He stalks back to the table, yanks out his chair, and drops into it, his eyes locked on me. Not Atlas. Me. “How were the games?”
You'd fucking know if you tried to watch. The words burn my tongue, but I swallow them. Not to give the motherfucker an out, but because I know he wouldn't lash out at me.
It'd be Mom.
Or Khloe.
Or Atlas.
Never me.
“Fine,” I say, shoving my glass away with a single finger. “Got a few sponsors looking into me.”
“Good.” Dad nods, dragging a hand through his thick beard. “That's promising.”
The cook enters with a tray of bread and sets it in the center of the table.
“Dad! We went on an excursion today, and…” His eyes never leave me. Khloe blabs about her day. I fucking hate him for it. For all he is.
After dinner, Atlas and I clear the plates before I head back to my bedroom. We've lived in Chicago our whole lives, but I always find myself scrolling through images of our hometown as if I were raised there.
“You good?” Atlas leans against the doorframe.
“Yeah.” I fling my pen and turn to face my twin. “I'm seventeen. I've gotten invites from halfway across the world to be anywhere but here. Tell me why I can't just leave.”
“You know why,” Atlas says. “We have a duty. We can have all that…”
My phone explodes with notifications.
He jerks his chin toward my screen. “How many followers?”
“A couple mil, I guess.”
Atlas flashes a smile. “We're on track, then.”
Fuck this track. I want off this ride.
“Get some sleep. Flight's in the morning.”
We land surprisingly smooth for an airstrip that’s in the top five most dangerous to fly into. Coeur-de-Pierre. Heart of Stone. Poetic, but there's nothing romantic about this place. It's a graveyard in cobblestones and poison ivy, where people slit your throat for a sideways glance. A town carved up by families that bitch more than drunk aunts on Christmas.
Mom's voice cuts through my thoughts. She sits across from me, hands folded, knuckles bone-white. “Remember what your father said.”
“Yeah.” I don't look at her. If I do, I'll see the hollows under her eyes and want to do something about it. Something that'll get us all killed.
Khloe’s snoring against the window, completely oblivious. She's twelve. Too young for this place.
Atlas leans in. “You see the messages?”
I don’t have to answer him because my phone doesn’t fucking stop. Sponsorships. Interviews. Some girl from California asking if I'm single.
“Don't let it go to your head.” Father’s voice from the front of the cabin.
My eyes snap to him. “Don’t worry about my head.”Worry about yours.
We touch down and Khlo jolts awake, swiping the sleep from her eyes. I don’t waste time, grabbing my bag and heading straight for the door. They’d barely opened when I saw her.
Camille leans against a black Mercedes in a ridiculous fur coat with matching boots.
