Noah makes extra-strong coffee for both of us and spreads out his homework across the ballroom. Queen Boudica leaps on his history project, spreading papers everywhere. Noah growls at her, but five minutes later he’s on the floor tickling her stomach, his assignment forgotten.
She’s got him wrapped around her little paw, which is as it should be. Noah may be a dark prince, but he knows when to bow to a queen.
I stare down at the pictures I snapped on my phone for potential future purposes.George and Eli?I can’t believe it. They look so cozy together, smushed up in the beanbags whispering to each other while they point to something on George’s laptop. It could just be an assignment they’re working on, but why lie to me about it? And after the football game, too…
I can’t see George cheating on Isaac. Sowhydid she lie?
She did it so smoothly, too. She’s a natural. I should take lessons from her.
At least looking at the pictures is more fun than social media right now. The story of Gabriel’s ‘confession’ has spread across the world. Musicians are posting their own stories and videos from tours with Octavia’s Ruin, building a narrative of Gabe as this out-of-control drug fiend who doesn’t know his ass from his elbow most of the time. That last part is true enough, and everything is just this side of believable that it’s tough to read.
If he gets out of this mess, he needs to sort out his shit.
I’m happy to see the band from homecoming, Broken Muse, release a statement on their social media supporting Gabriel and calling for their fans not to judge someone based on clearly doctored social media ‘evidence.’ But a link in the comments leads me over to Cleo’s YouTube channel where she’s posted three ‘confessional’ videos about Gabe that are complete bullshit. Utter bollocks, as Gabe would say. And she’s gained another two hundred thousand followers overnight, good for her.
“Argh!” I toss my phone across the room. Queen Boudica looks up from her position on Noah’s stomach, studying the flying rectangle as it hits the wall and drops onto her cat bed.
She hops off Noah and trots over to me, climbing into my lap and kneading her sharp claws into my thigh. I stroke her fur and feel a tiny bit calmer. It’s been the two of us alone in our palace against the world for so long, and now her world’s been flipped upside down alongside mine. But she’s taken everything in stride.
Her eyes narrow in concentration as if tearing my thigh to shreds is the most important business in the history of the world. As I bury my fingers in her fur, I graze over the raised scar where that bastard cut her. A hot sizzle of possessiveness courses through my veins. I remember what I’m fighting for.
Queen Boudica didn’t know she’d chosen another queen when I took her home from the diner that night. But she’s my family, same as Antony and Noah and Gabriel and George and… and Eli, even if he never speaks to me again.
I will not allow their hurt to go unpunished.
I will protect them until my dying breath.
I text Antony for an update, but he doesn’t answer. Noah finishes his homework and makes dinner for us both. It’s terrible – poor little rich boy has clearly never cooked for himself before, because he makes some kind of inedible chicken salad and burns the grilled cheese, but I’m too agitated to eat anyway. Everything will taste like cardboard until I know Gabriel is safe.
Noah tries to interest me in a game of chess, but he’s too competitive and I can’t focus. He puts a movie on and promptly falls asleep on my shoulder. It’s a weird mirror moment of the night he rescued me from the desert and I fell asleep on him. Weird but good. It feels so natural, so comfortable, to have his warm body pressed against mine. My heart constricts as I think about how close I’ve been to losing him, how close I am to losing Gabe. How I’ve already lost Eli.
I stroke Queen Boudica, who’s curled up on top of Noah, and stare out at the empty swimming pool until I hear the garage door click open.
I fling off the sleepers – ignoring their meows and groans of protest – and pounce on Antony as he throws open the fridge. “What did you find out about Gabriel?”
“Fuck, give me a minute. I haven’t had a break all day, and in four hours I have to get up again to supervise practice for the worst football team in the history of the universe.” Antony frowns as he inspects a container of misshapen brown mush.
“Noah tried to make chicken salad.” Antony starts to tear the corner off, but I grab it from his hands and toss it in the trash. “I wouldn’t attempt it, trust me.”
Antony grabs a package of Pop-Tarts and shoves one in the toaster. He looks worn out, his tie askew, his eyes ringed in black. There are more speckles on his cuff, and I have the sinking suspicion that they’re blood. I want to ask him about his night, but after our fight earlier today I know I need to back off. Besides, there’s something more important I need to know. “Antony,please.”
He sighs. “It’s not good news. According to my source, the UK police have been in contact. They’ve had Gabriel as a person of interest in his drummer’s murder for some time, and with this story making headlines, they want—”
“Hang on, Dylan committed suicide.”
But as I say it, I remember overhearing Daphne gossiping in the bathroom.Gabriel and Dylan had a massive screaming argument the day he died, and Gabriel threatened to hurt him—
“Not according to the police, he didn’t,” Antony smirks. “Maybe that’s not public knowledge yet. But that’s what they’re saying.”
“Fuck.” I stare at the glaring lightbulb above his head until white squiggles appear in front of my eyes. Queen Boudica winds herself around my ankles, reminding me with plaintive cries that all the world’s problems can be solved by opening another can of tuna.
“Exactly. Even with my connections, there’s nothing I can do. He’s just going to have to play this out.” Antony gives me a weird look as he grabs his Pop-Tart and jams it into his mouth. “I guess we’ll find out if you’re dating a murderer.”
“We’ve got another problem.”
He gives me a look like he’s going to throttle me. “I need a drink.”
I scoop up Queen Boudica and follow Antony into the ballroom. Wordlessly, he pours a glass of Scotch and hands it to me, then takes the bottle to the sofa, flops down, and chugs it like it’s water. I notice he doesn’t offer Noah a drink. “Talk,” he barks.
