A cold mask falls over his expression, masking the small hint of damaged shock I'd barely gotten a glimpse of. He takes a step back.
Shit. Fuck. Why the fuck did I say that? "Abel—"
A fist flies towards my face and I don't even try to block it. Abel's knuckles knock against my cheek with enough force that I fall back several steps. The skin on my lower lip splits and blood fills my mouth. I look up and try again. "Abel, I'm—"
He doesn't wait to hear my apology. Abel turns around and leaves the room. I fall back on the mat and groan as I throw my arm over my eyes, blocking out the light. It isn't until the mat shudders as another steps on it that I recall Braxton.
"Not smart, man." I feel him hover over me before dropping to my side.
I lift my arm, but instead of looking at him, I stare at the tiled ceiling of our personal gym. "I fucking know. I didn't mean it like that. I was just..." What the hell am I doing? "He's not a prostitute," I finish lamely.
Brax chuckles darkly. "Isn't he?" he asks. "Aren't we all? We sell ourselves to the orders of our fathers if only so we can overtake them one day."
I have nothing to say to that. I can't deny it. Clenching my teeth, I feel the burn as the cut on my lip widens and more blood hits my tongue.
"It's not forever," I say. "We do this to get power and we're almost there. People are already coming to us. They're getting old. They have more enemies than we do. They'll fall and when that happens … we'll be there."
Brax is quiet for a moment. I half expect him to answer, but when he merely gets up and silently leaves the room, I can't say I'm shocked. He never does. He wants to believe it as much as I do, but it's hard to think of freedom when you've been chained down for your entire life. My arm raises and I spread the fingers of my right hand out and hold it over my head.
Small scars dot my skin. My ring finger is too close to my middle one, the lingering reminder of a broken bone—one of dozens. All of us have suffered for this chance. Abel. Braxton. Me.
I'll see us on top even if it kills me.
25
Avalon
I lay with my face to the sun, enjoying its warmth. When I first got to Eastpoint, the lingering chill of winter was still hanging over everything. But now, it's been weeks and I can feel spring trying to hurry her bitch ass up. Back in Plexton, summer seemed to stretch for nine months out of the year and the other seasons had to cram themselves into the remaining three.
A body drops down next to me on the grass, but I don't open my eyes. From the heaviness of the sound, I know it's not Rylie. Which leaves very few people who'd be brazen enough to approach me out in public like this.
I ignore him as I soak up the sun. Unlike the south, the heat here is far less humid. It's more enjoyable—bearable. It doesn't remind me at all of the cramped trailer parks and boarded up windows with no air circulation. As long as he's letting me be, he can bask in this fucking warmth right along with me. It's not like I really give a shit.
"You know you're causing a lot more trouble than you're worth," he says. And now I know exactly who it is. Seriously, what is it with these Sick Boys? Do they have a tracker on my ass or are they just obsessed?
I crack my lids and look up at Abel. "And that's my problem, how?" I ask.
White blonde and dark brown locks slide across his upper forehead as his head dips and crystal blue eyes meet mine. "I can't say I know what it was like back wherever you fucking came from," he starts, causing me to laugh.
"You wanna know?" I ask, sitting up and brushing off a few stray pieces of grass. The landscapers recently cut it and there are chunks of it still sitting around. "It was cheap, it was dirty, and no one in my neck of the woods had anything like what I see here." I gesture around. Across the road, I can see the glimmer of sunlight shining off of someone's brand new Ferrari. I'm not ashamed to admit that I've had to get close to a few cars just to figure out what they are. I don't recognize half of the names and the ones I do recognize are only because they're well known for being unbelievably expensive. I'm far more used to broken down pickup trucks with more rust than paint and poorly maintained Cadillacs from the 60s.
"If I'm causing trouble, I'm not doing it on purpose. You're just seeing trouble where there is none." I get up.
He doesn't immediately follow. Instead, he chooses to sit there, staring up at me as he shakes his head. "You cause trouble wherever you go without even trying," he says.
I sigh. "Then what do you want from me?" What would it take for him and his friends to realize that I'm not exactly going to bend over backwards to please them?
Abel stares at me for a moment, but instead of an answer, he merely lifts himself off the ground and stands towering over me. Without Braxton at his side, it's easier to see how tall he actually is. He always appears smaller next to his friend; it makes me forget how formidable he is on his own.
"Come with me for a few hours," he says.
I blink in surprise. "I have class."
"Skip it."
My head tilts to the side and I snort. "That doesn't sound like something a program student should do," I say.
His lips press together, but this time I can see that he's fighting against a smile. "I'll cover for you," he offers, shocking me once more.
He can do that? Just how much power do these three guys hold with the University? I wonder idly. 'Cause even as unworldly as I am, I know that's not normal. Curiosity burns inside me and I find myself lifting my hand towards his when he holds it out.
"Fine," I say, "but if I go missing and end up dead in a ditch somewhere, I'm coming back to haunt the fuck outta your ass."
He barks out a laugh that seems to startle him more than me. Shaking his head, Abel pulls me along behind him. We cross the road towards the very same parking lot I'd been looking at earlier. Once again, I find myself sitting shotgun in his red Mustang convertible. Except, this time, I'm not riding on someone's lap. Pity, I think before I can help myself.
"Why drive a car like this?" I ask as he turns out of the parking lot and presses the gas.
"What do you mean?"
My fingers trail against the door as wind whips through my hair. "I mean, with as rich as you all are, you can probably afford something new. Something nice. This is the car a normal college student might have. Not one who's probably a millionaire. It's nice enough, but not old enough to be considered a classic or worth much."
He's quiet for several minutes and I let the sound of the wind and the traffic around us fill the space without commenting again. I wait to see if he'll answer. We drive for several more minutes and my brows rise as he pulls into what looks like an old school diner and parks the car.
Leaving the top down, he gets out and I follow behind him. We're halfway up the steps to the front door when he stops and turns towards me, causing me to come to a standstill as well. He doesn't look at me, but back at the Mustang as he speaks.
"It was my mom's," he says, and I can tell just by the way he says it that there's more to the story. But I don't ask. It's not my place. If I were to ask now, it'd break whatever truce we've come to. Because no one looks like that when talking about their parents unless their parents are dead or gone.