by L V Chase
“What?” I scrunch up my nose.
“The breakfast sandwiches. That was the first reason,” he says. “Because you said you wanted to leave the school.”
“Oh. Right.” I shake my head. “You have such a long memory. You must have vendettas that last decades.”
He laughs, ruffling his hair. “Yeah, I’m still mad about third grade, when Tommy Langer stole my scissors and insisted he didn’t. Then, he cut my sleeve. That fucker.”
I laugh too, but it feels hollow. “I think he ended up in prison.”
“Of course,” Damian muses. He peels the foil off of his plate. A large meatball filled with cheese sits in the middle of a bed of spaghetti. “Um, Cinnamon, could you not paint for this one dinner? I feel like we don’t get to just talk often.”
I set my paintbrush down, but I eye the palette. Once the paint dries, it’s a huge waste.
“What did you want to talk about?” I ask.
I look past him, where a coffee mug filled with palette knives sit on top of Ollie’s bookshelf. I should use a palette knife, but I can’t even look at it without feeling it stabbing me. And Diana’s face, so unnervingly apathetic after she nearly killed me. I shift my gaze back to Damian as he ruffles his hair again, giving me a nervous smile.
“Just…I’ve cared about you more than anyone else for a long time,” he says. “That night, in the car, I was going to tell you how important you were to me, but the police showed up. They made it clear they didn’t care about my feelings, so I doubted they wanted to hear what I wanted to say to you.”
His hair is a colossal mess now, but his eyes are worse—a collision of undecipherable emotions coated with a thin film of desperation.
“I was…I thought we could restart now, but it seems like you’re hung up on that other guy. Uh, from the video.” He licks his lips, avoiding my eyes. “I’m trying to not push you, but I know who you are. I know who we are. And we could be better together.”
There are a thousand ways to be loved, and I’ve been chasing after the most painful way.
Damian leans forward. This time, I don’t move away. I close my eyes, trying not to wince or to that pretend someone else is there. The lips are soft, barely touching me so that I think nothing happened, but I taste the mint he must have recently eaten.
As I slowly open my eyes, it feels like a dress rehearsal. It could have been directed by every best director from the last two decades, but the butterflies are dead in my chest.
His hands aren’t on me. His brown eyes are devoid of the soft affection and merciless lust I’d witnessed in Grayson’s eyes over the smallest physical touch.
I pull away, scooting my chair back a couple of inches. His expression barely changes—just a spark of annoyance flashing across his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just—this feels fast.”
He turns forward, picking his fork up. He stabs it into the mess of spaghetti noodles.
“You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry. I just got lost in the moment for a second. You just wreck me in the best way.”
I swear, we watched a movie once with that exact line.
“I’m not going to push you,” he continues. “I’m not like Eric.”
“Eric Callahan?” I ask, picking up my fork. “How do you know about him?”
His spaghetti starts to unwind from his fork. He twirls it again. “What do you mean? Before he got exiled, I lived in the same house as him.”
“Yeah, but it’s not like he or any of his friends would be talking about his…” I tap my fork against my tortellini. “About the rumors that he’s raped women.”
He shrugs. “I probably didn’t hear it from anyone in the house.”
“Did you hear it from Jay?”
He shakes his head. “No. I don’t remember who it was, but somebody told me.”
He’s being evasive. Who else could have told him? I’m certain none of Eric’s buddies would have told him, which eliminates everyone in his villa along with anyone who attends their parties. And Jay and I are the only friends he’s made here. Even he admitted that the guys who helped him with his fight on the stage weren’t from this school. They wouldn’t know Eric.
It could be different for Damian, but I wouldn’t forget someone who’d told me that one of my classmates was a sexual predator. It’s not a memory that would easily be discarded.
I turn back to my plate, taking a bite of the pasta. “You’re right. This is really good.”
He eyes me carefully before picking up his own fork. “It’s good enough for now.”
22
Grayson
It's time for our monthly dinner, but Trisha and Aurora aren't around. I don't know if this is a sign that Dad's ready to cut them off now, or he's just being paranoid with all the attacks against us and the company. But for now, it's just him and me seated at our large dinner table. The help is gone, invisible during the meal itself like they always are. Dad's having his usual steak.
I watch Dad eat. A drop of blood drips from the piece of rare steak he brings to his mouth. The way he bites the bloody piece reminds me of an animal devouring its prey. We haven't spoken much yet tonight. I cut a piece of my own steak, easily slicing through the tender flesh.
With everything going on, Dad's the only one I trust. Not in a feel-good, Hollywood sort of way, but from a ruthless, practical view. He's my closest ally in that if one of us goes down, chances, are the other will, too. Plus, we've both got what it takes to burn the other. The reason we don't isn't because we love each other; it's because we're so closely intertwined that neither of us can walk away unscathed.
I wonder for a moment if that's the true reason for bringing me into his projects lately. He'd been ramping it up in the last year. There was that lawyer's wife, even before the whole project with the girls at school. I don't trust Dad to have my back, but I do trust him not to be stupid enough to stab it.
Dad takes a sip of his red wine. I wait until he swallows. Somehow, he senses that I'm about to say something.
"Go ahead," he says first.
I'd be annoyed, but I'm used to it. He always has to show that he's on top of things, that he's in control. I understand better now why that's so damn important, but doing it to me is irritating. Is he scared of me? I shake my head. Second-guessing Dad is a waste of time. It's better to get to the point with him.
"What would you have done differently?" I ask. "Back then, when Trisha blackmailed you."
There. I let it out.
Dad's eyes narrow. His jaws tense as he sets down his fork and knife on his plate with sharp clinks. For a moment, I think he's going to erupt in fury.
He doesn't. He gives me a cold smile.
"That's an interesting question, Grayson." Dad takes another sip of his wine. "I think we both know what this is about, don't we? You and your girl problems spiraling out of control? What was her name? Cinnamon?" He sighs. "Like father, like son, I suppose. Don't get me wrong. I still blame you for your weakness, but that doesn't mean I don't understand, to a point."
I start to shake my head to reply, but I stop myself. He thinks I'm talking about Cin, not her mother. At first, I had wanted to correct him, for Cin's sake. She already deals with enough people believing lies about her. I don't need one more person, especially Dad, to do so. But sometimes lies are safer than the truth. Let him think what he wants about Cin. She’ll be safe if he knows less about her, even if that gives him a worse impression of her. It's not like I need his damn blessing or something.
I also don't trust Kat at all. I don't want Dad getting anywhere near her, or even thinking about her. She's a toxic dump, he's a blazing furnace, and I don't want to know what would happen if the two ever collided. Hell, for all I know, they could work together to make Cin even more miserable.
No, Dad can believe what he wants. Still, I want to know what he says.
"But what would you have done?" I ask.
"I definitely wouldn't abide it," Dad says. "I told y
ou before. It's my biggest regret that I didn't handle things differently. That I caved." Dad lowers his head and purses his mouth in thought. He reaches for his wine glass again.
"Legal recourse?" I ask. "Or just controlling the flow of information? Paying off the right people?"
Dad laughs at that. "Grayson. You should know. For something personal like that, the issue isn't protecting yourself. Like you said, there are plenty of options for that. No, for something as personal as that, the only response is pure punishment. It's obvious what you should do, don't you think?"
My mind jumps to the dark places where I think Dad is going. I know that he plans to torture Trisha in his own way through Aurora. I know that he's going to make her hurt. But that still doesn't answer my original question.
"What?" I ask, not sure that I want to hear the answer.
Dad smiles. "Kill her."
I stare at him. I think he's joking, but he picks up his fork and knife again and starts working on his steak again. No, he's not joking. He actually means it.
It's not like I haven't felt the same way. When I was holding Kat's neck in my hands, I wanted, more than anything in that moment, to end her life. I could have done it. I had the strength, and possibly the means to get away with it. But as much as I hate and despise Kat, I'm not a killer. And I'm sure it would devastate Cin. She might not have the best relationship with her mother, but family's complicated. I know that as much as anyone else.
I can't deny that I was close to doing it, though.
"Kill her," I say, echoing Dad's words in a flat tone. "I see."
"Yes. Kill her. It's either that, or make her life a never-ending living hell. Pick one."
Dad glances up me and bares his teeth. It's clear which one of those he has in store for Trisha, given his plans for her and Aurora. I never asked him directly about Diana, either, assuming that he had Diana taken care of. Now I'm positive that he was the one who ordered her death. If I had known that he'd readily go this far...I’m not sure if I would have done things differently if there was a chance of this happening.
I always knew that the law was meaningless for our family, but until Dad had said it clearly just now, I hadn't completely understood exactly what Dad was willing to do. Bribes and corruption were one thing. But killing anyone who stood against you?
I quickly finish my meal, hardly talking for the rest of the dinner. Dad asks if there's any other trouble. I decline to tell him anything else. Dad complains about a few things happening at work. He mentions the assholes at Writing on the Wall again.
As I get up to leave the table, Dad stands, too. He steps towards me, and without warning, punches me in the gut. It happens too quickly for me to process and block, and the punch, stronger than I would have expected from the old man, makes me want to puke.
But I barely react to the discomfort on the surface. No sound, no grimace. It's only pain, not even that bad all things considered. Dad eyes widen slightly, then narrow.
I smirk. "That all you got?"
Dad just scowls at me. "You deserved that. Remember. Your personal business should only help, not hold back, your real business. There's no room for weakness in this family."
"Good thing I'm the only one you've got, then." As I walk past him, I slap him hard on the shoulder, right on the cusp of the bone. I can sense him wincing as he tries to pretend it didn't hurt.
I head back to school. I have no interest in staying in the same place as Dad, even if the villa is a piece of shit compared to our home. Plus, I have the charade of the suspension and volunteer service. The whole idea is ridiculous, and I could skip it. But the thought of running into Cin is good enough motivation to make me pretend that I'm following the rules. Walsh should be thanking her.
After I arrive at school, it's a short walk to reach the athletic center. The football team's finishing up a practice on the field, from the look of it. I head inside. There are two levels, each with its own moving partitions to cordon off different areas if there's no basketball game or other event. I check both floors, peeking into each section on the separate floors, but there's no sign of Cin. I don't know if she's avoiding me, late, or just not coming tonight.
I head towards the lockers. The girl's side is busy with the cheerleaders. I doubt Cin would be there now, subjecting herself to their likely abuse. I open my phone and check the last message from the head custodian, the one who set us up with the cleaning gig. We're supposed to be here, today, after the sports practices are over. Maybe Cin's coming later.
I head back outside. Most of the football players are inside now, showering and putting their things away. A couple of them are still lingering on the edges of the field, throwing the football around. Not seriously, from the looks of it. I linger by the entrance, waiting to see if Cin will show up.
I eventually head over to the fence surrounding the football field. It's dark here except for the building and stadium lights, and I'm standing in a shaded spot that the lights don't hit. Now that I'm closer, I can hear the boys talking as they toss the football amongst themselves. I'm hardly paying attention, when one of them mentions Cin. I look up immediately, focusing on their conversation.
"Yeah, that girl, Cinnamon," one of them says. He's in a dark blue and white uniform without a helmet, so I can see his blond crew cut.
"I'd fuck the shit out of that," a second one in a football uniform says.
The others, a group of three or four, laugh. They stop throwing the football between themselves as they begin heading back to the main building together. I lose track of who's saying what.
"She looks like a cheap little slut. You think she'd do it for a twenty?"
"You kidding? She'd pay you twenty, probably, to suck the whole team off."
More laughter.
"Yo, let's team up. Double-team her."
"Triple-team."
"Gang bang!"
Before I know what I'm doing, I find myself leaping over the fence and running at the group from behind. One of them with black hair turns when he hears the pounding of my feet. The rest follow, confusion on their faces.
I punch the closest one, a brown-haired kid with freckles, in his temples. He shouts and falls over. I turn and swing at the next closest.
"Shit, is that Grayson?" someone cries.
"It's Voss!" someone else shouts.
I punch someone, I can't tell who, in the jaw. Teeth clack together loudly. I'm outnumbered, but the others take off running. I clip someone in the side as he runs away, but my hand hits the padding of his uniform.
I turn. The first one I hit, the one with freckles, is getting up. I kick his chest and knock him back onto the ground. I kick him again, and he tries to protect his head with his arms.
"What the hell, Grayson?" he shouts. "The fuck? You crazy?"
I kick him one more time. "If I hear you shits talk about Cin again, I'm not stopping until you're all in the fucking ER. Got it?"
"What?" He lowers his arms enough so that I can see the confusion on his face.
"Tell the others," I growl. "You talk about Cin, I break you. Understand?"
I'm breathing hard, my shoulders rising and falling as I take in each gasp of air. I barely exerted myself, but my blood is rushing with fury. I want to let it all out, kick this fucker again and again, but I just glare as he gets up. His eyes are wide with fright. He rushes into the building.
23
Cin
When I visit Jay, I’m equally thrilled and despairing to see several of his drawings surrounding him as he works from his hospital bed.
He is, above all, proof that I’ve been wrong about rich people’s kids. Some of them are highly capable of keeping their noses to the grindstone. Or their hand gripping a pencil, despite being so close to death that he could probably draw the pearly white gates.
“Hey,” he says, his voice still a little hoarse. “Where’s your sidekick?”
“My sidekick?” I ask. “Oh. Damian. Working, probably.”
He sets down
his pencil as I walk up to the side of his bed. “What’s going on, Cinnamon? You look worse than I do, and I’ve been told I look like a hybrid of a panda and a particularly ugly orangutan.”
I frown. “That’s not true. The swelling has gone down a lot.”
He laughs. “Well, you can argue over that with my mother. Don’t deflect. What’s going on?”
“I don’t…” I shake my head. “You don’t want to hear about it.”
“I’m a full-grown man that just got my ass beat,” he says. “I can decide what I want to hear about. Make it a long story. My main nurse keeps trying to talk me into a sponge bath, and I’m trying to delay it until the younger nurse starts her shift.”
I pull up a chair beside him. “Okay. Fine. What do you think about Damian?”
He frowns. “Hm. Honestly?”
“The full truth.”
“He reminds me of my mother’s previous assistant,” he says.
“I’m hoping that’s a glowing review.”
“My mother fired her after finding out that the assistant was selling her magazine’s ideas to their rival,” he says. “She managed to get a new job at Upswept, but from what I’ve heard, nobody trusts her, and it’s not as good of a job as she had.”
I pull up one of the chairs to sit down next to his bed. From this angle, his drawing pad is visible. The drawing started as a woman’s face—looking suspiciously like mine—but changed into a waterfall.
“You’ve never seen Damian work,” I say. “And I don’t think he’d betray his brother like that. Their parents are a bit crazy, so they’re close to each other.”
“I’m talking about his integrity as a whole, not just in a work environment.” He picks up his pencil again. “I get the sense that he’s the type of person who would destroy anyone else to reach his goals. He’s single-minded. If anything doesn’t align with his goals, he’ll ignore it or get rid of it.”
