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“Can’t an older brother help out their baby brother?” he asked with a laugh. “Hey, how many do you got by the way?”
I tapped on my tracker, making it light up. On the screen was my number of points, and in the right-hand corner was—
“Ninety thousand?! What the fuck? I barely have fifteen!”
“What are your comments saying?” Yellow asked, coming up to us.
“Comments?” I asked.
They all gave me bewildered looks.
“You’ve been in the game this long and didn’t think to check your comments?” Pink asked. “You probably missed out onsomany gifts.”
Dylan grabbed my wrist, navigating the screen with ease, then a holographic-type screen popped up with comments going on at a hundred miles an hour.
b1ggyb0y
They have more viewers because they’re hotter
AuthorBexDeveau
No one wants to watch a sadistic fuck with little shrimp dick energy
ElleMaeBooks
Kill him and I’ll send you a semi-automatic
Clearing my throat, I closed out the window and put space between myself and Dylan’s glare.
“So, about that gun?”
Vic
Before the Games
Iwas so sick of people telling me that they were sorry.
Sorry,the accident happened.Sorry,my dad was still in a coma.Sorryabout all the moments we’d missed while he’d been like this.
Prom. Graduation. Getting accepted into Brown. Yale. Princeton. Having to choose where to goalone, knowing damn well I’d spent my college fund trying to stop us from losing the house and paying doctors when his insurance lapsed. Spending all my nights and evenings at the hospital in case he woke up. Realizing he probably never would.
Not gone, but not really here either.
It was exhausting.
Likesorrycould actually do anything in this day and age. If anyone was truly sorry, they should’ve at least spared some cash. That was all that was important to me now.
The cellophane bag rustled as I tossed my dye-covered gloves inside, a little angrier than I meant.
Rinsing was going to be a bitch. We hadn’t had hot water in three months, and I was getting fucking tired of shivering butt-naked in the stained tub while I tried to make myself presentable.
I looked myself over in the mirror, my hair slicked back as the vibrant teal did its best to hide my overgrown blonde balayage. Drugstore box dye was a far cry from the fancy downtown salon I was used to, but I’d scraped the bottom of my pathetically empty bank account for something—anything—that would help hide my identity.
How far the mighty had fallen. Kohl would love this.
They would tease me, tug at the ends of my hair, and make some off-handed comment about how I was going through some type of crisis.
Maybe I was.
