Chapter 13 Rayne #2
But there’s a question rattling around in me.
One that’s been growing with every passing day this year.
“Wes,” I finally say, focusing my eyes across the quad, looking at the old stone Economics building rather than looking over at him.
“Yeah?”
“Why weren’t you ever close with your brother?”
It feels weird asking. Even as a kid, I stayed out of whatever went on between them.
I was willing to throw punches for Weston, but we didn’t usually broach emotional subjects.
“You’ve met Hunter. Isn’t it obvious?” Weston says.
“I know he’s… intense.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
Weston’s silent again for a while, and I can’t help but think of what Hunter said to me the other day.
You accept my brother’s condescending bullshit for a lifetime.
I’d never thought of Weston as condescending at all, but it was true that I had always gone along with him, rather than the other way around.
When we used to hang out, it was at his house.
Which was big, lavish, and practically a mansion compared to the tiny apartment where I used to live with my mom.
Weston played football, so I started playing it too, way back in middle school. He was also the one who was dead-set on going to Crimson College and joining Onyx.
I told him I’d never get in, but lo and behold, after he talked to some people, I was accepted into the college and able to attend alongside him. Lord knows I could only afford it through financial aid and a hefty scholarship.
Weston actually offered to pay my entire tuition, once.
I shut him down on that fast.
I liked being helped, but I didn’t need to feel like I owed him so much.
“I just want to pretend he isn’t here,” Weston tells me. “I don’t know shit about why he left London, and I don’t want to know. After growing up with him, I can tell you, your best bet is just to ignore Hunter.”
“Kind of hard to ignore him when he’s in my fucking room.”
Wes mimes a puking face. “Has he been doing his night terrors thing?”
I frown. “What?”
“Growing up, he’d wake up in the middle of the night, like, fucking screaming,” Weston says. “It was awful.”
“That sounds brutal. Was he okay?”
“Hunter was never okay, but they put him on meds for a while. Eventually he stopped taking them, but then the night terrors never really came back, I guess.”
“Sounds kind of sad.”
“I guess it was.”
There’s a small rock on the pathway in front of me and I kick it with the toe of my shoe, watching it rattle down the sidewalk.
“I still just don’t get it. Why did he have such a problem with you growing up?”
When I glance over at Weston again he’s frowning, and he won’t meet my eyes.
“Rayne, just trust me. Our childhood wasn’t as pretty as you might think. I don’t really want to talk about why he had problems with me. Quit fucking asking, alright?”
His words hit me like a light blow to the chest.
Weston never talks to me like that, either.
When we get back to Onyx, Weston immediately sits down at the big, round table in the front room where Roman and a few other guys are playing poker.
Noah’s making Oliver take Polaroid pictures of him in the hallway.
He’s obsessed with old-school things, like his leather-bound notebook, Polaroid cameras, and vintage coats.
Noah has recruited Ollie to take Polaroids of him wearing one of his new coats.
I give Noah a little salute as I walk by the two of them.
I head upstairs and swing open the door to my room.
Hunter’s in there, lying back on his bed and reading a book.
And he’s wearing one of my shirts.
I stare at him.
He stares back, over his book.
And neither of us say a word.
The way he’s lying down, the bottom part of the fabric is hiked up to reveal his lower abs. The shirt is white with red letters that say Crimson College Football along the front.
Wearing my fucking shirt.
He didn’t ask to wear it, but then again, Hunter doesn’t ask much of anything before he does it.
Fencing sculpts the body in a slightly different way than football does, but Hunter has a V-shape on his lower abs that leads down past his waistband, and all I want to do is touch him there.
And I also already want to punch him, which is par for the course these days.
A song is playing from the speaker on his desk, and he’s humming along.
“Someone to Watch Over Me.”
“You know this song’s not about stalking, right, Hunter?”
“You look angry,” he says, ignoring my comment.
“You look like you’re wearing my clothes.”
He runs a hand along the cotton shirt. “It smelled like you. Made me a little hard, so I put it on and made myself come while wearing it.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Yes. I’m kidding. About touching myself, at least. Though I’ll gladly do that for you right now, if you’d like—”
“What did you do to Weston to make him hate you? Both of you need to quit dodging my questions and just fucking talk to me for once.”
“Ooh, trouble in paradise?” Hunter says, closing his book and dropping it onto the table beside his bed. “Your best friend in the whole wide world won’t tell you personal stuff anymore?”
“He tells me plenty.”
Hunter grabs a strawberry from a bowl on his desk, taking a bite. “Here. Have some.”
He holds out the bowl of perfectly cut, fresh strawberries.
There’s a little dipping bowl nestled in there beside them, full of whipped cream.
“Did you cut these?”
“What? You think I can’t cut a strawberry? The whipped cream is made fresh, too. With vanilla bean paste.”
I take a bite of one, dipped in the whipped cream.
“That’s good.”
“I’m glad.”
It’s fucking delicious, really.
“Strawberries are my favorite,” I tell him.
“I’ve noticed you like them.”
“Stalk me much?”
Both of us puff out a laugh, and for a brief moment, I don’t completely hate him.
But I quickly remember what I actually need to talk to him about, and what I’m here for.
“Tell me about your problem with Weston.”
“Why do you want to talk about him, anyway?” Hunter protests, eating another strawberry. “Swear you guys used to call each other to figure out what to eat for breakfast each morning. Maybe it’s good that you’re a little more distant now—”
“We aren’t distant. What did you do to him?”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Why do you assume it was me who did something to him?”
“Because I know Weston doesn’t hurt the people around him. And I know you do.”
He looks me up and down. “It wasn’t either of us. It was our father. Is that enough truth for you, Colson? Or are you going to interrogate me more?”
I’m silent for a moment.
My heart’s already pounding, like I’m in a physical fight with him even though we’re just talking.
Their father hurt them?
Barrett Knox always seemed like a stern but kind person, welcoming me into his home as a kid, offering me food that was cooked by their live-in nanny.
I never knew my own father, and having glimpses into what it was like to have a dad around always felt…
Like a fairytale.
Too good to be true.
“Your father did something to you guys?”
“He didn’t touch us, Rayne. If you’re looking for a sob story, it’s not that type of horrifying.”
I kick off my shoes and hop in my bed, sitting so that my back is up against the wall and I’m facing Hunter’s bed.
He does the same, looking over at me, and finally he pulls in a long breath.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” I tell him.
“Too late. You wanted the truth, didn’t you? I’ll tell you everything, even if Weston won’t.”