Page 92 of My Family

I hold him and stare at the ceiling and think about Tyler's fury during sparring. Reed's gaze tracking Tyler's movements.

The thudding continues.

Picks up tempo.

Liam bites the edge of the blanket to muffle a noise that's half laugh, half groan of secondhand mortification.

"Should we…" he starts.

"We should absolutely not."

"But tomorrow, can I…"

"You cannot say a word. To anyone."

"Not even Jack?"

"Especially not Jack."

The sounds from 206 reach a crescendo, and then the headboard hits the wall one final time.

I feel so mortified I don't know what to do.

My face is burning with secondhand embarrassment.

Liam settles against me, his laughter fading into occasional aftershocks, his body warm and loose.

"Are you alright? I mean… it's your little brother and the guy you hate most in the world."

"I don't know," I say, still feeling slightly sick. "I mean, if he's happy. But fuck, man."

"I know."

I shrug it off.

"Fuck it. Let's not think about it." I pull him closer, trying very hard to erase the horrifying image of my brother and Reed from my head. "I'm glad we're here."

"In a Holiday Inn with one missing L, listening to your brother have sex through the wall?"

I laugh, loud, and then immediately realize they can probably hear us too.

"Brat."

He tilts his head up, a huge, goofy smile on his lips.

"But yeah," I say. "Even that. All of it."

Chapter 31. Liam

Westlake Academy looks like a fucking real prison. The van rolls through gates that are taller, thicker, topped with coils of razor wire so dense they look fake. The buildings beyond are gray concrete, not brick, and the windows are really small. Guard towers everywhere.

Nobody in the van speaks. Even Santana, who spent the morning drive providing a detailed astrological breakdown of each opponent and telling me I'm fucked because I'm a Sagittarius, whatever the hell that means, has gone quiet.

"Jesus," Jack murmurs, pressing his face close to the window as we pass a yard enclosed by fencing so high it seems designed to discourage birds, not boys. "Is that a cage?"

"Exercise enclosure," Griff says from the front, his voice neutral, but I think he doesn't want to share what he really thinks. "Standard for maximum-security correctional facilities."

"Standard," Jack repeats. "And why the hell are we going into maximum security? What if they want to stab us?"