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This thing with Emily wasneversupposed to become what it has. It was meant to be fun. A joke more than anything. A few weeks seeing just how deeply imbedded her good girl act was.
I should have guessed that a girl with crimson hair had the personality to match, her fire burning so damn hot that you can’t help but be burned alive to see it.
Knowing a thing or two about that type of fire, I was enthralled by it, like a kid flicking my fingertips through the flames, singed but never scorched.
I won’t admit it to these dickheads, though. They’d have too much fun rubbing my nose in it.
Dropping my weight down onto a seat next to Damon, I run a hand through my hair.
“Can anybody remind me why we’re here? I have better things I can be doing.”
Mason tips the whiskey bottle to his lips, swallowing the liquid down with a few strong tugs with his stare locked on me. The liquor sloshes in the bottle when he drops it back down.
“To help me through this bullshit. Someone has to tackle my ass and make sure I’m out there pretending to give the first fuck about Emily Donahue when I should be at Ava’s house-“
“Not that,” I growl, pissed at how he always blames and insults Emily like this is something she wants. “Why the fuck are we in this room?”
Gabe’s voice is as calm and collected as ever.
“Tanner’s on his way with Luca now. We need to confront her about her father’s records. After that, I need to deal with Ivy.” He glances at me. “Did you set it up to get Emily away from Ivy so I can confront her?”
I hate this shit.
Hate the constant games.
“Yeah, I told her to meet me upstairs in an hour.”
Gabe nods at that, satisfied I know what the hell I’m doing for the time being.
“That easy, huh?” Mason taps the side of the whiskey bottle against his chair. “Such a fucking slut.”
At the first twitch of my body lunging forward, Damon slaps his palm against my chest and shoots me a look. He doesn’t need to say what we both are thinking. Not that we have to say much to each other. We’re mirror images in most things.
While Emily has never been more than fun for him, something I dragged him into years ago, for me it’s -
Fuck.
More?
Less?
I’m not even sure. But I can’t think about her without remembering the look in her eyes every time she saw us bruised. I can’t forget her unshed tears and the way she’d hug me, her body trembling with the same anger I felt.
Why did she have to care so much?
We never told her what was happening to us.
Nobody knows.
And if this game our group is playing wouldn’t destroy my father as much as it will theirs, I’d walk away from it and handle my dickhead for a dad myself.
Be a man...
His voice filters through my thoughts, the rage lining it from where he stood watching what happened to us.
Is that all you have?
Nightmares upon nightmares.
