Chapter 7
Vale
I’ve gotta hand it to the little psycho.
It took me far longer than it should have to notice I was being watched.
Stalked.
So caught up in forcing pleasantries when I arrived, and still reeling from my conversation with Quentin, it wasn’t until Seth joined me that I felt it.
The eyes boring holes into my head.
Admittedly, I truly didn’t expect him to ambush me so soon after reappearing in my life. So soon after I vowed to avoid him. Especially, when I still didn’t know for sure if he even recognized me.
But this is Aston we’re talking about. It’s not like he had a lobotomy since the last time I saw him. I wouldn’t be so lucky.
I should’ve known better than to assume he’d outgrow his…ways. Or to trust the universe to not screw me epically.
How he learned I’d be here—hell, how he even learned about the Furnaces—doesn’t take too much of a stretch to figure out. It had to be the Jennings kid.
It’s not like it’s a secret we hang here.
Partying at the Iron Furnaces is a Grady Prep upperclassmen tradition, going all the way back to when the school was instated.
Which was only a year after this plant was closed, and iron and steel production was shifted closer to the city.
The beginning of the fall of Crowley as a booming industrial town.
Rather than give Aston the attention he no doubt came for, I’d used Seth for cover as I did a quick, perusing sweep of my surroundings, busying myself with a lingering kiss to his head.
He would spy from the shadows like a coward…
Shoving all thoughts of Aston to the back of my mind in favor of turning my focus on my boyfriend, I’d led Seth toward the privacy of the shadowy stacks. Figuring getting my dick wet would relax me some. But no sooner than he dropped to his knees and freed my cock, we heard it. A panicked shout.
And somehow I just knew.
Before I even registered what I was doing, I had my dick tucked away and my sweatshirt thrown on to free up my hands, and I was storming past the fire, gaze locked on the people converging at the mouth of the main path cutting through the fields.
The one I followed from the road, bisected deep with tire-formed craters from all the cars and trucks that have come and gone over the years.
The one I follow now.
Narrow, man-made pathways indicated by old, trampled stalks and shoeprint-mottled dirt branch off every which way. Some lead back to the main road, but most come to a dead end, like the one currently setting the stage for tonight’s source of entertainment.
My steps slow as I draw closer, brow furrowed in curiosity as the scene playing out comes into view. All the while, I’m dimly aware of Seth catching up to me, crowding my back, murmuring questions that flutter aimlessly around my awareness like cobwebs to be swatted away.
I spot Murphy first with his back to me. Even with nothing but the stars, moon, and pulsing light of the fire to go by—and the handful of lit-up phones recording—he’s impossible to miss with that shock of frizzy orange hair.
Standing off to the side of his wide frame, I spot Fletch easing back behind Casey who’s got his hands out like he’s trying to calm a cornered animal. He’s saying something, but I only catch snippets of it.
“Calm down.”
“He’s sorry.”
“...drunk…didn’t mean to.”
“...an idiot.”
Intermingling with this, other words traveling in a hush through the crowd vie for my attention.
“Ashwood.”
“Crazy.”
“Knife.”
“Motherfucker.”
“Knife.”
“Knife.”
“Knife.”
And I mumble under my breath, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
This has to be a joke.
Almost six years.
Six years of fucking peace destroyed in a matter of hours.
Shouldering my way through the bodies clogging my path, I hardly spare them a glance. Some start to bitch as I knock them out of my way but seem to think better of it when they realize who it is.
Slowly, but surely, my presence is noted by the others, and the crowd parts like butter. Granting me a direct path to where I now notice a fourth figure, shorter and slighter than the rest. But not the short and slight one responsible for the drama unfolding.
Jennings’ kid. Whatever his name is.
I frown, eyes glancing right over him, sweeping past Murph’s hulking figure. His back is angled to me just enough that I don’t immediately see who’s on the other side of him.
But when I do, I see red.
What the actual fuck?
I round Fletch and Casey just as Aston leans up, neck craned as far back as it can go.
And what the does the little lunatic do?
He presses a kiss to Murph’s chin. A kiss.
And for the second time tonight, impulse steals the reins from me faster than you can say, Idiot.
“What the fuck is going on?”
The demand rings out harshly into the night, effectively silencing everyone. I come to a stop several feet behind Aston, ensuring his back is to me, and cross my arms and wait. My heart racing faster than it has any damn right to.
And all I can think is—
I thought I’d have more time.
To prepare.
To have an escape plan in place, in case of emergency.
To figure out what the fuck I’m going to do—say—when we inevitably cross paths.
Just…time.
Was it really only hours ago that I was warming up for the game?
Leave it to my human wrecking ball of an ex-foster brother to uproot everything in record time. So much for any hope of him maturing during his time away. If an insane asylum couldn’t wrangle him into submission, it’s doubtful anything will at this point.
Murph snaps out of his stupor first. Blinking wildly, he shoves Aston off him, throwing himself back and furiously wiping his face.
Aston’s back is to me, but near his thigh, I catch a flash of metal, just before it disappears.
His shoulder shifts, like he’s shoving whatever it is in the pocket of his jeans.
A quick scan of Murph as he staggers drunkenly away shows no sign of blood.
That’s something at least.
Knowing him, he won’t even remember this come tomorrow. Though I’m sure this will be blasted all over socials for him to watch and get pissed off about later.
I try to find it in me to care. I know I should.
I know I do…
But probably not for the right reasons.
Luckily, there’s no service here for anyone to livestream. As for any photos or videos taken… I make a mental note to deal with that later.
Because right now? Right now, Aston St. James finally decided to grace me with his attention. And I don’t miss the way he finger-combs and fluffs his hair before turning around—primping himself like this is a date, and not a fucking shitstorm in the making.
Just don’t poke the beast.
There’s still a chance he doesn’t know you—remember you.
Don’t give him anything.
Just as soon as Aston’s gaze lands on my face and he greets me with a blinding smile, I swing all my attention to the Jennings kid, who looks like he’s seconds from either stroking out or shitting a brick. “What the fuck are you two doing here?”
His mouth parts, closes, and he stutters as he tries to get words out. “I-I—we—I mean—”
A lanky arm clad in light blue cotton comes around him, hugging him protectively. My brow twitches at the sight, my chest tightening with some foreign feeling.
Or rather, a feeling I haven’t felt in a very long time. One that has me balling my hands into fists so tight, my nails dig into my palms hard enough to leave marks.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say flatly, coldly.
The crowd shifts. Nervous titters fill the air. I drag a glare over the various gawking faces, and some actually have the brains to scurry off. Those who don’t are quickly ushered off by a couple guys from the team.
And then there’s the girls.
I glance over at the four cheerleaders still lingering, all named Alicia except for one.
Alicia Michaelson, Alicia Graves, and their self-proclaimed ringleader, Alicia Devereaux.
Together, they make up what the school—even teachers—refer to unironically as the Alicias. Your typical high school power-hungry, mean girl clique who feeds on drama and the ridicule of those seen as beneath them. Which is just about everyone.
Sensing me watching her, Devereaux glances over. She doesn’t lower the phone she uses to record what’s unfolding, but her trademark smirk does soften somewhat, edging into something a little less cruel and far more devious. Flirty, even, at having caught my attention.
Ignoring it like I always do, I give Casey a pointed look, and he nods, turning to whisper in Thea’s ear, before giving her a quick kiss and squeeze of her ass.
“Shots!” she yells, grabbing Devereaux, and all but dragging her and the other Alicias away, despite the former’s initial protests.
In the end, the lure of alcohol wins out.
That and the fact Thea’s not scared of Devereaux in the least, unlike most girls we go to school with.
Something, I think even the queen bitch herself appreciates.
Murph stumbles after them, practically face-planting in his rush to get out of here. Over the breeze rustling the field, I hear him mumble about needing a strong drink after that.
“Vale?”
Fuck.
Forgot about Seth.
Turning toward him, I murmur for his ears only, “Go on. I’ll meet back up with you after we deal with this.” He hesitates, but I give him an encouraging nod, lips pressed into a tight, unforgiving line. The closest thing to a reassuring smile I’m capable of right now.
He pushes up his glasses, nods, and scurries off.
I blow out a breath and rake my fingers through my hair.
A low whistle fills the air, and I tense.
Not about to entertain whatever he’s about to say, I turn to Fletch. “What happened?”
Tugging his earlobe, he shrugs. “Murph and I were taking a piss, and—”
Casey snorts. “Together?”
I glance sharply at him, and he rolls his eyes, not even bothering to hide his smirk. He’s drunk. Otherwise, this would’ve already been handled. Another reason why I keep him close. He might come off like an airhead, but he’s a hell of a mediator. Can diffuse almost any situation.