Page 12 of Freedom’s Inferno

Then Richard introduced her as his girlfriend and every scrap of confidence I’d scraped together dissolved on the spot, the universe reminding me exactly where I stood.

She’d smiled, polite and brief, eyes already sliding past me as Richard launched into a story only she seemed to exist to hear. Her dismissal cut so clean it sliced deeper than open hostility ever could.

I told myself she looked down on me. That she thought I wasn’t good enough to matter, not worth her time or acknowledgment. I wouldn’t admit how invisible she made me feel without ever trying.

Soft footsteps sounded on the stairs, bringing me out of my reverie. I turned as Lana’s bare feet reached the bottom, her hair a mess of tangled curls, still wearing that fluffy pink robe. She was a predator wrapped in cotton candy.

“Get dressed.”

She jumped at my words, as if she hadn’t expected to find me there. Maybe she was hoping the previous night was a bad dream, and that she’d wake up to an empty house. The way she rolled her eyes stirred something in me I recognized all too well, even now.

My gaze betrayed me, flicking back to the photo, and she saw exactly where my attention had gone.

Something flashed across her face, fast, ugly, unguarded. Her mouth tightened, not in nostalgia or fondness, but in something closer to revulsion. Regret, maybe. Disgust. Whatever it was, it vanished almost as soon as it appeared, smoothed over by a blank expression.

“Guess some memories don’t age well,” I said.

Her eyes flashed. “I’m impressed you remember it at all, given how much you’d had to drink.”

“I had a few drinks,” I said. “That doesn’t mean I don’t remember my best friend’s wedding.”

“Yes, his best man,” she said, head tilting. “Who drank half the open bar before the reception even started and then got up in front of a room full of people and turned a five-minute speech into a rambling eulogy for his bachelorhood.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. The argument died in my throat as the hollow ache of Richard’s absence hit. He wasn’t there to laugh it off, to clap me on the shoulder and call me an asshole.

I forced the thought away, jaw tightening as I pulled myself back into the present.

“We don’t have time for this,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended. “Get dressed.”

“It’s still early.” She yawned, her body lengthening as she reached her arms over her head in a long stretch. “What’s the rush?”

“I’m starving,” I snapped. “We’re going to get breakfast.”

She stared at me, brows knitting together at her hairline. “You’re taking me to breakfast?”

“No,” I corrected, “You’re taking me to breakfast. It’s the least you can do after murdering my best friend.” I smiled, letting her see my teeth.

She looked like she was trying to think of something clever to say, but then she huffed a sigh of resignation and retreated back up the stairs. A few moments later she came back down wearing a pair of gray skinny jeans and a black sweater that hung off her shoulders.

I stared at her longer than I meant to.

She caught me with a wry grin. “What’re you looking at?”

“Nothing, I just didn’t know you owned a pair of jeans.”

Lana scoffed, descending the last two steps to the front door. She slid her feet into a pair of ballet flats, and gave me a withering look. “Of course I own jeans. I just don’t like to wear them because they’re uncomfortable.”

“But you’ll stuff your feet into a pair of heels, and walk around with your stomach sucked into Spanx.”

She didn’t dignify that with an answer, irritation radiating off her. I considered it a victory.

She pushed open the front door and I followed her outside, shrugging my arms into my jacket as I went. My bike was parked in her driveway, black paint catching the early sun. She made to walk toward the garage, but I was already pulling my helmet over my head and shoving a half-shell at her.

“I’m driving. Put this on.”

She stared at the helmet like I was handing her a live grenade. The corners of her mouth tightened, that delicate jaw going stubborn. “Absolutely not.”

My lips twitched under my own helmet. “What’s the problem? Afraid you’ll mess up your hair?”