Sixty.
He stays like that long enough that I find myself holding my breath, waiting for him to show a reaction.
I remain rooted in place, almost as if unable to move.
No—refusing to move.
He’s looking at the floor.
I’m lookingat him.
4
YULIAN
Well, this is inconvenient.
Fuck me sideways.
This entire stupid camp is a waste of time and space and effort, but I have a feeling that if I’d voiced those genius thoughts, I would’ve walked out from under Dad’s shoe with a broken rib.
Not the first time that would’ve happened, but the memory of the pain makes me rein in that very logical thought of just fucking shit up.
“Got a smoke?” I lie on the floor and prop my feet on the side of the bed, where Cy’s lying with a thick book in hand and stares down at me like I’m a freak.
Okay, I am, but he doesn’t have to make it so obvious.
“Your dad said if anyone is caught supplying you with cigarettes, he’ll use the butts to burn their faces.”
“Oh no, the formidable Cy is scared of dear old Dad?”
“Shut your trap. Cigarettes aren’t good for you.”
“Yes, Mom!” I do a mock salute. “You got them or nah?”
He watches me for a few more minutes, tilting his book to the side, which is…well, let’s say shit has hit the fan if Cy finds anything more interesting than his boring books.
His gray eyes scan my face as if he’s trying to find the little freak he knows so well behind the bruises my dad left as a parting gift. Thank God Cy wasn’t in the room when that happened, but as soon as he walked in a while ago, he noticed exactly what was up.
Sometimes, like today, I hate that he sees me at my worst. It makes me feel worthless.
Like a weakling, as Dad says all the time.
Finally, Cy reaches under his pillow and produces a Zippo and a pack of cigarettes, then throws them on my stomach. “You look like you need them.”
“No shit.” I slide a cigarette between my lips and light it as I fall back on the wooden floor while taking a long drag.
The nicotine hit doesn’t quiet the chaos, but it dulls my senses to a melody of nothingness or some shit.
Anyhow, I’d love a drink as well. I’m about to bring it up to Cy so he’ll make it happen—after some nagging, because he’s an old man trapped in a teenager’s body. Not that I can’t play my useless Yaroslav’s son card to make the guards do my bidding, but they report back to Dad in a flash, and he loves to make me see his fist and the sole of his shoe any chance he gets.
Cy can get any shit he wants just by sweet-talking his way through it or manipulating people into thinking it’s for some made-up reason.
I stare at him, and he’s still not focused on his book. Fuck me, that’s an anomaly.
Cyrus has the face of someone trustworthy. Ethereally handsome with platinum-blond hair, gorgeous East Asian-shaped light-gray eyes, sharp features that bewitchgirls, and a silver tongue that makes everyone fall for him instantly.
Truth is, he wasn’t always so captivating with his speech. When I first met him a couple of years ago, when he first moved in with us, he didn’t speak. At all.
