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“I’m not leaving,” Tom declares, spreading his arms out over his chair. “They think we’re easily intimidated.”
“Or they want a fight,” Luna says softly. Like me, she avoids eye contact.
Charlie, Beckett, Eliot, and Tom weren’t burned by the Royal Leaks like me and Luna. The scorch marks still sting, and for as much as I want to confront my ex-boyfriend—to finally tell him how I really fucking feel—he’s not here.
And I feel the most betrayed by him. Not by his brothers and sister.
Akara has also left the lounge area. Which doubly fucking sucks. He joins Oscar and the bodyguard wall that silently barricades us from the barstools. Keeping the peace in the feud.
All four Cobalt boys are eye-murdering the Rochesters. Luna busies herself on her phone, and I’m sinking further into the fucking pillows. The most important swim of my life is tomorrow, and my fight-or-flight response is all-in on flight.
I cast another fast glance at the bar.
Winnifred exudes the same preppy fashion choices as her Wall Street dressed brothers. She wears a plaid skirt, and a big red bow is tied around her dirty-blonde, pin-straight ponytail.
Carbon copies of each other, the Rochesters could fill the same pages of the same J.Crew magazine. Whereas me, the Cobalts, and Luna look like an eclectic, ragtag family.
Charlie in a wrinkled white button-down.
Beckett in a Team Sulli homemade tee and black leather jacket.
Me in jean shorts and a jean jacket.
Eliot in a crisp button-down and black suit vest like he’s a hotshot lawyer or Sherlock fucking Holmes.
Tom in skull-and-crossbones athleisure wear.
And Luna in a cropped Moon Child shirt with leggings.
We might appear mismatched, but the Cobalts are totally put-together—and Luna and I can hold our fucking own. I might be more nonconfrontational at the moment, but that doesn’t make me a wilting flower.
Charlie lets a cigarette burn between his fingers. “If they wanted a fight, they would’ve provoked Moffy by now.”
“Like you always do,” I mumble, which I thought would only be audible to myself.
Beckett is in the middle of me and his twin brother—the three couch dwellers. And he must hear my statement because he puts a protective arm around my shoulders while Charlie leans over him to confront me.
“Instead of failing at whispering, just say it to my face, Sulli.” An insult and a challenge. I’m not interested in the mental-fuckery from Charlie—not before tomorrow’s 400m free.
“I’ll fucking pass.”
“Coward,” he says plainly.
I bristle, hating when Charlie thinks he can walk all over me. “I’m not chicken-shit.”
Except for the fact that I just fled from Jane, and Charlie knows this. He knows I’m pregnant because I figured if Maximoff, Beckett, and Luna know—it’d only be right that Jane and Charlie do too.
To prove that I’m not chicken-shit, I tell him to his face, “And I said like you always do. Happy?”
“No.” His tone is unbothered. He puts the cigarette to his lips and blows smoke a little carelessly.
Beckett wafts the air, then snatches the cigarette. “She has an event tomorrow.” He snuffs the cigarette in an ashtray. My best friend is doing his best to limit my inhalation of secondhand smoke.
Charlie glances to Beckett. “Smoke won’t make or break her.” But he doesn’t light another one.
“Dude, are they laughing?” Tom asks, aghast and pissed.
I peek again.
Wyatt and Wesley have angled their bodies and observe us like we’re observing them. Only difference is that they’re smirking. Ugly fucking self-satisfied grins, and Wesley snickers a little as he sips whiskey on ice.
My stomach simultaneously curdles and blazes on fire.
Eliot clenches his squared jaw. He flips open and closed a Zippo lighter. “How should we strike, brothers?”
“In the front,” Tom says. “What they didn’t do. You want to talk about cowards? Those three are leagues above Sulli in the chicken-shit department.”
I put a hand to my face. How did I get dragged into this? Oh yeah, I have no fucking filter.
“You’re not chicken-shit at all,” Beckett whispers.
“Thanks, Beckett.”
Eliot bows forward. “Lex talionis.”
“Who?” I ask, fucking confused.
“The law of retaliation,” Beckett defines.
“An eye for an eye,” Tom chimes in, just as Eliot tosses his little brother the Zippo lighter. He’s about to stand, but his bodyguard along with Oscar and Akara are sending warning glances.
Eliot’s ass stays on Luna’s armrest for now. And he continues to eye-murder Wesley. “A foot for a foot.”
“They can’t be serious,” I say more to Luna since these are her best friends.
“They’re not not serious,” Luna replies.
Beckett asks Eliot, “Why are we invoking the law of retaliation again?” Again? How many times has Eliot said lex talons or whatever-the-fuck? Beckett adds, “It’s pointless.”
“It’s justice.”
“It’s revenge,” Beckett refutes.
“It’s deserved,” Tom rebuts.
“It’s stupid,” Charlie says in finality. “Little brother.” He directs his pierced gaze onto Eliot, who turned twenty-one on June 1st. “Are you really prepared to create a Royal Leaks 2.0 and expose the Rochesters’ secrets? Because that is a foot for a foot in this instance.”
