I love him.
Fear pinches at the feeling, just slightly, but I slip my hand in his back pocket. Not wanting him to go.
I’d like to spend midnight in his arms, but we can’t if Tony is in view. “Will the others notice if we stay up here for a little while longer?”
“No.”
So we do. And we hide from the harsher realities that will come all too soon.
35
JANE COBALT
13 Days Snowed-In
“If we do this, there is no return,” I tell Charlie.
I want to ensure this is the right choice and he’s not just zipping down to the last resort plan because he’s been cooped up in Mackintosh House.
And the last resort is also known as Plan Z.
Charlie has fingers to his lips, gazing out the window. The tower room is the highest point in the house with panoramic views of the highlands. Snow drifts softly from the sky, the storm letting up today. Hopefully tomorrow. Hopefully it will all just melt and we can finally leave.
But until then, we have graver issues.
Thatcher stands stoically against green wallpaper. An old black-and-white sketch of the Holyrood Palace is framed in gold and hangs near his broad shoulder. We share a serious look off my brother’s silence.
Charlie is usually confident about whichever road he drives down. Even if that street is riddled with regrets and hatred, he will meet all at full speed.
A moment passes.
Just one more, and his yellow-green eyes land on me. Assuredness etched in his irises. “We’re doing this.” He seizes his cane that leans up against the windowsill. “Beckett still hasn’t made up with Sulli, and he’s made no promises not to use coke.” He lets out a dry laugh. “What’s even the point of bringing him here if he’s going to keep using drugs the second he returns to ballet?”
No point.
Not really.
We just delayed the inevitable.
It’s why Plan Z always existed from the start, but it’s one Thatcher, Charlie, and I didn’t want to have to execute.
Maximoff can’t even be here because if he’s in the room, we all worry that Beckett will try to incite Charlie and Maximoff’s feud to redirect the attention off himself.
I try reverting to a different option. “Mom and Dad know. Akara told them about Beckett, and they’ve most likely had suspicions long before. We could wait and see their point of attack. I’m sure they’ve been planning one.”
Charlie rolls his eyes, frustrated. “We know what they’ll do, Jane. They’ll find a way to take ballet from him. Just like we’ve done during this trip. Only it’ll be permanent, and he’ll be a fucking shell after it happens.”
My blood chills.
Beckett needs ballet.
It’s his soul.
His passion.
“Mom and Dad taught us to be self-reliant, did they not?” Charlie questions. “We’re working together and solving this now. We’ve dragged our feet for too many weeks.”
Thatcher adjusts his earpiece. “What happens if this doesn’t work?” His voice is deep and serious.
“It’s going to work,” Charlie says, confidence emblazoning him. He wraps himself in it like a cloak. I wonder if the sentiment conceals something else underneath or if his core is just as certain.
I trust him with everything I have. And so I take a deeper breath and say, “Go get him.”
Charlie braces some of his weight on his cane and passes me for the door. He pauses just to whisper, “Que l’audace soit mon amie.” And then he leaves.
His words ring my head. It’s one of our family’s favorite Shakespeare quotes, and in French, it’s become one of our many mottos.
Boldness be my friend.
I meet Thatcher’s gaze. “Do you think we’re making the wrong choice?”
“No.” Zero hesitation in his voice. “Any choice you both agree on, together, is going to be the right one.” His jaw hardens and he blinks. “But I can’t lie to you—it’s gonna be hard for me to just stand here and watch you do this. It’s going against every fucking instinct I have.”
I know.
“Do you want to leave?” Even offering him that option nearly steals my breath. I want him here. I need him here.
That need nearly pummels me, but I welcome the strong feeling in this second. I could shout from the rooftops of the world.
I need him!
I need him!
I need Thatcher Moretti, the love of my life, my boyfriend and safety and comfort and armor!
“I’m not leaving.” He’s as confident as my brother, and I’m quite certain that I’m the one floundering.
I’m the one flopping around in this room. In less than sixty-seconds, I’m going to need to pack on every piece of battle gear I have.
Charlie isn’t the one directing this plan.
I am.
“You’re not leaving me,” I repeat, letting this lift my chin and pull back my shoulders.
“I’m staying here,” Thatcher adds. “Even if it fucking kills me. I’m not moving a muscle.”
Emotions tunnel through me. I’ve never had fealty from someone who isn’t family, and this isn’t the fealty of a bodyguard. Because if he were, he’d stop me. He’d walk out of the room.
He’s here as someone else.
My confidante in life. My right-hand. My wingman.
My hope and future.
I blink back the feeling, the surge, the swell that causes my breath to stagger.
“What do you need to tell me?” Beckett questions, just having stepped inside the tower room. Floral tattoos spindle down his arm, only in a black muscle tee. Beads of sweat are built on his forehead, and damp pieces of his dark hair hang over a rolled bandana.
Like he just finished a workout.
He must not be cold because he glides across the room and leans against the windowsill. The chilliest area.
Charlie closes the door and flips the lock, but Beckett doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He just crosses his arms, calm but not content.
He looks anxious these extra days here and without contact back home. “What is it?”
“Do you plan to use drugs when we return home?” I ask.
Beckett lets out an aggravated breath and looks from me, to Charlie, then to Thatcher, realizing that this is about cocaine. “I’ve been in Scotland for almost three weeks—have you seen withdrawal symptoms from me even once?”
Stay strong. I don’t cower. I take three steps, closing the gap between us. “No, but that doesn’t change the facts. You’re using coke every day you have a performance. That’s six times a week.” My eyes widen. “That’s not healthy. You could have a heart attack, a stroke, and you’re destroying your nasal lining from snorting it.”
“I don’t need a Web M.D. side effect rundown, sis. And if you want to give me one, you better tell him too.” He nods towards his twin brother.
Charlie rolls his eyes. “Please.” The please is a bitter one.
“No.” Beckett stands up to his full height, two inches shorter than Charlie. “You act like I’m the addict because I’m doing coke. But you’re taking God-knows-what from God-knows-who. I mean, peyote? Really?”