31. Addy
Chapter thirty-one
Addy
T he hum of computers and the faint smell of overheating electronics blend into the background as I sink deeper into the worn-out couch in the corner of the lab. Dre's presence beside me is a constant reminder of the line we've crossed—a line that feels like a chasm now, one I'm not sure I can bridge again.
My thoughts scratch at the inside of my skull. The boys are an enigma wrapped in contradiction—enticing yet dangerous, like a siren's call that promises destruction. What do I even want? And, more importantly, can I trust them?
"Hey, hey, hey!" Gen's voice cuts through my mental fog, her excitement palpable as she bursts into the room. Her every step seems to bounce with an energy that's alien to me. Dre looks up from his phone, one eyebrow cocked, about to say something probably snarky, but Gen doesn't give him the chance.
"Outta the way, Dre," she says, grinning as she nudges him aside with her hip. He rolls his eyes but shifts, allowing her to plop down between us. There's something about Gen that makes you want to follow her lead—even if it's off a cliff.
"Guess who's got some juicy gossip?" Gen's green eyes flicker with mischief, drawing me out of my shell despite myself.
"Let me guess," Dre drawls, leaning back against the couch, his arm still stretching toward me, fingers twisting the ends of my hair. "Someone did something scandalous."
"Always." Gen turns to me, her smile softening a bit. "But that's not why I'm here. You doing okay, Addy? You've been quiet since...you know."
"Since Preston has made me his nemesis?" I murmur, trying to sound nonchalant. Dre's gaze sharpens on me, but I avoid his eyes, focusing on Gen's expectant face instead.
"Exactly," Gen says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But don't worry, bestie. I've got plans to distract you."
"Distractions sound good," I admit, though I'm not convinced. "Better than overthinking."
"Overthinking is Gen's middle name," Dre mutters, but there's a hint of a smirk on his lips.
"Too true," Gen agrees, bumping her shoulder against mine playfully. "That's why we need to shake things up a bit."
"Shake things up how?" I ask, though part of me already knows I might regret asking.
"Cover your ears, boys," Gen teases, winking at me. Dre rolls his eyes again but pretends to plug his ears with his fingers. Chess glances at us over his shoulder before continuing to clack away at his keyboard and Saint ignores us completely.
Gen leans closer, lowering her voice even though Dre is clearly not listening. "I've got a little secret mission for us."
"Secret mission?" The words taste like adventure and danger on my tongue. I feel a twinge of excitement, quickly smothered by anxiety.
"Yup." Gen's confidence is infectious, but it's battling with the knot of apprehension in my stomach. "It'll be epic."
"Everything with you is 'epic,'" Saint says.
"Because life is short and we're only young once." Gen grins, but then her expression turns serious. "You trust me, right?"
"Of course, I do," I reply automatically. And it's true—I do trust Gen, maybe more than I should. But it's hard to trust anyone when you've learned the hard way how easily trust can be shattered.
"Good." Gen nods decisively. "Because it's time to stop worrying about lines crossed and start drawing our own."
"Drawing our own lines..." I echo, feeling a mix of fear and boldness stir within me.
Dre uncovers his ears, giving us a suspicious look. "You two are plotting without me. I'm wounded."
"Aw, Dre," Gen coos, poking his arm. "You know you're irreplaceable."
"Damn right," he says, a genuine smile breaking through his tough exterior.
"Okay, so here's the deal," Gen starts, leaning in. "There's this party tonight. It's going to be out of control, and you're coming with me."
I feel the hesitation bubble up like a spring inside me. Parties aren't exactly my comfort zone, especially not the wild ones Gen seems to favor. I've seen enough to know they can go from zero to mayhem in less time than it takes to send a text. "Gen," I begin, my voice wavering just a touch, "I don't think my parents would go for something like that. They have... expectations."
"Expectations?" Gen scoffs, flipping her hair over one shoulder. "Surely they can let you loose for one night."
She has a point, but it doesn't ease the knot in my gut. My parents are all about appearances and control. A party— especially a high school party—flies in the face of their carefully curated image of family perfection.
Even if that only seems to apply to me. Wesley has attended every school event, sanctioned and unsanctioned.
"Trust me," Gen continues, her eyes lighting up with a spark of mischief, "your parents are pretty keen on keeping my dad happy. And since I'm pretty much the way to that man's heart, I won't even need to twist your folks' arms to sway them my way."
If Gen thinks she can leverage that influence...
"Really?" I ask, skepticism threading through my tone. Inside, a war rages between the part of me that wants to dive into the unknown and the part that fears the consequences.
"Absolutely." She grabs my hands, her own surprisingly warm and confident. "Addy, we're talking about one night of freedom. One night where you get to make the rules. You deserve that, don't you think?"
Do I? The question haunts the corners of my mind, ghostlike. After everything I've been through, perhaps I do deserve a night of recklessness—a night to forget the weight of the Winthrop name and everything it's put me through.
"Fine," I relent, the word escaping like a trapped bird taking flight. "But I really don't think this is going to work in your favor."
"Of course it will!" Gen exclaims, releasing my hands to clap in delight. "This is going to be amazing, Addy. You'll see."
??????
Gen maneuvers her convertible with an ease that suggests the road belongs to her and no one else. I'm just a passenger, both in this cherry-red machine and in the wild trajectory my life seems to be taking.
She hooks her arm through mine as we make our way to the front door. I can hear the clack of Cheryl's heels like a death march as we remove our coats and hang them in the closet.
"Adelaide, where have—" she stops short as she catches sight of my unexpected guest.
She stands framed in the doorway, a mix of surprise and curiosity etched on her face at the sight of me with company—a rarity. Her eyes scan from Gen's buoyant figure and I watch as her entire demeanor changes. She's wearing her public face now.
"Genevieve, what a pleasant surprise."
"I hope I'm not intruding Mrs. Winthrop," Gen chirps, her confidence clear. "Addy has been such a gem. We've really hit it off."
Cheryl's smile doesn't reach her cold, dead eyes. "Well, that's wonderful to hear. You're not intruding at all, sweetheart."
"Actually, I was hoping I could borrow Addy for the night." Gen clasps her hands together with infectious enthusiasm, "There's this party—everyone who's anyone will be there. And I simply can't imagine going without my new bestie." She throws an arm around me, pulling me close, and I'm enveloped by the scent of her floral perfume.
"Party?" Cheryl echoes, her brow furrowing in feigned parental concern.
"Absolutely! It's going to be epic. Plus, Rhett and his boys will be there, too. So, we'll be perfectly safe," Gen says, sliding a glance in my direction, her eyes alight with mischief and persuasion.
I hold my breath, waiting for the inevitable decline, the firm reminder of my place within these walls. But instead, Cheryl surprises me, her expression thawing as she considers Gen's words.
"Alright," she concedes, a reluctant approval in her eyes. "But I expect you to behave, Adelaide. No shenanigans."
"Of course, mother," I mutter, still in shock. Did Cheryl just agree to let me step outside these gilded cages, if only for an evening?
"Perfection! It would make sense for Addy to spend the night at mine since my house is closer. If that's alright with you."
"It only makes sense," Cheryl agrees.
"Let's find you something to wear!" Gen declares, herding me toward my room with the urgency of a general rallying her troops.
My closet, a blend of conservative frocks and stiff blazers, seems to deflate under Gen's discerning gaze. She rifles through the hangers with a furrowed brow, the silence growing heavy.
"Addy, this is...l," she sighs, holding up a beige cardigan with a look of disdain.
"Um, they're comfortable?" I offer weakly, feeling a pang of vulnerability. These clothes have never been my choice, but they are my armor against a world I'm not sure I'm ready to face—the world Gen inhabits so effortlessly.
"Comfortable won't cut it. You need to shine, babe!" Gen exclaims, tossing the cardigan aside. "We'll get ready at my house. My closet is your closet."
"Thank you," I say, the gratitude mingling with a rising tide of anxiety.
She has me pack a small bag and we hop back into her car to head back to the Whitman estate. Gen has the music turned up loud as she sings along to every word, off-key and full of enthusiasm.
I'm out of my element and I'm terrified of what comes next, but I also feel...comfortable. There is just something about Gen that makes me feel at ease. And it worries me. Because there's always a stillness before the serpent's strike.
The scent of leather and old books hits me as soon as we step into Gen's house. It's a stark contrast to the sterile environment I've grown accustomed to at the Winthrop's. It's masculine, but not in a bachelor pad way. I like it.
"Come on," Gen says, her hand light on my back as she guides me past the open door of what looks like a conference room. Mason and his crew, a tableau of brooding intensity, barely glance up from the sprawl of papers and laptops. Their murmurs are a low hum, a soundtrack of secrets and strategy. I can see Saint, Dre, and Chess among them.
"Upstairs," Gen calls out, nonchalant, as if announcing our presence is an afterthought. Her voice bounces off the high ceiling, playful and irreverent.
"Sure," Mason grunts, not taking his eyes off the screen before him. His indifference sets my nerves jangling, but Gen just rolls her eyes and pulls me along.
The stairs creak under our weight, each step amplifying the silence between us. By the time we reach her room, my heart is thundering a rhythm that feels out of place in the calm of her sanctuary. Gen's room is a storm of colors, clothes strewn over furniture like confetti after a parade. She dives into her closet, pulling out items with magician-like flair.
"Try this one," she says, handing me a dress that looks like it's made from liquid moonlight. It slips through my fingers, too delicate, too daring.
"Gen, I—" My throat tightens around the protest, but it doesn't escape unnoticed.
Gen's gaze sharpens, and she pauses, holding another potential outfit against me—a sliver of red that promises attention I'm not sure I want. "What is it, Addy?" Her tone is gentler now, stripped of earlier excitement.
"I don't know if I can wear these," I admit, feeling the weight of her expectation. "They're beautiful, but... they're not me."
"Hey." Gen's hand is warm on my shoulder, grounding. "You don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with. I got carried away." She puts the dress back, her movements slower, more thoughtful.
"Thank you," I breathe out, relief flooding me. "It's just—"
"Addy," Gen interrupts, her eyes fierce, "you should never let anyone—especially those boys downstairs—walk all over you. You've got to stand up for yourself, make your voice heard. If you don't, they'll eat you alive."
She hands me a simple black dress, classic and elegant. I run my fingers over the fabric, the softness a balm to my frayed nerves. "I can try this one," I say, a tentative smile playing on my lips.
"Perfect," Gen nods approvingly. "Now, let's get you ready to shine on your own terms."