by Blue Saffire
Hauling him out of bed, I can feel how frail he is. My hand circles his bicep, finger and thumb meeting without issue. It’s like I’m dragging a skeleton around.
Despite his obvious weakness and the fact that he’s not going to fight me off—not on his best day and me scraping rock-bottom—he takes a swing that catches me in the ear and stings like a bitch.
I hear sniggers coming out of the dark.
Because I have a reputation to uphold—and it’s that reputation that keeps my brothers safe—I give the kid a rough shake. Shoving him into the wall next to the shower room door, I hold him there while I test it. It’s supposed to be locked but it swings right open.
I’ll say it again—lazy-ass staff.
I toss him inside and follow, pulling the door closed behind us both. Ground lights come in through the room’s high-set windows, giving me my first good look at him. He’s tall—taller than I thought—but just as skinny as his first impression implied. A shock of inky black hair, standing up, crazy all over his head. Face washed pale by the moon, his eyes like two pin holes, shining bright in the white of his features. Frail chest heaving with unspent sobs. Hands knotted into fists, prepared to fight. Even when he knows he’ll lose.
“Listen up, Fish,” I say, keeping my tone conversational. “You—”
“Name’s… not… fish… asshole,” he says, shoving his words at me in between heaves.
I laugh. I can’t help it.
“Alright,” I say, nodding my head. “What’s your name then?”
Fish just stands there and stares, fists raised like he’s waiting for me to stop talking and square up. When he doesn’t answer, I try again. “You don’t want me to call you Fish, you’re gonna have to tell me your name.”
More standing. More staring.
Behind me, the door pushes open. I don’t have to turn around to know it’s Jase and Gray. They’re the only people in this place who don’t make me itch, having them at my back.
“Lock the door,” I say and I’m instantly rewarded by the sound of the lock clicking home. Can’t risk turning on the overheads because of the windows. There’s a pair of security guards that patrol the grounds, one of which who likes to stand under said windows and chain smoke cigarettes instead of doing his job.
Assuming the worst, Fish lifts his fists higher. What he lacks in strength and technique, he makes up for in enthusiasm and not much else. I can feel Jase eyeballing me, urging me to try again.
“I’m Tobias,” I tell him, nodding to my left. “One on the end is Gray.” I watch Gray raise his hand in greeting in my peripheral. “Ugly fucker in the middle is Jase.”
“Tob here’s just jealous ‘cause I’m so pretty.” I can hear the grin in Jase’s voice.
The four of us stand there in the half-light, my brothers and I staring at this kid, waiting for him to either give in or start swinging. “Look, we're trying to help you, Fish. Just tell us your—”
“Logan.” All of a sudden, the kid drops his fists, the balls of them banging into his stick-thin thighs. “My name is Logan.”
“Where are your parents?” It’s not a question I usually ask because usually I don’t care. Most kids in this place have them, somewhere. They’re either locked up or in rehab. Some are from good families but here on a court-order because they’ve been labeled as incorrigible by some judge or in Victor’s case, downright psychotic. There are only a few like me. Kids who don’t have anyone at all.
“Dead.”
Gray shifts on his bare feet. Jase’s shoulders sag just a little.
Dead.
Yeah.
We all know what that’s like. I don’t ask how. It doesn’t matter. Dead is dead. Dead means gone and no matter what the therapists say, talking about things like how and why doesn’t help.
“Family?” This comes from Gray. The way he says it, he sounds almost hopeful.
Logan shakes his head. “I don’t have anyone.”
I can feel my brothers watching me. Staring at me. Urging me to say it. Make things even a little bit right for this kid. Because dead is dead. Dead means gone and we all know what it’s like to be alone.
“Sure, you do,” I say, extending my hand into the space between us. “You’ve got us now. We’re the Kings of Brighton.”
Logan hesitates for less than a breath before he reaches for my hand and takes it.
1
New York, New York
“Don’t be such a grandma, Silver.” My friend, Jane pulls a face at me, one that’s half exasperated, half hopeful, like maybe she can shame me into a night of debauchery.
“I’m not a grandma,” I counter, without bothering to look at her, focused on the television in from of me.
“It’s your birthday.” She says it like I have dementia and it’s her job to remind me.
“Right. It’s my birthday.” I frown up at her when she purposely steps in front of the television. “I should be able to spend it how I want.”
“You’ll never turn twenty-one again.” This from my half-sister, Delilah. “I refuse to let you sit here and waste the best years of your life, wearing…” She wrinkles her nose at me, her gaze drifting down my legs. “Sweatpants, watching Pretty Woman for the millionth time, and eating pizza-rolls.”
“It’s a good movie.” I have no defense for the sweats and the junk food.
Delilah rolls her eyes at me. “Do you know what Dad would do if he knew you ate stuff like that?”
Yes, I do. Our father, Davino Fiorella is the most celebrated chef in history. He makes Ramsey and Robuchon look like Laurel & Hardy. Food is his religion. Its creation his worship. If he knew I own a microwave, let alone used it to commit sacrilege via pizza rolls and frozen burritos, he’d disown me.
“First of all,” I say, stuffing a pizza roll in my mouth, “Are you even old enough to get into Level?” I shake my head while chewing. “You’re, like seventeen.”
“I’m nineteen,” she says, planting a hand on her hip. “And I’ve been on the VIP list at Level since I was seventeen.”
Such is life when you’re New York royalty.
Her mother is hotel heiress, Astrid Hawthorne, or as I like to call her, wife #5. My mom was #4.
“Second—” I shake my head. “it’s not even my birthday yet.”
My sister grins at me. “It will be by the time we get you dressed and out the door.”
Shooting Delilah a bland look, I turn my attention on Jane. “You’re contributing to the delinquency of a minor, you know that, right?”
“You’re kidding?” Jane all but laughs in my face. “Have you met your sister?” She gives me her best Vanna White, framing Delilah between her hands. Barely-there mini skirt. Top so small I have bras that are bigger. “This kid could show me a thing or two about delinquency.”
“That’s beside the—” My argument is suddenly cut off by a flash of blinding light. A camera flash. Right my face. I look at my sister. “What the hell?”
Delilah lowers her cell and taps the screen. “Go get dressed or I’m sending it to Dad,” she says without even bothering to look at me.
I look at the litter of frozen burrito wrappers and scattered pizza rolls and feel my eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t.”
“Are you kidding?” she says, her perfectly shaped eyebrows shoot up on her forehead. “The opportunity to knock Princess Silver down a peg or two in Daddy Dearest’s eyes?” Something flickers across her face. It looks a lot like resentment. “Don’t tempt me.”
“Okay.” I stand up, brushing pizza roll crumbs off my hands on the seat of my sweats. It’s not the fear of her outing me and my fake food addiction that gets me to agree. It’s guilt. My father has eleven children, split between five wives. I am the only child he fathered with my mother and I am his favorite. We all know it and he’s made no attempt to deny it. I think it’s because I’m the only one of us he actually had a hand in raising. My mother couldn’t be bothered with something as mundane as motherhood, with or without an a
rmy of nannies. “I’ll go.”
“Great!” Delilah says, threats and resentment forgotten. “Put this on,” she says, picking up the shopping bag she dropped at her feet when she and Jane came in.
It’s not a request.
I take the bag and head to my room.
Dumping its contents out on my bed I stare at it while contemplating just jumping out the window and ending it all. It would be an easier, quicker death than the slow torture Delilah obviously has planned for me.
I rush back into the living room. Jane and Delilah are sitting on the couch. Eating pizza rolls and watching Pretty Woman.
Jerks.
“You can’t be serious.” I say, holding up the dress my sister has seen fit to punish me with. It’s not even an actual dress. It’s more of a contraption. “There is no way this is going to fit me.”
“Yes, I am,” she says, licking pizza sauce off her fingers. “And yes, it will.” She looks up at me, her beautiful face lit with an angelic smile. “Happy birthday, bitch.”
2
Tobias
I’m starting to believe it’s possible to die of boredom. I can actually feel my brain starting to soften under the onslaught of heavy bass notes from the dance floor and the high-pitched nonsense the women at the table are tossing around.
Oh my god—did you see what she’s wearing?
Such a slut. She’s not even wearing underwear.
She’s probably a hooker.
Yeah, a fat hooker.
At any moment, it’s going to liquefy and start leaking out of my ears. More out of tedium than actual curiosity, I lift my gaze, catching sight of the woman they’re roasting and feel my focus sharpen. The woman isn’t fat. She’s stunning. A cloud of loose, dark hair. Smooth, olive skin. A bright red dress meant to catch and hold a man’s attention, molded around the most incredible ass I’ve ever seen. She turns and sinks into one of the velvet sofas a few tables away, crossing her legs at the ankle like a Sunday school teacher. Like she can feel me staring at her, she shifts uncomfortably in her seat.
“Not sure if you know this, brother,” Jase says, leaning into my space. “but it’s your birthday, not a goddamned funeral.”
His off-handed comment, meant to be funny, tightens the hinge of my jaw, the clench of it kicking off this weird clicking sound in my ears. It takes me a second to realize I’m grinding my teeth. I force myself to relax, remind myself he has no idea what he’s saying. He’s just trying to help. Thing about Jase is that, usually, when he’s trying to help, it hurts.
The blonde, the one Jase all but shoved in my lap, leans down, pressing her too-firm breasts against my chest. “Want to go upstairs to unwrap your birthday present,” she breathes in my ear, grinding her bony ass against my crotch. The move, meant to turn me on, has an adverse effect. She wants me to take her upstairs, to the club office I share with my brother. I’d rather throw myself off the Chrysler building.
“No thanks,” I say, shifting her off my lap. “I’m good.”
“What’s the matter baby?” She sticks her lower lip out in a ridiculous pout. “You don’t like me?” She says it like she knows it’s a stupid question. Of course, I like her. Want her. Because everyone does.
Instead of inciting what would no doubt be an epic, rich-girl tantrum, I lift my glass, taking a measured sip of my Dalmore 64. I had Mike behind the bar pour me a couple fingers from my private stash. The glass is half empty and I don’t plan on having another. Getting sloppy tonight would be a mistake. Setting my glass down, I give her a bland smile. “I like you fine.”
Instead of pacifying her, my polite answer, coupled with my obvious lack enthusiasm narrows her overly made up eyes into slits. “Do you know who I am?” she hisses at me, the hand on my chest hooking into a set of claws around my hand-tailored shirt.
I know who she is. She’s some sort of actress or model or something. Anyway, she’s famous. Or at least famous enough to pull the do you know who I am? card with a convincing level of self-importance.
I give her a blank stare like I’m waiting for her to answer her own question. She shoots a nasty look at the woman sitting by herself, a few tables over. She obviously caught me staring. “I suppose you’re into fat chicks, huh?”
I turn in my seat. “Matter of fact—”
Sensing disaster, Jase stands. “Who wants to see my stripper pole?” he says, downing the rest of his drink while the girls around him giggle. They think he’s kidding.
He’s not. He had it installed upstairs a month ago.
Setting his empty on the table in front of him, Jase trades it for the bottle of Belvedere, chilling in a block of ice. He stands, holding his hand out to the actress. “I like all kinds of asses,” he tells her, giving her a cocky smirk as he lifts her from her seat beside me.
Rounding them all up, Jase points them in the direction of the private elevator and promises to be right there. As soon as their gone, he turns on me.
“You okay?” he says, sounding genuinely concerned, all pretenses put away.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Are you?” I caught the wince when he bent over. The stiff, careful way he’s holding his spine straight. I’d be willing to bet he looks like he got beat with a bag full of oranges under his fancy suit.
We all have ways of dealing with our shit.
That’s Jase’s.
Jase gives me a smile. “Right as rain, brother.” He glances in the direction of the elevator. “Look, I know you’re not one to celebrate your birthday, I just thought…” He looks back at me and gives me a shrug. He was never one to push or dig. “You change your mind, you know where we’ll be.”
Any other night, I’d be right there with him. In the thick of it. Tonight, I just want to go home. “I’ll keep it in mind,” I tell him and he smiles, even though we both know what I’m really saying.
Not a chance.
3
Silver
So now I’m here, sitting in the VIP section of Level, one of the hottest clubs in New York, wearing a dress that makes me feel like I’m not just regular naked, but naked and on display. Jane and Delilah are MIA. I went to the ladies’ room and when I got back, they were both gone.
And to top it off, I’m not wearing panties. Because my sister is a jerk.
“You can’t wear underwear with a dress like that,” she said to me, shaking her head at me like I’m a lost little lamb.
I stared at her for a full three seconds before I realized she wasn’t kidding. “You’re serious?”
“Why do you keep asking me that?” she said, giving me a puzzled look. She really has no idea how ridiculous this whole situation has become.
“Lilah—” I make a bid for mercy, calling her by the pet name I gave her when we were little.
She holds up a hand and shakes her head. “Panties. Off.”
I look at Jane, hoping for help. There was none to be had. “She’s right, Silver.” Jane gives me a shrug. “Take ‘em off.”
I need better friends.
And sisters.
Tugging self-consciously on the hem of my dress, I pretend not to notice a loud party a few tables over. Skinny blondes who talk about their thigh gap and what designer their walking for in Fashion Week, surrounding a couple of guys who look like male models. One of them keeps looking at me while the blonde on his lap is all wiggle and giggle, doing her level best to get his attention. I’d almost feel bad for her if she hadn’t made a crack about my weight when I walked by.
“The gentlemen at the bar would like to buy you a drink.” I look up and to the right to find an apologetic—looking waitress standing over me. Behind her, a bunch of suits crowded around the VIP bar, doing shots while alternating between leering at me and shooting each other smirks.
“Tell them no, but thank you,” I say, already knowing how it would go. I accept and their leader would see my acceptance as an invitation. He’d come over here and try to pick me up while I sip my free drink, thinking I have some sort of obligation to him becaus
e of it.
She gives me a flat smile, before returning to the bar. Now they’re all looking at me at once, trying to figure out their next plan of attack.
Doing my best to ignore them, I pull out my phone and text Jane.
Me: Where are you?
It takes a few minutes for her to text back.
Jane: on the dance floor.
Get your ass down here.
I almost laugh out loud. Anything more strenuous than walking in a straight line in this ridiculous dress would be a huge mistake.
Me: No thanks.
Can I go home now?
Less than a minute later another text comes through.
Delilah: NO!
Below her directive is the picture of me sitting on my couch, surrounded by pizza rolls, or as I like to think of them—blackmail material.
“Hey.”
I look up from my phone to find one of the suits hovering over me, his gaze latched on to my breasts, which thanks to Delilah’s torture device, are on full display.
I should’ve jumped out the window.
“Yes?”
My response seems to snap him out of whatever trance my breasts put him in and he finally looks at my face.
“My friends and I saw you sitting here alone and were wondering if you’d like some company.” He licks his lips, his eyes trailing over me, making me feel like someone just dumped a bucket of spiders over my head.
“No thanks,” I say, looking back at my phone in hopes that he’ll just go away.
No such luck.
“I mean—why not?” he says, pushing the issue. “You look like the kind of girl who likes to have a good time, which is exactly what we’re looking for, so…” More leering and gawking. “Why can’t we all have a good time together?”
“Because I said no,” I say. I’ll be damned if I’m going to explain myself to this douchebag.
