“She’s no one,” I mutter, though I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince. I raise my hands to Hawke. “Ball.”
Exchanging another look with Ford and Roman, Hawke passes it to me, and I pull up, letting the ball roll off my fingers. When it bounces off the rim and ricochets across the court, Ford chases after it.
“Any update on Titas?” I ask, referring to our father.
“You mean, other than his insistence on a family dinner?” Ford scoffs as he jogs back with the ball in his hands, slightly out of breath. “Nothing yet. Hawke?”
Hawke shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“No more pop-ins with Judge?” Roman prods.
We take turns shaking our heads. It isn’t exactly surprising. Judge is about as enthused in the current shit storm he’s in as we are. Pretty sure he’s tired of trying to catch us with our pants down and is spending his time writing a new album in hopes of his older brother changing his mind and letting him off the hook, but what do I know? Besides, it doesn’t matter. He can waste as much time as he wants trying to shut down our less-than-savory activities, but it won’t do shit. Our father has already cut us off financially. What other punishment can he dole out? It’s not like he’d kick us out of Harden Estate. A move like that would be too public. And he’s nothing if not a fan of keeping the Harden name as squeaky clean as possible.
“Give me a minute,” I mutter. “I need to make a call.” My Nikes scuff against the black pavement as I jog toward the corner of the court, dialing the dean. The phone rings before the familiar click of the call connecting takes over.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Dean Winters,” I return. “This is Jagger. Jagger Harden.”
“J-Jagger?” the dean repeats. “Oh, uh. Hello. How’s your father?”
“Father’s doing well. Busy, as I’m sure you can imagine,” I add.
“Yes, of course. So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”
“I need you to give me the direct number to whoever handles housing on campus.”
“Housing?” The bastard hesitates but is smart enough not to ask any follow-up questions. “Yes, of course. Uh, I’ll have my assistant send it to you tomorrow morning.”
“I’m going to need the information within the next fifteen minutes.”
“Oh. Uh, right. Yes, of course. She’ll send it within the next fifteen minutes.”
My mouth lifts. “Have a good night, Dean.”
“You, too.”
12
VIOLET
Ihate how I didn’t have it in me to toss Jagger’s hoodie in the garbage on my way inside last night. I told myself it’s because it’d be wasteful and I paid good money for it, but the truth is a hell of a lot more pathetic. I still can’t get it out of my head. The way he looked at me. The way his voice turned lethal when he saw the bruise. The way he was so gentle when he brushed his fingers against it. The way he was so determined to hurt whoever touched me. Not that I was looking for that kind of reaction, but it almost felt…nice. Seeing someone who cared.
Okay, now I’m being ridiculous. He didn’t care. Not really. He was just surprised. Abuse is probably less of a thing in Harden Heights than it is in The Drift. That’s all.
I glare at the item in question hanging from my locked doorknob before hooking it over my arm and grabbing my backpack from its usual spot next to my door. The hinges creak as I pull the door open. When the sound cuts through the silence in the rest of my tiny house, I flinch, praying it won’t wake up my sperm donor. Normally, I’d be all for it. Let the bastard have a crappy night of rest. But the idea of facing him again after yesterday morning’s shit show is more than I can stomach.
Holding my breath, I listen for any sounds or clues as to what’s waiting for me in the family room. It’s quiet. Nothing but the low snore vibrating from my dad’s passed-out body on the couch. Relief floods my system. Everything else is the same. Even the stupid can is lying on the ground from where I’d kicked it after he threw it at me.
He was there when I got home last night, too. I’d wonder if he’s dead if it wasn’t for the constant snoring. Seriously, this man is a waste of space.
Keeping my backpack over my shoulder and my keys in hand, I tiptoe through the small family room and outside. The air is a little cooler this morning, but I let the breeze chill me, too stubborn to throw on the stupid hoodie despite being too weak to leave it in my room. It’s only a hoodie. A stupid freaking hoodie. Bunching the fabric in my fist, I head down the short set of stairs toward my car when my phone buzzes in my back pocket. It’s too early for a call. Hell, it’s barely seven in the morning. Even if it wasn’t, no one calls me other than Lexie or work. Since Lexie is convinced mornings are for birds and weirdos, and I’m already on the schedule for today’s shift, I have no idea who would be calling me. Curious, I fold the hoodie over my free arm and pull my phone out. It’s Jenny Thomas. I frown. Why the hell is she calling me?
We haven’t spoken since I passed on the room. The reminder is bitter at best. I touch the sore spot on my back one more time before giving in and answer the call. “Hello?”
“Hello. Violet?”
“Yes?”
