Chapter Forty
“Quite the stuntyou pulled back there. I mean, I know I’m not one to call things excessive, but Jesus fuck, man.”
Why should I answer that? Freddie doesn’t care. Not really. Hell, he’s more absorbed in sharpening his stupid fucking hockey skates than he is in our conversation—or, more accurately, his monologuing. I haven’t spoken a word since we got back to the house, and I don’t plan on changing that anytime soon.
“I don’t know,” Charlie Cochran says from where he lounges by the pool table. I don’t need to look up to know that he’s got that ugly grin on his face, the one that shows off his chipped tooth as though it’s a proud battle trophy and not a mark of clumsy incompetence. “I thought it was pretty funny. Thought she was gonna burst out crying over some fucking hamburger meat. You must have been right about her pretending to be classy, Ryker—she’d probably swoon at the sight of a rare steak.”
The flames of the common room fireplace burn through my eyes, but I don’t blink. In my peripheral vision, I can see them glinting against Freddie’s skate blades.
“What’s up next, then?” That’s the voice of one of the new guys, revolting in its eagerness—I can’t remember his name, and can’t bring myself to give a fuck, either. “Do we keep messing with the same girl, or can we pick another one? I nominate Roxanne Chambers. Can’t stand that cunt and her ugly?—”
Freddie intervenes before I can. “We’ve got better shit to do than harassing random girls, dipshit. You want to go fuck a bitch up, do it yourself.”
“Yeah,” Cochran agrees. “Speaking of better stuff, how ’bout that hockey tournament? Graves looks like he’s raring to practice.”
“You know I don’t care about that shit, man,” Freddie laughs.
“You just like stealing my fuckin’ skates.”
“Sure do.”
Their voices are like the buzzing of wasps, intensifying the headache that hasn’t left me since I met with my father on Sunday morning.
“Well,” Cochran grumbles, “maybe I don’t appreciate the thievery.”
“Don’t be a bitch. You can afford more.”
“Tournament’s at the beginning of November. I can’t just keep buying new pairs—I gotta wear them in a bit if I want to play at my best. We’re playing Zeta Alpha Rho first, you know. I’d fuckin’ die if I looked bad against those miserable bastards.”
“November’s a whole month away,” Freddie snorts. “We got the Halloween party to worry about before then.”
He’s right, and I don’t appreciate the reminder. As if I needed one more thing occupying the throbbing mess of my mind.
At least Lia’s not my concern anymore. One of my hands drifts idly to the back of my shoulders. Sunday’s lashings burn beneath my T-shirt, but at least the wounds have started to close properly. For the first couple of days, the fabric kept sticking to the slashes, leaving me to rip off a grisly array of half-formed scabs whenever I changed my clothes. It’s not the worst thing my father’s ever done to me, but it’s been a while since he’s been this bad.
It’s because he finally believes me, I’m pretty sure. He’s gotten it through his twisted fucking head that his Mafia sweetheart, his Rose or whatever the hell, isn’t here. I may have suffered one hell of a beating, but I don’t doubt that his informant is six feet under by now. If they’re still alive, that won’t be the case for much longer. Freddie and I can’t interfere with something as personal as that—not without jeopardizing our whole operation. Sometimes it’s easier to let someone die, even if they don’t deserve it.
Speaking of which…
I tear my eyes away from the fireplace and shoot a look towards Freddie, who’s sprung into a lively debate with Cochran and TJ about just how gory our Halloween festivities ought to be.
“Come on,” he groans, “what’ve you got in mind, little paper skeletons? Plastic pumpkins? Are you six fucking years old? You weren’t here freshman year. I got lucky then, found some poor dog that had gotten plowed down in the city and carried it back. Now that was one hell of a centerpiece.”
“Plastic pumpkins are a staple,” Cochran argues. “You can’t drink hooch out of a dead dog.”
Freddie catches my gaze right as he’s forming a retort, and it dies on his lips. He tosses the skates aside and climbs to his feet.
“Y’know what, Coch—buy all the pumpkins you want. Whatever helps you drink yourself into an early grave so that you stop yapping my fucking ears off already.”
“Don’t call me that, you asshole.”
“I’ll stop saying it when it stops being accurate.”
He starts for the door, and I get up to follow him. As we turn into the hallway, I can hear the half-whispered voice of the irritating freshman: “Where are they going?”
TJ’s distinctive chuckle is the only reply he gets. The guys have learned not to question Freddie’s and my business. The newbies will figure it out too, soon enough.
Neither of us speak until we’re in my room with the door locked, at which point Freddie shoves his hands in his pockets and strides over to the window to glare out at the darkening campus. “Got anything juicy tonight?”
“Maybe not by your standards. There’s a drug deal I’m looking to fuck up?—”
“Crackheads with guns? Sounds like a dream.”
“—And a couple of evacs. Draven’s seriously pissed at one guy, so I figure we can snatch some more out from under his nose while he’s distracted.”
“Distracted?” Freddie whistles. “Must be pretty serious.”
“It is.” I drop onto my bed like a rock. I haven’t put the sheets back on yet—I had to run them through the washer Sunday night, when they wouldn’t stop smelling like her, and the task of replacing them feels fucking exhausting.
“Speaking of pretty serious…”
God damn it. Of course he’s not letting it go yet.
“Look, man.” Discomfort has always looked pretty weird on Freddie, and right now is no exception—his tone is that of someone commenting on a bad smell rather than the near-ritualistic abuse of an innocent girl. “You know you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. But, come on—what the fuck is going on? You had a nice little thing going with that girl. Did she try to bite your dick off or something?”
“She didn’t do anything.”
“Well, that’s illuminating.”
“It doesn’t matter. Doesn’t make a fucking difference either way.” That’s been my mantra for the last few days—doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter. I’ve cut myself off from my traitor of a heart before. No reason I can’t do it again. “The important thing is that she stays the fuck away from me. Whatever it takes, I don’t want to so much as lay my fucking eyes on her.”
I hear him turn away from the window, and I know that he’s looking at me, probably with the narrow-eyed expression that means he’s thinking hard. Freddie’s a hell of a smart guy, even if he doesn’t act like it, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s picking up more than I’m putting down.
Still doesn’t matter.
When I look up, he dips his chin in the slightest of nods. He doesn’t need to say anything aloud for me to know exactly what that means.
You got it, boss.
Your word is law.