“That’s still the plan.” I stab a piece of chicken, chewing it slowly as I drill a hard glare at the pretty redhead. Two nerds with slicked-back hair, wearing almost identical white polos with khaki shorts, slide onto the seats beside them, and I watch as Emery makes polite conversation while pretending she doesn’t feel my hatred burning a hole in the side of her skull.
“How does glaring at her like she’s the she-devil accomplish that goal?” Everett inquires.
“Chicks dig assholes. I’m just giving her what she wants.” I pierce my fork into another piece of chicken, watching Emery blush at something dweeb number one says.
Everett chuckles. “I’m glad I stuck around for this.” He sure has changed his tune. “I can’t wait to see how you get her to drop her panties in four weeks. She might as well have virgin stamped on her forehead.”
“You doubt my skills?” I tear my gaze from my target for a few seconds, quirking a brow at my friend.
“Fuck no. I’ll never bet against you.” His lips curl at the corners. “If you could persuade Terri Vickers to let you fuck her while Gray was in the next room at Crawford’s party, I know you’ve got this in the bag.”
I refocus on Emery, pleased to find her inquisitive eyes already on me. I stare at her as I make a meal out of licking my fork, enjoying the blush creeping up her neck. Dweeb number two glances over at me, a frown marring his brow, and I flip him off because he’s annoying me. She purses her lips in distaste, and I fight a smile.
Princess Emery is so prim and proper with her fake superiority and misguided pride.
I can’t wait to dirty her up.
“Roman. I’m back,” I holler later that day, arriving home an hour after classes have ended. Dumping my bag in the hallway of our apartment in the West Village, I stride toward the open-plan kitchen, wondering where my brother is.
Everett wanted me to come back to his place, but I don’t like leaving my troubled little bro alone for too long. Now that it’s just the two of us, he’s only got me to watch out for him. He hasn’t been doing so good lately, and I’m worried about him again.
“Ro, where are you?” I shout, opening the refrigerator door and cursing when I find it almost empty. Roman promised he’d do the grocery shopping today.
I amble around our luxurious apartment, opening doors and checking the outside terrace, but it’s clear he isn’t here. Grabbing my cell, I punch in his number, putting the phone on speaker as I open cupboards, trying to find something to eat. The call drops, and I immediately press redial. My blood pressure spikes when it goes unanswered a second time, and I’m just pulling up the tracking app to check his location when the front door opens.
Air whooshes out of my mouth in grateful relief when my brother trots into the kitchen, carrying a few bags of groceries in his arms. “What’s up?” I ask, taking a couple of bags from him. “What did you get up to today?”
He shrugs, placing his bags on the counter. “Nothing much. I was just hanging around here.”
“Alone?” I ask as I unpack our groceries.
“You don’t have to worry. Jarvis and I are on the outs.”
That is music to my ears. I hate that guy, and I don’t trust his motives. I failed my brother one time before, and I’m determined to ensure I never fail him again.
“Curtis said he might come over for dinner. I can tell him no if it bothers you.” Roman has no issue with my buddy Curtis, per se. It’s the memories of Wakefield Residential Home he conjures up that are the problem.
“I don’t care either way.” Ro yanks the refrigerator door open like it’s personally affronted him.
“I’ll tell him to leave it for another night.” I squeeze my brother’s shoulders. “I’ll cook, and then we can catch a movie, or I’ll beat your ass at COD again.”
Roman shrugs nonchalantly, and I swallow over the lump wedged in my throat. With every day that passes, it feels like I’m losing him again.
Things were better when we first moved here—after Denton Mathers showed up two years ago to rescue us from that hell of a group home—and I thought Roman had turned a corner. Lately, he’s struggling again, and I’m at a loss on how to help him. He’s only just turned sixteen. He should be enjoying his summer break, not battling demons I can’t see.
He refuses to see a therapist. Refuses to talk to me. Drowning his sorrows in booze, weed, and cocksucking assholes like Jarvis Van Hesten is his preferred coping mechanism.
This is why I’m hell-bent on revenge. Why I’m going after all of them.
The owner of the home for doing nothing when I told him what was going on.
The lecherous bitch who dared to lay her hands on my innocent brother.
Hamilton and the elite for facilitating our adoption, which set everything in motion, and later for taking our guardian—Denton—away.
Our asshole sperm donor, Atticus Anderson, and the brothers who abandoned us because we were too much trouble.
They are all going to pay for what happened to Roman, and I won’t rest until I’ve destroyed them and everything they hold dear.
