Текст книги "Dirty Lies"

Автор книги: Emma Hart

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

Aidan

This girl is gonna be the fuckin’ death of me.

Not only did she stare right into my damn eyes as she came all over my hand, she left me to walk out of her house and say good-bye to her mom and her sister—who might as well have hearts tattooed on her eyeballs—with one of the most painful hard-ons I’ve ever fucking had. And now? Now she wants me to upload a picture of us holding fucking hands to Instagram.

Yes, the girl who woke up to death threats this morning wants to put our clasped hands on the Internet for the rabid fangirls to see.

She takes so little shit, and I’m struggling in my endeavor not to find it the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.

By struggling, I mean I’m failing. And by failing, I mean I’m fucked, because Jessie Law is about the sexiest girl I’ve ever met in my life.

I’m totally screwed.

“There,” she says, handing me back my phone and stepping down the porch steps. “That wasn’t too painful, was it?”

“Not as bad as getting the end of my cock pierced.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And you would know that how . . . ?”

“I wouldn’t. But I imagine the piercing to be real painful, and that was only kinda painful.”

“Your confidence in our fake relationship warms my black heart.”

My lips tug up to the side. “Your heart isn’t black, sunshine. A little gray in places, and your soul might be rotten around the edges . . .”

Jessie laughs loudly, smacking my bicep. “Shut your face. You can’t talk. Your soul is a chimney.”

“Actually, I just had it cleaned, thank you very much.”

She keeps laughing. “You’re such an idiot.”

“So you keep saying,” I reply as she pulls off her sandals and hooks her fingers through the back. She looks down as we walk, her eyes on the sand spilling between her toes. “Don’t think too hard. You’ve done a lot of that today, and you might hurt yourself.”

“One of these days, I’m going to pin you to a bed and get your penis pierced.”

I shudder at the thought. “No fucking way.”

“Yes way.” She grins and walks backward, holding up her hand and wiggling her fingers. “The power over your penis lies in my palm, rocker boy.”

“As if I could forget,” I mutter dryly. And there I was this morning, thinking that when she said she’d show me hers, she meant her blow-job skills. I can’t catch a break with this chick.

“Oh, look,” she trills, pulling out her phone, “your legion of demonic minions are sobbing all over your post.”

I cough over my laughter. “Wait—when did you get your phone?”

“I forgot my debit card.” She grins, looking up and meeting my eyes. So that’s why she went back upstairs.

“Pain in the ass,” I mutter, drawing level with her and looking at the screen. She’s right—for every like on the Instagram picture, there are several unhappy comments.

Including one from leila_burke: y’all make me sick.

Jessie hits Comment and types: @leila_burke I’ll bring you a bucket if you ask nicely.

I laugh and push her phone down. “You two are crazy.”

“Really? You just read some of those comments and you think we’re the crazy ones?” She turns and, spotting Kye with Mila, yells, “Hey, Kye, am I crazy?”

“Are you datin’ my brother?” he calls back.

“Not for reals.”

“Then no. You’re sane!” His laughter rings across the beach, and Jessie’s mingles with it. She turns, gives me a sassy smile that makes her eyes glint with mischief, then takes off, running across the beach, her sandals swinging at her side and her hair flying behind her like she’s straight out of a fucking movie.

I shake my head, but I can’t help the upturn of my lips. Fuck, I don’t even know how it came to this. To bedding a girl I lusted over six years ago and asked to prom—only to be shot the hell down, mind you—to making her my fake girlfriend, to being pissed when she drops onto the sand next to my twin brother and leans in with a flirtatious smile.

And my brother?

He doesn’t even move. He just sits there, their shoulders pressed together, and laughs at something she says.

I beat down the misplaced sense of frustration and argue with the anger coiling in my stomach. Does it matter what Jessie does? Even if it’s with my brother? No. Not a single damn bit. She’s not my girl. I don’t own her.

In fact, maybe this is for the best, her flirting with Kye. We’ve spent way too much time together, unnecessary time. So, away from the cameras, we need to not be together. I don’t care if she spends that time with Sofie or Ella or, hell, even my dad.

It’s clear.

We don’t need to spend any more time together except for what the ruse dictates.

I don’t notice I’m walking until Mila runs in front of me. “Uncy Ads?”

“Hey, bestie,” I say, dropping down to crouch in front of her. “What’s up?”

She covers her little grinning mouth with her hands and bounces. “You build cussel?”

“Aww, Mila,” I pretend to groan. “Really? There’s, like, ten right over there!”

Her bottom lip juts out. “Peeeeeaz, Uncy Ads. My lub cussels!”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Kisses!” She steps forward, giggling, and places a hand on each side of my face before smacking a kiss onto my nose.

“Another,” I demand, pointing to my cheek.

Smack.

“Ah ah, and another.” I point to my other cheek.

“Oh, Uncy Ads!” She sighs, but she dutifully kisses my other cheek. “You diva!”

“Me?” I gasp, holding my arms out. “No, Mila. You’re the diva!”

“No!” She puts her hands on her hips and gives me her best angry face, looking every inch the mini diva.

“Uh-huh!” I grab her and, dropping to one knee, flip her back over my thigh and lift her shirt. I drop my mouth to her exposed belly and blow a giant raspberry, and another, and another, and another. Her high-pitched giggles almost deafen me, and she hits me in the head three times with a wayward hand as she wriggles to get away from me, but I keep blowing raspberries until I’m ready to pass out from a lack of oxygen.

“Pit me down!” she shrieks through laughter, and I set her down on her butt on the sand in front of me.

“What? You didn’t like that?”

She humphs in a way that is so Sofie I can’t stop myself from smiling, and then she walks to her bucket and spade and hands them to me. “Cussels,” she whispers, eyes wide and lip jutting out again. “Peeeeeaz.”

“One cussel,” I bargain.

“Otay! Yay!” She claps her hands and runs off. “Here! Cussel here!”

I sigh dramatically, but I get up and walk to her. “Okay. Right here?”

“Wight here.” Her smile is so wide and beaming that I lean forward and kiss her forehead.

“Okay, Princess Mila. Right here.” I dig until I get to the wetter sand, then fill the bucket with it. She demands one, two, three more spades of sand until the bucket is overflowing, and I’m secretly scraping it off the top whenever she looks over my shoulder. “Ready, one, two . . .”

“Fwee! Go!” She claps her hands excitedly as I tip the bucket over and hand her the spade. She whacks the top of it enthusiastically, then flings the spade away to grab the bucket and lift it. “Ta-daaaaaaa!”

“Is Uncle Ads the best at castles or what?” I ask, holding my hand up for her to high-five.

She smacks her tiny hand against mine enthusiastically. “Bess ever!”

Let’s hope Tate never hears her say that, or I’m gonna find myself in a war with the Cussel King.

“Can I go inside now? I’m hungry.”

“You always hungy,” she replies, pouting.

“I know. Don’t ever meet boys, Mila. We just eat and eat and eat.”

“And watch balls,” she replies.

I chew the inside of my cheek. “Watch balls?”

“Ah-huh. Mama say, ‘Damn balls! Always the balls!’ ”

“Does she mean football? Or baseball? Or basketball?”

“Uh, balls,” she replies, eyes wide. “You silly, Uncy Ads. You balls?”

My eyebrows shoot up as Jessie and Kye roar with laughter. I resist the urge to look over my shoulder at them, instead focusing on the tiny, innocent face in front of me. The person who just asked me a not-so-innocent question. “Sure. I think there’s a basketball in my room. You want me to get it for you?”

“You balls bounce?”

I run my tongue over my teeth. “Sure. It bounces.”

“My like bounce balls.” She takes my hand, encouraging me to stand, and tugs me toward the house. “You like bounce balls?”

“Hey! I’ve got an idea!” I bend down again so I’m eye level with her. “How about you stay here while I get you the basketball? You can build another castle with Uncle Kye and Jessie.”

Mila looks at them for a second before pausing. “Otay.” And just like that, she grabs her bucket and spade and stumbles over the sand to them.

I turn away before I see them talk to her and stride up to the house. As much as I don’t care, I don’t wanna know what they have to say to her. I don’t wanna see Jessie leaning against Kye and him whispering in her ear again.

“Oh, Aidan!” Mom calls as I run upstairs.

“Hold on.” I go into my room and take the basketball from the bottom of my closet, then run back downstairs. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. What are you doing with that?” She dries her hand on a towel, glancing at the ball.

“For Mila. She’s obsessed with balls. This kind of balls,” I clarify, holding it up. “Don’t ask how I discovered that.”

Mom laughs softly. “Is Jessie here for lunch?”

I shrug, glancing at her across the beach. She’s tied her hair up into a messy knot on top of her head now and is filling the bright pink bucket as Mila watches in awe. “You’ll have to ask her.”

“Aidan?”

“Ask her, Mom. I don’t know and I don’t care.” I give Mom the ball then open the door to the garage and close it behind me before she can ask anything else.

The garage looks exactly how we left it. Guitars leaning against the walls, a Platinum album award hanging on the wall, broken and chipped drumsticks littering the floor in the corner, stacked notebooks and folders overflowing with scribbled-on sheets of paper covering the floor wherever possible. This was our sanctuary for so long, and it doesn’t matter how many recording studios we enter or how many stages we have to stand on, this will be home.

For all of us.

This was the room where, when I was six, Mom confined my drums. I’d had them all of three weeks after my and Kye’s birthday before she removed them from my bedroom and stashed them in here. I think she hoped I’d forget about them, but I didn’t. I remember looking at the drumsticks and loving the way they felt in my hands, the music they created that was so different compared to my brothers’ guitars.

I remember creeping down here whenever she wasn’t looking and beating the shit out of the drums. I’ve been through several sets since then, but these have lasted the longest. I bought them six months before Marc’s recording company found us on YouTube and signed us.

They’re also my favorite, because they have our logo on them, the one the company decided to keep.

I sit on the stool behind them and run my thumb along the edge of the crash cymbal. Smooth and cold, the metal disc vibrates as I let it go with a small flick and grab my sticks. The chilled wood is soothing against my hands, and my feet rest on the familiar pedals.

My whole body tremors with the desire to hit the sticks against the drums, to hear the beat, to feel the low thump as I let the steady pound flow through me and take me over.

So I do it.

I hit the stick in my right hand, then the left, then again and again. I hit the sticks until I’ve gone through three short verses of three different songs and have morphed into something different. Something totally different and new, something fresh, something that brings a smile to my lips. It gets quicker, making me hit the drums harder, then it slows, the beats gentle, easy, soothing, until it picks up again, and I can’t keep up, so I close my eyes, letting the music flow through me, breathing it in then letting it exhale through the drumsticks, then it’s slow again, simple, then it’s faster, and faster, and faster until it’s almost brutal, pushing the boundaries of anything I’ve ever played, until it’s country mixed with pure rock, twang mixed with shout, softness mixed with brashness, and—

“Whoa,” Jessie breathes, stopping at the door.

I stop and put the sticks down, still feeling the vibration of the music flooding through me. “What?”

She hesitates. “Nothing,” she says softly. “Your mom wanted me to tell you that lunch is ready.”

“Great. Tell her I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Okay.” Jessie moves toward the door, then stops with her hand on the doorknob. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?” I cut my eyes to her, inexplicable annoyance threading through me.

“That.” She motions toward the drum set. “The music. So easily. I’ve been watching you for ages, listening for even longer. You just sat there and didn’t even seem to think.”

“You were watching me?”

Her hair flicks around her face with her sharp nod. “Like I said . . . I listened. . . . And I couldn’t help it. I wanted to know if you were reading notes, then realized that was stupid, because how can you do that when you need to see what you’re doing? And you’re not a guitar player or a piano player, so . . .”

I drop my eyes from her face to the stick in my hand and twirl it.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says casually, but I hear the dejected tone as easily as I can hear every note of a guitar. “It was just . . . something . . . to hear you play alone. You know, without your brothers’ instruments or the tuning stuff. So, thanks? I guess.”

“You wanna know?”

She stops, halfway through the door. “Know?”

“How I do it? This?” I wave the stick across the drums.

She nods, opening her mouth.

“Jessie?” Kye pokes his head through the door. “Mom packed our lunch. You ready?”

“I . . .” She looks between us. “Yeah. I’m ready. Do you mind?” she asks me.

I look at her flatly, and fuck, that anger is back, hitting my stomach hard, twisting and coiling and turning. “Why would I?” I reply, voice tight. “I ain’t your keeper, sunshine.”

“Let’s go.” Kye shoots me a hard look before tapping her arm and disappearing.

Jessie hovers for a second that seems to last ten, staring at me, her hair falling in front of her eye. She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, and it whitens as her teeth drag across it, but when I don’t say a word, she steps through the door and to the side, leaving it to close after her.

I stare at the door. Closed. The slam final. The click of it even more final than the loud slam that echoes, because the click ricochets. Over and over and over, it’s deafening. Ironic, that such a quiet sound can be so loud in the right situation.

Kye. And Jessie.

My brother. My fucking twin. Out with the girl who’s supposed to be mine.

Supposed to be. Fuck me—this shouldn’t bother me this way. I shouldn’t be feeling so fucking . . . angry. That’s it. No frills or fancy stitching. That’s all I am and everything I am. Angry. So, so fucking angry.

What the hell are they playing at? No—screw that. She doesn’t owe me a thing. But Kye? Out with her? When he knows what this is?

I can only imagine the headlines tomorrow: DO TWINS REALLY SHARE EVERYTHING? Or: IS KYE STEALING HIS BROTHER’S GIRL?

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

I slam the sticks down and get up. The stool falls, clattering to the floor behind me. I kick it away and it slams into the chair Kye always sits in, and I take a childish, sick satisfaction in the way it smacks into the wall and hits the floor. I yank the door open and leave it to slam after me, and God, this feeling. It’s so unknown.

This feeling is so unwelcome. This anger can go and fuck itself, quite literally. I have no time or place or desire for it. It’s unnecessary. Totally out of damn place. And shit, I’m so fucking done with this.

I’m so fucking done with pretending if it’s just gonna lead to the total bullshit that could be my twin screwing the girl the whole world thinks I’m in love with.

“Aidan?”

I stop at the sound of Mom’s voice. I run my fingers through my hair, and in the middle of the kitchen I stare at her.

“Are you okay, son?”

I swallow. Hard. And without another word, turn back to the garage I just stormed out of, right the stool I just kicked over, sit down, and grab my sticks, ready to pound the shit out of the drums in front of me.

I delete the unopened message from Jessie and catch the basketball just before it hits me in the face. “Whoa,” I say to Mila. “You’re gettin’ real good at this.”

“My frow,” she demands, holding her arms out.

I place the ball, bigger than her head, in her hands, and take several steps back.

“Hiiiiiiiyah!” she yells, launching the ball at the side of the house. It bounces off, hitting the ground once before landing in my arms. I catch it and throw it against the floor before it hits the wall and comes back to me. “Mine!” she cries again. “Mine!”

Giving her a “bounce ball” might not have been my best idea this year.

She throws it over her head and it hits the wall so hard that I almost don’t catch it. Shit—who knew two-year-olds were so strong?

“Is Jessie here for dinner?” Mom asks.

“You’re asking the wrong twin,” I reply, seeing Kye move behind her in the kitchen. “He’ll know. He spent all afternoon with her.”

He freezes, and even Mom stops for a second. “Well, okay. Kye, is Jessie here for dinner?”

“No,” he replies, moving past her and stepping onto the porch. “What’s your problem?”

“If I had one, I’d have punched you already.” I throw the ball at the house.

“Watch my windows!” Mom calls as the ball comes dangerously close to them.

“Are you for real?” Kye puts his glass down on the table. “You’ve been nothing but a miserable asshole ever since you and Jessie got here this morning.”

“Oh, and I wonder why!”

“Dollar!” Mila shrieks, running between us. “Ass! Bad! Dollar!”

“So do the rest of us!” he yells, his eyes, the same color as mine and level with them, narrowing. “You come here, all laughing and happy and shit, then the next thing we know, you’re the most miserable fuckin’ piece of shit I’ve ever met!”

“Hey!” Conner yells, storming past Kye and swooping Mila up. “I don’t care if y’all are on your periods. Y’all watch your damn mouths around my daughter, especially when you’re fightin’ like a couple of girls!”

For one second, the youngest of us is the oldest, love giving him more strength than we can hope for.

“Don’t look at me,” I tell him, holding my hands up and dropping the ball. “He’s the one that can’t control himself.”

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot,” Kye shouts, jumping down the steps and coming toward me.

“One more step, bro, and I swear to God I’m gonna put my fist through your nose.”

He takes a step. “I’m waiting.”

“Okay!” Sofie shoves Kye out of the way and stops, turning her back to me. She puts her hand on her hips and looks at him. “Enough! Both of you.” She looks at me. “My baby is in there cryin’ because y’all are actin’ like a couple of thirteen-year-old boys fightin’ over a Playboy. And that is not all right!”

“Sorry, Sof,” I mutter. Kye does the same. At the same time.

“Damn right you are,” she replies, taking steps to the side and cutting her bright eyes to both of us. “Now I don’t give a shit what kind of crap y’all are wrapped up in, but I know it anyway, and I know that you”—she points at Kye—“and you”—she moves her finger to me—“are wrong.”

“The fuck I am!”

“Hey!” she yells again. “I ain’t debatin’, Ads. I’m tellin’. Both of you are fuckin’ wrong and that’s the end of that. You’re both dicks and you need your heads banged together. I couldn’t give a monkey’s ass if you don’t like it. I don’t know how you two are living this way!”

“Easy,” I reply. “Because it ain’t real.”

“Until it is,” Kye shoots back.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you don’t give a fuck when you have what you don’t want. You only care when it’s taken away from you!”

“Oh my God!” Sofie groans. “Y’all are twenty-four! Twenty. Four!”

“Sof, I appreciate the concern, but there are some things we need to deal with, and this is one of them.” I step past her, closing the distance between me and Kye to barely touching distance, and adrenaline pounds through me as it mixes with my anger. “And what,” I say quietly, angrily, “the fuck does that mean?”

“It means you couldn’t give a fuck about Jessie until the possibility of her being yours is taken away,” he replies, calmly, but his fists clench at his sides.

“You have no fuckin’ idea how I feel about her, so don’t stand in front of me like a righteous prick and pretend you do.”

“Really? You think you know? Because I think you have no idea. Just like she has no idea how she feels. You’re a pair of blind fools who deserve each other.”

“What’s up, Kye? Is being the last single one of us a sore spot?”

“Last single one?” He laughs. “You’re single, you dick. She’s your fake girlfriend, remember? All for that pretty stamp of publicity and acceptance from our manager and the rest of our world.”

“What’s it to you?”

“What’s it to me?” He cocks his head. “A whole lot, because it was one thing when she was your one-night stand. Another when she’s your fake girlfriend and getting death threats from our fans because they’re so fucking obsessed with us they can’t stand us being picked off one by one by these darlin’ girls. But you know the difference between me and you, bro? Difference is, I’d break the heart of any girl I loved if it meant she didn’t have to deal with that shit, even if that meant I’d be alone for the rest of my life. Ain’t no way I’m puttin’ a girl through the shit Jessie is dealin’ with right now, and with good humor. But that’s the other difference between me and you. You’re a heartless bastard, aren’t you? You couldn’t give a flying fuck about Jessie as long as you’re seen as a loving, caring guy by the rest of the world. Who gives a shit, huh?”

“You have no idea,” I grind out, facing up to him, towering above him by the whole inch I have on him, one of our very few differences. “Until you’re inside my fuckin’ head, feeling my fuckin’ feelings, I suggest you shut your damn mouth before I really do flip my shit and shut it for you. And here’s a hint—I’m real fuckin’ close to doing it and tying your tongue in knots.”

“Enough!” Dad hollers, he and Tate shoving themselves between us. “That. Is. Enough. Boys, you’re not teenagers.”

“There’s a damn two-year-old in that house crying her heart out. She’s sobbin’ like nothin’ I’ve ever heard,” Tate interrupts. “I don’t care what the fuck kinda panties y’all got twisted up your asses. Shut the fuck up and let that little girl calm down before she gets herself into such a scared state the only stop is the ER.”

Sofie is gone, I notice, as I glance around, and he’s right. There’s the sound of baby screams piercing the air, each one followed by a heartbreaking sob, the kind of cry I never wanna hear again in my life.

“Y’all were warned,” Dad continues. “Kye, get your ass upstairs and away from Ads.”

Kye opens his mouth, but Dad interrupts him with a “Now,” and he turns away, storming over to the door, where he stops. Then Kye turns, looking at me, his eyes cold and cutting. “If you ain’t prepared for more, stop. Now. Don’t drag this on just because Marc wants you to. You have no idea what you’re doin’, Ads. You think you do, but you don’t. Take my advice and quit while you’re ahead, man.”

I bite my tongue to stop myself from replying, because, really, what does he know?

What the hell does he know? Who the hell does he think he is standing in front of me and telling me what to do? Acting like he knows how I feel or what I should do? Telling me that I should, essentially, stop this?

I think it escaped his notice, but I’m not the only person with the power to end this. I’m not the only person who can say that it’s done, over, finito. Jessie can do it, too, but fuck, as long as she’s willing to do this, then I am, too. And if that makes me selfish and an asshole then I’m gonna embrace it, because there’s nothing on God’s green earth like kissing that woman.

There ain’t anything like having her in my arms, angry, but still yielding to me as I kiss her. There ain’t anything like having her shoving me away from her just to climb on top of me and kiss me like I’m her fucking oxygen, and there sure as hell ain’t anything like seeing her eyes brighten and her cheeks flush as she comes whispering my name.

There’s nothing else, nothing, like Jessie Law being in my life and this close to me.

And the anger—it makes sense. The black edge to my frustration, the bitter snaking feeling that’s been worming its way through my body for the last several hours, I get it.

It feels an awful lot like jealousy. And I hate it. I fucking hate it.

I don’t do jealous. I simply don’t do it, because that’s not the person I am. I’m not the kind of person who cares a great deal about anything other than what already matters—music and my family. That’s it.

Shit.

So much fucking shit.

“Shit!” I run my hands through my hair and turn away from Dad, stalking back onto the beach. My bare feet welcome the change from the prickly, freshly cut grass to the soft, warm sand, and I walk out until the sea crawls up and covers my toes.

Jealous.

Me.

How fucking ridiculous. Jealous over a girl I don’t even fucking like—there isn’t a single bone in her goddamn body I like, except possibly her pubic one. It’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, but at the same time it makes so much sense that it hurts to think it.

Jessie. And Kye.

That.

That’s what fucking pisses me off. Her and my brother.

Her.

Who is she to me?

What is she?

Is she just Jessie? Or is she Jessie? Or maybe she’s Jessie.

In the middle.

The girl I can’t work out. Fuck, I can’t. She could be the equivalent of two plus two and I’d still come up with nine. Jessie Law could be the simplest fucking equation man has ever known and my answer would still be goddamn banana or something equally as stupid.

She’s just . . . Jessie.

And she’s that—to me. Jessie. Just Jessie. Just Jessie with her red hair and her gorgeously inked arm and her sweet smile and her mischievous eyes and her pink-tinted cheeks. She’s just . . . Jessie.

Jessie. Jessie. Jessie.

Just. Fucking. Jessie.

And there’s nothing worse than Just Jessie. Before she was Jessie, my fake girlfriend. That’s how she was supposed to stay. But now the thought of her with my brother makes me feel sick to my fucking stomach.

My Jessie, if I dare to say it.

Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. I don’t damn well know. But she’s Jessie—and she’s closer to mine than she is anything else, even if she’d debate it until she resembles the newest member of the Smurfs. She’d fight me even if it killed her, but maybe . . . Maybe there’s a part of her that’s mine. And I don’t care whether it’s her eyes or her lips or her pussy or her fucking baby toe. Something, somewhere, has to be mine.

Because, fuck. Fuck. Fuck me. There’s a part of me that’s hers. End of story.

Just that damned simple.

If she’s Sudoku, then I’m tic-tac-toe.

She’s complicated and I’m simple, but between us, there’s a whole subject we can only hope to understand one day.

“Ads?” Tate asks, coming up behind me.

I shake my head, dropping down to a crouch, once again diving my hands into my hair.

“It’s all right to admit she’s more than what Marc wants her to be, you know,” he says, ignoring me. “He likes to think he controls everything down to the hour we can jack off, but he’s wrong. Fuck, he’s so wrong.”

“Leave it, Tate. Jessie is Jessie and that’s all there is to it.”

“Sure she is, man. But the thing you gotta ask yourself is who is Jessie to you? ’Cause we all see her differently. To me she’s just this red-haired chick you pissed off once upon a time and who Kye wanted to fuck before he knew what his cock was for. To Sofie she’s a lifelong friend. To Ella she’s a new friend who makes her laugh. To Mila she’s the girl with the pretty flowers on her arm. But to you, Ads? Who the fuck knows, eh?”

“I said leave it!”

“You gonna square up to me, too, huh?” He lifts his eyebrows as I stand and look at him. “Try it, little guy. But fuck, listen to me, yeah? Figure out who she is to you. Figure out who Jessie Law is in your eyes before you flick your asshole switch and take your shit out on all of us.”

“Noted,” I reply, wishing, fuck, I’m wishing that this anger would go. That the frustration would be swamped out by my anger at my brother, for the punch I never got to throw, for Tate and Dad stepping in. I wish like hell this green-tinged, jealous frustration would get the heck outta my body before I explode with its power.

“Ads.”

“I said, noted.”

“Suit yourself.”