See No Evil (Brotherhood Trilogy #1)

by Jordan Ford

  Mom knows. She’s probably guessed that my note was a farce, but I can’t confess that right now. All I can hope is that she won’t tell Dad. He won’t have sanctioned Marco’s actions, but he’ll hate the idea of me testifying against his brother. Dad’s not the cleanest businessman on the block. He knows how to get around the law, and he’ll be doing just that to get his brother out of jail as quickly as possible. Marco won’t admit the truth. Dad might be crooked but he’s not a killer, and he’d never condone murdering an innocent teenager. But he wouldn’t condone his daughter turning into a traitor either.

  Rybeck sighs. “I’m not saying your parents aren’t worried about your whereabouts, but so far they’re keeping things quiet. Anytime they’ve been spotted by media, they haven’t said a word about you. They’re too busy dealing with this Marco shit-storm to focus on you right now, and that’s a good thing.”

  “If Dad finds out what I’m doing…” I shake my head. I don’t actually know how he’ll react, but I bet he’ll be pretty pissed. I won’t get away with betraying his brother. “He may be keeping things out of the media, but I guarantee you he’ll have people looking for me.”

  “Hey, you’re safe where you are, and that’s all that matters right now. Robbie needs you to—”

  “Don’t!” I practically shout.

  “Shh!” Rybeck snaps.

  I huff and whisper-bark into the phone. “I know what he needs. I know he deserves justice, but is he going to get it?” My eyes burn. “Can you promise me he’ll get it?”

  Rybeck’s silence tells me everything I need to know. After an elongated pause, he sighs. “He definitely won’t without you. You gotta hang tough, kid. You’re strong. You can do it. Now hide the phone back where it was and go to bed.”

  There’s a short click and I’m left with nothing but dial tone.

  I grip the phone in my hand and lightly bang my forehead against the shelving. I want to scream, melt, disintegrate.

  I’m not strong.

  I’m weak, feeble, pathetic.

  I want to go home. Or maybe disappear…start over.

  Throwing the phone back under the tarp, I fight the tears, my face distorting in agony.

  I don’t know what I want and even if I could figure it out, I don’t know how the hell I’d get it.

  I can’t go home, disappear or start over.

  Four days ago, I thought choices were a burden.

  Now I feel like I have none, and that’s even worse.

  Safety is an illusion. I rub my aching stomach. There are probably four knuckle-shaped bruises on my skin. I’m tempted to check but it’s too cold to lift my shirt. Hunching over, I shiver in the dank shed, torturing myself with the truth.

  Rybeck tells me not to worry, but Uncle Marco will have people looking for me. My dad’s not the only one with shady contacts. If they don’t find me, my father might, and if he can’t silence me, the guys in here will with their own version of slow-burn abuse.

  I’m screwed no matter what I do.

  #10:

  Early Morning Ice-capades

  Trey

  I roll over in my bed, stirring from my usual light sleep. Opening my eyes to a darkened room, I internally sigh, wishing I could switch off like Kade. The second he starts snoring, the guy is gone. It’d take an earthquake to wake him.

  Riley’s murmuring in his sleep as usual, his overstuffed brain never able to fully shut down. The guy suffers from nightmares. He doesn’t talk about it—ever—but the mornings he wakes up looking particularly pale, I know he’s been dreaming. I asked him about it once, even confessing that I get the mares too sometimes, but all he said was that they’re too murky and dark to describe. I wish I could say the same thing. My nightmares are bright orange and red, filled with heat, smoke and death.

  With a couple of mumbled curses, I reach for my watch and check the time.

  Great—3:49 a.m.

  That’s me, done.

  If I wake before one, I usually have a chance of getting back to sleep, but after three…not a chance.

  The early hours of the morning are a dangerous time.

  It’s the mares territory—hot and searing.

  Flames lick the edges of my mind and I see the house crumple, faintly hearing my mother’s screams as she roasts to death in her bedroom.

  Sitting straight, I scrub a hand over my face.

  It’s been five years and still the guilt tears chunks off me. The fire won. It stole from me. Took the only thing I truly loved.

  I should have protected her, should have put my body on the line to save her.

  Shoving back my covers with an angry huff, I plant my feet on the ground and grip the edge of the mattress.

  I’ll never let fear beat me again. I’ll never let it stop me from protecting something I love.

  Mom’s face flashes through my mind. Her blue-green eyes smile at me as she laughs and brushes the hair off my face.

  I snap my eyes shut against the bittersweet memory and stand tall. I’m not going to sit here being taunted.

  I need to skate.

  Work up a sweat.

  Forget.

  With quiet movements, I get dressed and head for the rink. It’s not as cold as it was on Monday but winter is definitely coming, putting an icy nip in the air. I shove my hands in my jacket pockets and hunch my shoulders as the cool wind hits my face.

  Darkness veils my prohibited visit to the ice. I know it’s a risk, but skating and exercise are the only things that calm me. My heart always thunders on my way there, knowing this could get me kicked out, but I haven’t been caught once…and so I keep doing it.

  I duck against the wall and avoid the security camera that nearly gave me away last time. Running over the damp grass, I skid to a stop against the next building and check to be sure the coast is clear. My eyes are adjusting and I can make out shadows and movement now.

  Scanning the open space between me and the rink, I count to five and then jog to my sanctuary.

  A movement out of the corner of my eye makes me jump.

  “Shit,” someone mutters just as he slips to the ground.

  He lands with a thump and I run over to find out who else is sneaking around at this time of night. I can barely make out his features, but my eyes have adjusted enough to work out the murky lump in front of me is a skinny weed.

  “Chris?” I put my hand under his arm to help him up. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

  “I’m, um…” He scratches the side of his neck. “I just…” He huffs. “What are you doing out here?”

  I could lie. It’d most likely be easier, but for some weird reason I blurt, “I’m going skating.”

  He gives me a confused frown. “At four o’clock in the morning?”

  I shrug. “Can’t sleep. It calms me.”

  “Oh.” His voice is soft, filled with understanding.

  I want to know why, but then I don’t, because I’m not into Chris. I mean…I don’t want to become friends with the guy…because I don’t think he has a pretty face.

  I frown and start walking for the rink.

  “Can I come?”

  I spin around. “What?”

  “I, um, mean… I don’t know.” He starts kicking the ground with his toe, looking nervous and pitiful.

  I keep my tone quiet and even. “Can you even skate?”

  “Nope.” His head pops up. “Yet another thing against me, right? I’m the weak loser who’s good at only one thing: getting the snot beaten out of me.”

  I sigh, not impressed with the pity party. I want to say Man up, dude, but then he keeps talking.

  “I hate this place. I want to quit but I can’t. I won’t.” His voice grows with strength as he looks across the grass at me. “I won’t let him win.”

  I assume he’s talking about Ivan, and it makes me want to help him, because I hate Ivan for being a prick…and I don’t want to be the guy who turns my back on someone who needs me. I have some major making up to do
in my life. Mom’s scream wafts through the back of my brain, a faint taunting that makes me hold in my reluctant sigh.

  I wave my hand for Chris to follow. “Come on, then. Let’s see what you can do.”

  He chases after me and we walk the final distance together. Leading him around the back, I show him the loose bathroom window I always sneak in through. It’s a tight squeeze for me, but Chris is a skinny wretch so he’ll fit no problem.

  Knowing how useless his upper body strength is, I give him a leg up.

  “Just thump the corner and it should pop in.”

  It takes him three attempts, but finally the window springs inward. I push his feet, launching him through the gap.

  He yelps and then there’s a thud. I can’t help laughing.

  Jumping up, I grab the sill and hoist myself through the small space. I balance against the top of the stall and land on my feet…nothing but class.

  “Show off,” Chris mutters, rubbing his thigh and then his elbow.

  I snicker and lead him out of the bathroom…past the showers, which he stares at the whole way, then through to the storage room. My skates are always kept on the top shelf, far right. I grab them and then search for a pair that will fit Chris’s stupidly small feet.

  I find an out-of-commission pair on the floor in the back corner and pull them free. Brushing the dust off, I grab some spare socks and lead Chris out to the rink.

  “It’s cold.” He rubs his arms, air puffing between his lips.

  Shrugging out of my jacket, I throw it at him. He pulls it on, looking even smaller and more pathetic. I avert my gaze, annoyed by the tug I feel. Is it sympathy?

  Yes, it has to be.

  Because it can’t be anything else.

  I’m not gay.

  I love girls—their curves, their scent. I like making out with them, watching them move on a dance floor. It turns me on. I’ve gotten hot and heavy with plenty of them. Being at an all boys boarding school hasn’t stopped me from hooking up with chicks on the weekends. I know how to have a good time, and I’ve never once felt any kind of attraction to any of the guys in this place.

  Chris Lorden is no exception.

  I do not find him attractive! I don’t!

  Just because I want to look after the guy doesn’t mean anything. I’m being a friend, that’s it.

  He sits opposite me and puts on his skates, taking forever to lace them up. By the time he’s done, I’m already on the ice, gliding across the smooth surface and feeling my heart relax.

  Mom was the one who taught me how to skate. Dad taught me hockey and for twelve amazing years, we were a happy family.

  But then the fire happened.

  I build up speed, shooting around the top of the rink before firing past Chris. He’s standing on the sidelines, looking at the ice like it’s a storming ocean.

  “Just get on!” I shout before skidding to a stop in front of him.

  His head bobs, erratic and shaky. Still gripping the edge, he stands on the ice and clomps along.

  I roll my eyes. “Glide.” I push off with my back foot and sail past him.

  He gives me a tentative frown and then sniffs, lifts his chin and pushes off the side. He’s great for about two feet before he starts acting like a newborn giraffe.

  I spin and skate over to him, catching him before he hits the ice too hard. Hauling him back up, I then take a breath and start at the very beginning.

  I have to keep reaching forward and balancing him as I talk through the basics of position, bent knees, inside and outside edges of the skates. He then attempts a few glides and once he’s done three without assing over, I make him pick up the pace.

  Time kind of disappears on me and although I’ll admit this to no one, I’m having a really good time. Chris has a great smile. The pride beaming from his face when he manages to skate from one side to the other without falling is awesome. He didn’t say too much to start with but as his confidence grows on the ice, so does his voice. We talk about meaningless stuff like how he likes to play Madden and his favorite band is Against the Current. I haven’t heard of them. I tell him I prefer punk rock like Knuckle Punk, Green Day and Good Charlotte. He smiles at that and then starts singing “The Anthem.” I chuckle and look to the ice, kind of embarrassed that the guy just randomly started singing. He really is weird, although I like that he knows one of my favorite songs.

  I start skating circles around him, yeah, showing off a little. He hassles me for it and we strike up a quick banter that has us both laughing.

  Until the rink doors slam open and a voice on the ramp starts hollering.

  “What the hell are you guys doing on the ice unsupervised? It’s five-thirty in the morning!” Coach Baxter’s voice is rough and gravelly. “You should be in your rooms!”

  Oh, shit. My heart starts thrumming. This can’t be my third strike. If he tells the dean or the headmaster, I’m totally screwed.

  Chris wobbles beside me, nearly falling on his butt. I steady him under the elbow and have to resist the urge to wrap my arm around him and pull him to my side. Protect him.

  What the hell?

  He’s not a girl.

  And I’m not gay.

  At least I don’t think I am.

  Coach slaps his hands on the side of the rink and glares at me. “You should know better, Calloway.”

  “Sorry, Coach. I was teaching Lorden how to skate. He doesn’t want anyone seeing how useless he is.”

  Chris glares at me but bobs his head, backing up my bullshit.

  “How the hell did you even get in here?”

  “The door was unlocked.” I shrug, trying to play it cool.

  “No, it wasn’t. I just opened it up.”

  Chris answers for me. “We locked it behind us.”

  Coach glances at him, then back to me. Skeptical. His glare is hard and unrelenting.

  “I’m sorry, Coach. Really. But come on, give us a break. It’s not like we’re damaging school property or anything. We were just skating.”

  “Dean would haul your butt over the coals for this.”

  “No, he’ll kick me out of school. I’m on my third strike and he’s desperate to give it to me.”

  Coach sighs, his head drooping forward. I can’t help a little grin. There’s no way Coach wants me out for the season.

  Slapping the wood, he steps back and barks, “Fine. I’ll keep this between us, but this crime isn’t going unpunished.”

  Chris swallows, sounding loud and nervous.

  “This Sunday, you’re both restricted to campus and you’ll be scrubbing the locker rooms plus the showers until they shine. You can also sort the spare storage cupboard for me.” He finishes with a grumble, “If the dean asks any questions, I’ll tell him you volunteered.”

  I force a begrudging smile and mumble, “Thank you…I think.”

  Coach flicks his head and pulls open the gate. “Get your butts back to your rooms. ASAP.”

  “Yes, sir.” Chris skates for the gate, wobbling and stumbling into the wall.

  The coach gives him a pitiful frown, like he’s a lost cause, then turns his gaze on me as if to say, You’re wasting your time with this one.

  I just shrug and glide off the ice, coming to terms with my Sunday punishment and the fact that I won’t get off campus with Kade and Riley. I’m also trying to deal with the fact I’ll be hanging out with Chris all day. I shouldn’t be looking forward to it.

  I should be grumbling and cursing, but I’m not.

  And I don’t really know why.

  #11:

  Wet Rags and Slimy Shower Stalls

  Christiana

  Gripping the soapy bucket of water, I stand beside Trey and survey the disgusting locker room. Grime, mold, sweats stains on white towels. Urine sprinkling the tiles. Knocked-over bottles of Gatorade staining the benches, the fluorescent liquid dripping onto the floor.

  When the guys found out Trey and I were supposed to clean it, they grossed it up as much as they cou
ld after the game on Saturday.

  A little victory riot to celebrate their win.

  I didn’t go to watch the game.

  I stayed hidden in my room, pretending that I didn’t love my time with Trey. I’d never even been on the ice before and he had me gliding in under an hour. He was sweet, funny, charming. He likes cinnamon in his hot chocolate, just the way I do. He plays Madden too. It was such a relief to say I loved that game. Matt taught me one weekend when Charlize and I were hanging out at his place. It’s about the manliest thing about me.

  I glance to my right, studying Trey’s profile, struck once again by how good-looking he is…and how easy it was to talk to him. There was something so natural between us as he skated around me. It helped me forget. Made me feel like I was a normal person.

  He has strong hands.

  I like the way they felt on my arms every time he steadied me.

  He gave me his jacket.

  Scanning the smelly locker room, Trey turns to glare at me. Even that’s good-looking. Straight lines, strong jaw, an unimpressed slant to his mouth.

  “All right, let’s get this over with,” he grumbles.

  I clear my throat and attempt a smile. He ignores it, dumping his bucket on the floor and bending forward to collect dirty towels.

  “You take the showers and urinals. I’ll start in here.”

  My forehead wrinkles. “Why should I have to take the gross stuff?”

  “Because it’s your fault we’re in this position.”

  “My fault?” I slap my bucket down. Water sloshes out and wets my pant leg.

  “If you hadn’t made me teach you to skate, I would have been done and back in my room before anyone caught me.”

  “I didn’t make you do anything!” I throw my hands wide. “You could have said no!”

  “Whatever,” he mumbles. “Just start cleaning.”

  I fire him a heated glare, which he turns his back on. Why’s he being such an asshole all of a sudden?

  My fault.

  Whatever!

  I drop my rag into the bucket. It plunges, then bobs to the top, floating on the soapy surface. Trey’s on his knees now, collecting the last of the towels and dumping them in the laundry basket. He directs a hot frown at me.