers are night and day,” Easton jokes, finding my sex-life far too amusing for my liking.
“I don’t give a fuck. So they hate me afterward—big fucking deal. Everyone knows I don’t have time for chicks in my life,” I defend stiffly.
“Just one-night stands with girls whose names you can’t even remember during them, much less afterward,” Easton mumbles under his breath.
“You know what? I take back what I said. I could have gone another day or two without seeing your know-it-all face. And, again, I don’t see the problem in one-night stands that don’t evolve further than that. We’re in our twenties, asshole. In our fucking prime. Why should I waste more than one night with a girl if it’s not going to go anywhere? Makes no sense to me.” I shrug.
“One day, someone is going to knock on your doorstep, and you’ll eat those words,” Easton quips back with all the certainty in the world.
“I don’t see that happening anytime soon, so it’s a moot point. Actually, this whole conversation is a waste of my time.”
“What’s a waste of time?” a deep, husky voice asks behind us.
We both turn around and see the devil himself, waltzing toward us with messy bed hair, as if he just ended a fuckfest marathon. Knowing Colt, he probably did.
He’s donning a bright smile on his face, and his green eyes are glistening in the sun. I have to admit, I really missed the cocky asshole, too. I have no idea how he does it, but Colt always looks right as rain—like he walks around on rainbows and shit. If I didn’t know he has the mean streak of a snake, I’d swear the guy was too fucking chipper to have all his screws on tight.
Colt fist-bumps Easton first, and then me, before taking the spot on my other side, leaning his head back on the roof of my car, so the sun kisses his already tanned face.
“Are you assholes going to stand out there all day long?” a voice calls out, making us all turn to face the house at our backs, and my eyes instantly lock on the friend I had been dreading to see for the past three months.
The breath I had apparently been holding in leaves me the minute I register that Lincoln still looks like Linc.
All three of us leave our spots, walking toward the house. The closer I get to him, the clearer it becomes to me that he is far from looking like someone who’s carrying the biggest fucked-up secret. There’s no frown, nor deep lines under his eyes. No sunken cheeks from lack of eating, nor pale, clammy skin from sleep deprivation due to horror-filled nightmares. He looks like a totally different person than the one I left behind before going on vacation.
As I inspect every inch of him, I can’t pinpoint one single trace of damage on his face. Instead of the frail friend I expected to find, I’m astounded to see he looks even better than before. I see he bulked up over the summer, and if my eyes aren’t deceiving me, he’s also got some mad ink peeking out from under his short sleeve.
He looks good.
Too good.
If most of Asheville didn’t attend his parents’ funeral last May, then they probably wouldn’t suspect the guy in front of me as having gone through such an ordeal and loss.
Hmm.
Loss? Is loss really the right word to be used when all four of us took part in their unexpected demise? I mean, the Hamiltons weren’t exactly like a set of keys that you can just misplace or lose. You just don’t lose two people like that. Nope. Loss is the wrong fucking word in this scenario. They weren’t lost. They were killed. And everyone in Asheville believes it was a robbery gone wrong. If anyone ever discovered the truth, then the only thing that could be lost here is our freedom.
“We’re here, asshole. What the fuck was so important that couldn’t wait? Remy Peterson was pissed as hell when I had to leave her bed this morning,” Colt singsongs, wiggling his eyebrows at his cousin.
“Just come inside the house. We need to talk,” Lincoln says a bit too harshly, and just like that, my hackles rise up again.
Linc’s sunny disposition is long gone. The forlorn mood I expected to find is suddenly imprinted on every feature of his face, and I, for one, hate seeing it there. But that’s not even what alarms me the most. My steps falter when his fabricated grin returns once more, shining away, as if we all didn’t just see that this new and improved Lincoln is nothing but a mask he’s put in place.
The question, though, is why does he believe he needs it in the first place?