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Chapter four
“It’s been seven years. Surely, you didn’t forget the tradition,” Tatum said the second I answered my phone.
Tomorrow was my birthday, and birthdays were a big deal to Tatum.
“I didn’t forget. I was waiting on my dad to leave.” I grabbed my overnight bag and set it on the bed.
“Where’s he going this time?”
“London.”
He came home long enough to have dinner with me and shower me with gifts I didn’t really need. His schedule was demanding, and I got that. Sometimes I wondered if the gifts were compensation. I didn’t care aboutthings. I just wantedhim. He always managed to make time for the things that mattered, and that meant more to me than anything that came in a box. He told me this was his last tour. After this, it was him and me, taking on the world together.
“Tell me you won’t be long because dinner was a shit show and I need my best friend.”
“He just left, so I won’t be long. Your dad and Lincoln again?” I tossed some clothes inside my bag, then zipped it shut.
“Yep. What’s new, right?”
Malcolm Huntington always gave Lincoln shit about not going to college, not wanting to go into politics, not being society’s idea of the picture-perfect son. I hated Malcolm Huntington.
So did my dad.
“Nope.” I grabbed my keys and turned off the lights in our penthouse. “I’ll be there in twenty.”
As much as I wanted to run to him and hold him and make him forget about his asshole dad, I could only pop my head in Lincoln’s doorway and say hello when I got to Tatum’s house.
He was staring at the TV but not really watching it. When he looked over at me and smiled, all I wanted to do was climb in bed and curl up next to him. Sometimes I hated the secrets. I wished we didn’t have to hide. But how did you tell your best friend that you’d fallen for her older brother? What if she made me choose? I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t lose either one of them.
I didn’t know what was worse, the hurt that came with keeping a secret, or the pain of telling the truth.
Tatum and I stayed up until after midnight talking about the party invitation she’d found placed in the front seat of her car.
Mischief Night—the one night a year when inhibitions ran free without the worry of consequence. No one talked about Mischief Night or the things that happened there. The only thing anyone ever said about Mischief Night was that no one was allowed to talk about Mischief Night. It was like Fight Club for the rich and famous.
And Tatum had just gotten invited.
I didn’t get an invitation and honestly, I never expected one. Even though my father was a world-famous musician and had more money than he would ever be able to count, I wasn’t part of the world of the elite. I was an outcast.
Lincoln was too, in a way. He stood out with his tattoos and give no fucks attitude. The guys didn’t like him because all the girls did, and the girls loved him but only in secret. He wasn’t exactly the guy you brought home to meet your parents. I guess that was why I was drawn to him. I looked into his darkness and saw myself there.
The conversation finally lulled, and I’d been staring at the ceiling for an hour, waiting for Tatum to fall into a deep sleep. The house was dark and quiet when I finally slid out of bed and crept down the hallway. I didn’t need a light. I knew the path to Lincoln’s room by heart.
I opened the door and peered inside. He was lying on his bed on top of the covers, wearing nothing but a pair of black sweatpants. One hand was behind his head while he stared up at the ceiling. The other hand held a joint to his lips. I knew because I smelled it the second I walked up to his room.
He pulled the joint away and blew out a cloud of smoke. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”
I stepped inside the room and quietly closed the door behind me. “We stayed up late.” I shrugged. “Girl talk.”
“Get over here.” His voice was dark. Dangerous. The way it got when he’d disappeared inside his head. He put the joint in a crystal ashtray next to his bed, stubbing it out then laying back down.
I watched drugs destroy my mother and wanted nothing to do with them. I hated that Lincoln relied on them for an escape. I understood it. I accepted it. I hoped one day I would be able to change it. But I hated it all the same.
I climbed in bed and laid next to him.
He rolled onto his side and rested his head on my stomach.
As much as I loved aggressive Lincoln and impulsive Lincoln, I was also addicted to this side of him, the side he seemed to show only me.
