He never had to give up a scholarship from an Ivy League school, knowing it was too far to visit and help Dad if something ever happened.
He never had to give up his body, submitting it to a battering of fists—and knives when some overprivileged asshole bet on the wrong side.
Reed remained pristine as a sacrificial virgin, a purity we all fought to maintain at all costs. So, he could be pissed at all of us, but his anger rested on a cracked foundation.
“He kept it a secret from me?” Oddly, Emery didn’t sound hurt. It made me study her closely, lured by the idea of peeking inside her head.
“No.” My fingers itched for a joint, something it hadn’t done since high school. “Ma and I didn't tell him anything until after the funeral.” Actually, Ma had told him. Reed still hated me for the cotillion. “Dad didn’t want him to know. Reed would have quit football and used the gear and registration fee to pay for Dad’s meds.”
“He should have.”
An instant response, absent of hesitation.
It made me hate her a bit less, which transferred my irritation onto myself.
I wondered what she’d say if she knew Gideon had known. He’d offered to use his connections to get Dad into a trial. My parents didn’t give two shits about pride. They cared about their kids, staying out of trouble, and spending as much time with each other as they could. Nothing else.
The drug trial helped until the Winthrop Scandal broke, and the lead researcher booted Dad from the trial in retaliation. Like my parents, he’d invested all his savings in Winthrop Textiles. Like my parents, he lost it all. Unlike my parents, he lashed out.
“Dad didn’t want him to,” I finally said.
“Is that why Reed hates you? Because you three kept that from him?”
It struck me as an odd place to have this conversation, but I kept my face level with hers, even when the idea of water dripping down her bare flesh enticed me. “Part of it, but he was mad before that.”
Since the night of the cotillion when he’d almost gotten arrested, to be specific.
“Hank died of a heart attack… because he stopped taking his meds?”
“He couldn’t afford them after he and Ma lost their jobs for your parents and their savings.”
After he’d been cut off from the trial drugs, Dad was a ticking time bomb. He didn’t have three thousand a month for the other drugs. I had a plan, but I’d been too slow. Reed left for college, and I’d moved back to a shitty one-bedroom apartment in Eastridge and let my parents take the room.
“I'm sorry.” A strand of hair dropped over her eye, but she didn’t move. Surprise sliced across her face. It didn’t set well with me.
Always a great actress. From pretending to be Virginia’s bitch to stabbing my family in the back, you deserve an Oscar.
“Emery,” I warned.
More than anything, I hated apologies.
The thing about apologies is, they come after the fuck-up.
It’s like saying, “I admit it. I fucked you over, and now you have to forgive me for it.”
Why would I?
“No.” She stepped closer until the tip of her nose touched the glass. If the door was open, she’d be touching me. “Let me get this out. I know people throw the word sorry around like it means nothing, but I don’t. I believe in the power of words, and I’d never abuse them. So believe me when I say I am so incredibly sorry about your dad.”
Believe her? Never.
Water beat the floor. Flecks of liquid speckled the glass between us, fat teardrops chasing one another toward hell. She didn’t deserve a response, so I didn’t gift her one.
“That’s why you hate me,” she whispered.
So, so clueless.
I didn’t hate her for the sins of her parents. I hated her for knowing about them and doing nothing. I hated her because dad didn’t have to die.
It was why I hated myself, too.
“No, little Tiger.” My eyes finally caved, dipping to her tits. Two full, pear-shaped tits with hard nipples pointing right at me. If I looked lower, I could make out her pussy. I mustered the willpower not to and flicked my eyes back to hers. I promised, “I hate you for so much more.”
I’d told her about Dad. Got it over with, so she could wallow and languish in guilt like I did every day. A single lilac struggling to live without sunlight.
Wilted.
Withered.
Empty.
This conversation changed nothing.
There was still blood to be spilled.
Gideon’s.
Virginia’s.
Emery’s.
All my life, I’d been accused of being too much.
“Too out there.”
“Too artsy.”
“Too deranged.”
“Too petty.”
“Too lanky.”
“Too independent.”
“Too mouthy.”
“Too much.”
I took the insults and inhaled them as if they were compliments, swallowing each and every one with a cupidity that suggested they made me happy.
And they did.
I liked being too much because it meant I was never too little. I never held back. I never bit my tongue. I never pretended to be someone else.
My critics were right. I was out there, artsy, deranged, petty, lanky, busty, independent, and mouthy.
And for the most part, I liked myself.
There.
I said it.
But I didn’t like myself tonight.
Hank Prescott’s death had been preventable. Reed had kept that from me. Betty had kept that from me. Nash had kept that from me—and hated me.
And me?
I smelled like Nash did before he hated me.
A thief cloaked in a tiger’s scent.
The first thing I should have done when I ran back to my closet—barely remembering to shove my towel and shower caddy into my knock-off backpack that read “Jana Sport” rather than “JanSport”—was call Reed or Betty. Better yet, I should have tendered my resignation and gotten my ass out of dodge.
Instead, I sprawled across my sheets, spraying water everywhere because I hadn’t even bothered to dry my hair. Flashes of Nash moments ago rattled me.
Steam licking his bare chest.
His sharp inhale at the sight of my breasts.
Wetness gathering between my legs as he glared at me like he wanted to hate-fuck me.
My shaky hands barely managed to hold my phone.
I pulled up the Eastridge United app and shot a message to the one person who never judged me, my lust so thick it almost seemed tangible.
Durga: I need to come.
His reply came in seconds as if he’d had the app open to our chat when I messaged.
Benkinersophobia: I already have my cock in my hands. Strip out of your clothes, spread your legs, and tell me how much you want my cock.
I did as he asked, realizing I’d returned in my t-shirt and underwear, leaving my jeans hostage in Nash’s bathroom. Shit. The other pants I owned were oversized sweatpants that would fit an entire cruise ship. Ones I reserved for laundry day.
Durga: If you don’t make me come within the next ten seconds, I’m deleting this app.
Benkinersophobia: Cum not come. Say it correctly. Better yet, say it out loud. Beg me to make you cum.