I turn the bottle over in my hands, pressing my thumbnail into the glass. “He wants me to fight again.”
“You can’t,” Reyn instantly says, as if it’s that easy. “Unless you want your brain to turn into swiss cheese permanently.”
Rolling my shoulders, I grind out, “I know. But if I don’t, he’ll take it out on her. Fuck, if I do, he’ll take it out on her.”
Emory stares at me. “So what? You figured if you dumped her, he’d let it go?”
“He’ll lose interest if he thinks she doesn’t mean anything to me,” I explain. “If he doesn’t think he can use her against me, he won’t bother.”
“Then we go talk to him,” Reyn suggests.
“Oh geez, why in my eighteen fucking years on this earth had that never occurred to me? Thank you, Reyn! In two seconds, and with almost zero insight, you completely changed my life. Jesus Christ,” I say to Emory, jabbing a thumb to Reyn. “How much therapy has this guy had? Like everything can be ‘talked out’.”
Reyn just goes on, “Explain the situation. The concussion and everything. Work it out.”
Fist clenched tight around my bottle, I explode, “It doesn’t work that way with Heston!”
“You’re the toughest guy I know, Wilcox,” Reyn admits. “How bad can it be?”
I chuckle darkly. “You want to know how bad my brother really is? He’s the asshole who kicked his best friend’s girl in the face during a fire drill. He picks on little gay kids and mocks them in front of the whole school. He’s the one who preys on girls, films them in vulnerable positions, and hey, if they’re lucky, no one can see their face while he’s abusing them!”
I stand and start pacing the room, feeling the anxiety and anger rising. “He’s the kind of guy who sets up his little brother with an unfair fight that gives him a wicked concussion just to get a bigger payday. I’ve watched him drive our own mother to the edge of her own fucking sanity, just because she showed me a sliver of something he saw as favor.”
I turn to Emory, adding, “You know that pregnant cat? The one Sugar and I have been feeding? I took her home to have her kittens, and you know the first thought that popped into my head at the thought of leaving them in the house with him?” I look at Reyn, explaining, “That he’d kill them. Just because they were something I wanted to protect, something I gave even half a shit about. That’s who Heston is, and that’s what Heston does. Emory doesn’t even know the half of it. Being a Devil with him? That’s nothing. Try living with him. Being related to him. Being someone he’ll never see as anything more than competition.” I shake my head, tossing back my beer. “I will do everything in my power to protect Sugar from him, even if that means breaking her fucking heart and having her and the Playthings hate me forever.”
Emory and Reyn both look on, slack-jawed and still.
Reyn’s the first to break out of it. “But what about your parents? You dad? He’s powerful, right?”
I laugh darkly. “He is powerful, and he wields it to protect his kids, not the rest of the world.”
“Aren’t you one of his kids?” Emory wonders. “Doesn’t he want to protect you from him?”
I shake my head, raising my arms. “Heston’s his big, fat Wilcox heir. He’s got the Ivy League, the looks, the prickish attitude, and the Wilcox name. My dad’s been grooming him for this shit since he was born.”
“So be better.”
I turn a hot glare on Reynolds, feeling sort of like I want to bash his face in. “Excuse me?”
He just shrugs. “You’ve got all of that—or at least the opportunity to have it. Be better than Heston and your dad will choose you.”
“Be better than Heston,” I repeat, dumbfounded at his idiocy. “Sure, let me just go back in time and erase the fact that eighty percent of my favorite pastimes are illegal. Or that my dad has taught me fuck-all. Or that Heston was born first. That’s helpful as fuck, McAllister.”
“Well, you need to do something,” Emory cuts in. “Are you just going to live your entire life not wanting or having anything because you’re afraid Heston might fuck it up?”
“Looks like it,” I say bitterly.
“That’s not realistic, Bass.”
“How’s this for realism. You wanna know who he threatened before he found out about Sugar.” I give them each a tight grin. “Vandy. Just because Syd told him we were friends. That’s all it takes.”
Reyn doesn’t look so fucking blasé now. “Excuse me, he did fucking what?”
Emory barks a laugh. “I’d like to see him try.”
I tip my bottle at him. “That’s exactly why he won’t. Not because he’s afraid of you—he isn’t—but because I’m not worried. You see, it’s not fun for him unless I’m worried.” I down the last of my beer, tossing my bottle on the ground.
“So that’s it,” Emory asks, face grim. “You’re going to go back to fighting, just because that’s what he wants.”
I smile bitterly. “What Heston wants, Heston gets. Path of least resistance, Em. He won’t stop, and if someone gets in his way, he’ll bring everyone down with him.” I glance between them. “Look at the Devils. Heston organized that club prank and the whole group went down. He’s not afraid of cutting off his nose to spite his face. So,” I continue, “unless you have something that will take my brother out for good, I can’t risk it. I can’t risk her.”
Neither of them have a response to that, which is about fucking right. He’ll come after them next, and neither of them are going to risk it, either.
I don’t blame them one bit.
30
Sugar
Mr. Lee looks through my photos, one more time. I know from the way his lips turn down into a sharp frown what he’s going to say before it’s even out of his mouth. “But these two, at least?”
I don’t even look at them. “No, thanks.”
Mr. Lee has spent the last three days trying to convince me that the photos of Sebastian are the most compelling in my portfolio. The recruiters apparently are partial to portraits. I can’t even bring myself to look at them. The most recent ones, taken during that day at his house, had been developed the night after he dumped me. Locked down in the lab, watching his face appear in a grim parade of wound-rubbing salt hadn’t been my finest moment. There’s just something about putting the moments on paper—capturing them, locking them away, pinning them down—that makes it easier to let go.
Or, well. That’s how it used to be. Now it’s just a constant reminder that at one point, however briefly, Sebastian Wilcox had managed to snare the best parts of me.
Stings like a bitch.
Mr. Lee sighs, shaking his head. “That’s a real shame, Sugar. This one, with the fire…” He doesn’t make me look at it, but he does wait for me to meet his gaze. “This piece is the perfect representation of your style, the emotive nature of your work, and your skill and precision with a camera. I don’t want to push you somewhere you creatively—or emotionally—aren’t ready to go,” his sympathetic face makes it clear that he knows enough, “but I’d be remiss in my position if I let you walk out that door without telling you that this photo should be front and center. It’s your ticket, Miss Voss, plain and simple.”