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“My turn!” Kai, ever the interrupting butthead, starts bouncing me in place as he gyrates his hips against me. I grin at his antics, but my focus keeps straying back towards Nic, his sentence unfinished. His rare open moment now closed. His thoughts left without a voice.
I want to go back to him, even as my lovable goofball continues swinging me around merrily. I want to return and finish our talk. But even as I start to pull away from Kai and indulge the yearning within me, I feel Nic’s aura close off in frustration and fade away as he leaves the dancefloor.
What a wicked game indeed.
2
EZRA GRAYSON
My eyes narrow on Nic as he sits alone at our table drunkenly mumbling to himself and scowling at everyone who nears. Ironically, it’s also the only time his attention seems to stray from the one woman who pisses him off the most.
Izabella Wicked.
I’m glad that Kai listened right away when I told him to go cut into their little moment. Not that he needed much encouragement, he’s just as devoted and infatuated with my Squeaks as I am. He’s good for her. Nic…not so much.
That’s not to say he won’t ever be, but he needs to learn. He needs a wake up call. I suppose the person that has to give it to him is me. He doesn’t take Kai seriously enough, which is a mistake in and of itself, but maybe he’ll listen to me.
I don’t talk much. My dad instilled in me from a very young age, between drinking away the pain of losing my mom and working his ass off to support me and my brother, that the loudest one in the room is generally the dumbest. Be silent, choose your words carefully, never speak before knowing all the facts, and alwayslisten.
Listen more than you speak and your words will hold more weight.
That’s not to say that Kai is an idiot, he just pretends to be. He might be different from me in that regard, but he’s as perceptive and intelligent as I am. Maybe more. So where I might say very little and be taken seriously, he’s underestimated and can easily slide past all defenses. His ability to stay under the radar is unparalleled.
Nic…Nic is a leader. He could beourleader, if he got his head out of his ass. People like me and Kai need people like him to call the shots. We have our own strengths and weaknesses that require someone to steer the ship while we man the sails and cannons.
I don’t want to be a leader. I despise it.
My dad told me I was born a leader, and I lived my life by those words. All the way up to having a squadron twenty men strong whose very lives depended on me to be that for them. And even further, when I lead them all to their deaths.
I will guide. I will nudge. I will never lead again.
So I need to get our true leader back into shape, and it all starts with a bottle of scotch. I grab the bottle from behind the bar, bringing a couple spare glasses with me just in case, and make my way over to the table where Nic is throwing his very own pity party. I manage to get there just in time to see him slam his glass down on the table while glaring at a blonde woman standing nearby–who’s apparently enjoying the sight of Wicked as much as us guys do.
“Mine!” At his declaration, I mentally turn on a spotlight in my mind and envision the impenetrable box inside of me.
The steel surface and unbreakable locks, that only I hold the key to, glint under the bright light I cast on it as I check for leaks in the defenses. There is no room in my mind for anger. No time to spare for feelings of any sort. Later, I’ll let them out and free them to run their course. For now, they are safely tucked away in their prison.
I turn out the light inside and focus outwardly, on the one that guides me in the real world. My Squeaks. She dances seductively, yet adorably awkwardly, with Kai at her back. Her face is flushed and full of happiness that her sunglasses can do nothing to hide as she moves with him. He’s taking away her stresses and her worries, gracing us with her smiles and laughter that carries like music around the room. He knows his place, his job, his assignment. And he executes it beautifully.
For that…he’ll always be my brother.
“Not yours.” My statement is final, daring Nic to deny it. When he doesn’t say a word, or acknowledge me in any way other than to stare at the side of my face, I turn to him and let a tiny slip of determination out. “Ours.”
Any normal man would have seen the promise and intention clearly and acquiesced to my demand. But like I said, Nic’s a leader, so he fights. I just need him to fight for us and not against us. I need him to become the man I know he can be and take his rightful place in all our lives. I won’t allow him in otherwise.
“Fuck off.” His response is lacking, lost behind the pain and suffering I know he is trying to smother with anger.
Anger is easy, it is strength in its purest form, and it has its place and time. It can be used as a fiery fuel to push yourself harder–get yourself further–than you ever thought possible. It can be a shield to protect you from your pain or torment. It’s an effortless road to the release of emotional build up.
But it is also weakness.
Anger is the most destructive emotion of them all. It graces you with relief by siphoning the pain you feel and striking it out at those around you. It becomes a weapon of blight, a destroyer of good. Anger needs a target, it cannot exist without a due offering to latch onto. It heals you by sacrificing others. Anger breeds isolation, and isolation leaves you weaker than you ever thought possible.
Nic isalwaysangry. It’s his first and favorite weapon to use. Where that anger comes from, why he always resorts to it, I do not know. But that’s a job for another day. It is secondary in the grand scheme of things, because he has finally met his match. Wicked does not cower from his anger, she seizes it and shoots it right back at him. Things will change, not completely, but they will shift and evolve. As long as I get through to him onthisfirst.
“No.” I will not leave. He’s going to face this truth whether he wants to or not. “Ours.”
His jaw clenches so tightly I wonder if he will crack a molar as he grips his glass, his words leaving his mouth through gritted teeth, “¡Vete a la mierda!”
