23. Preston
PRESTON
“Look, Pressie! I have wings!”
I laugh because Miley does have wings, neon-pink like her skates, and a headband with antennas stuck on her shiny curls.
She made me buy that bullshit on the way to the rink, or more like demanded it, because she’s a spoiled little shit who knows she can get whatever she wants from me if she pouts cutely.
It’s Sunday, and the ice rink at the edge of town is packed with people of all ages skating away. And, of course, Miley wanted to be part of the crowd. Maybe because her life is full of nannies and teachers, but she loves going to places where normal people hang.
“I’m gonna be so cool like you when I grow up, Pressie!” she announced today during the tedious breakfast I had to endure with our extended family.
Let’s just say I’m sort of under house arrest.
Okay, not sort of. I totally am. Dad sends Lenin with me at all times. Even now, he’s waiting outside.
The reason is actually stupid. Don’t ask Dad, though. He’ll say it’s serious. But anyway, I may have skipped meds for a few days after spending that night at Marcus’s place a week and a half ago.
Not sure why. Maybe because I wanted to feel normal. The meds override my senses sometimes, trapping me in a sort of enclave where emotions don’t penetrate correctly.
And while I was fine with that in the past, using humor and violence to make up for the chained feelings, it hasn’t been enough lately.
I selfishly wanted to experience everything in full detail.
Well, that might have been a mistake. My head chose the freedom to bubble over and decided, “Let’s fuck shit up!”
Of course, I obliged and joined some Vencor members for a killing mission outside of our turf in one of NYC’s clubs.
I might have gone a bit overboard—by slashing the fuck out of those people and making a scene.
So what? It wasn’t a big fucking deal.
Apparently, it was, because it stirred up some trouble, and Vencor had to deploy a large number of resources to cover it up.
I knew I’d fucked up when Lenin and his favorite friend, Dad’s driver, Nelly, came to pick me up at the airport. It only got worse when Dad just frowned upon seeing me. He didn’t chastise me or give me that look of disappointment. Grandma and Satan’s lover did, though. Grandpa as well.
But then I realized Dad didn’t bother disciplining me, because he left the job to Lenin, who beat the shit out of me, then informed me I was under house arrest.
I mean, I can go to school and practice, and I can hang out after school, but Lenin is always there, monitoring me and making sure I go back to the Armstrong estate.
“Your dad is so close to giving up on you,” Lenin said that day as I was coughing blood onto the floor.
I straightened and smiled like I usually do. “I thought he already had.”
“You know full well he hasn’t. If you keep acting out, skipping meds, and pushing your luck, he might decide you’re not worth the trouble anymore and just let you drop dead.”
“Don’t care,” I whispered, but still stayed at home like an obedient little bitch, my eyes twitching every time Lilith started her passive-aggressiveness or Grandma called me useless.
Dad didn’t say anything. Actually, he seems to frown a lot whenever I go back home as if he doesn’t expect me there. He was the one who ordered this, for fuck’s sake.
The house arrest has come with real withdrawal issues.
Marcus.
I met him the other day, the evening before the Friday game, but only briefly because Jude decided to join the late-night training and crashed the party.
Had to smuggle Marcus out the back door, to which he just frowned and left.
That was three days ago. Haven’t seen him since.
And I think he’s mad. No idea why.
Okay, I may have a tiny idea.
So, here’s the thing. That day, as soon as he walked into the locker room, he kissed me.
And I’m not talking a simple peck or a brush of lips, but more like he devoured my face, his fingers gripping my hair tightly and his tongue hooking on mine, nearly fucking my throat.
It made me delirious and disoriented, like that time he kissed me out of the blue in his kitchen.
And the bathroom.
Only difference was that, in the locker room, when his fingers dug into my skin and his lips claimed mine, it was terrifyingly intense.
I didn’t like it—or more like, I didn’t like how it made me feel.
It was just sudden, and I didn’t know how to deal with it.
Part of me was horny and was about to jump out of my skin wanting more.
But then he tried to lift my shirt, and I pushed him away.
Might have done that violently, but I mean, he touched my bruised hip from Lenin’s beatings, and it hurt like hell. But really, the reason I reacted so aggressively was because a side of me, the little bitch lurking inside me, was shaking at the thought of him seeing the map Lenin created.
“What’s wrong with you now?” he asked in a low tone, his slashed brows looking a bit ominous over his harsh eyes. “Is this the denial again?”
“Just…don’t touch me today.”
His eyes darkened even as his words came out smoothly. “Is it that time of the month?”
I punched him, which I shouldn’t have done, but he was being a dick. “Fuck you.”
Then Jude, the asshole, chose that exact moment to walk in. “Pres? You in here?”
I shoved Marcus out, thankful he hadn’t changed yet, and he just gave me a cryptic look before he left.
Then he proceeded to ignore me for two days. The audacity.
I had to get drunk before I texted him.
Me
I didn’t mean to hit you, but you were being a prick.
Walking Red Flag (W.R.F.)
Is this your way of apologizing?
Who said anything about apologizing? I’m just saying.
Glad you got that off your chest.
It’s not my fault Jude came over.
If you say so.
It wasn’t.
Ok.
Are you mad?
What gave you that idea?
Very funny.
Not my intention.
Don’t be mad.
Why not?
I don’t like it.
You don’t like it when I’m mad at you?
No.
Then maybe don’t make me mad. You do that so effortlessly sometimes.
Yeah, I know. Not sure how I even do it, but apparently, Marcus is often mad at me lately. First in his bathroom, then in the locker room.
And I truly struggle to figure out what I’ve done.
I liked it better when he just made me come, and we didn’t have to talk. Now, I don’t know how to reply to him.
He’s aware I’m under house arrest, so he didn’t push, but I don’t like that he’s keeping his distance.
Does that mean he’s stopped caring?
Might he find someone else? He better not test my easily provoked temper.
The thought of Marcus with someone else makes all my demons surge to the surface.
“Catch me if you can, Pressie!” Miley’s voice snags my attention as she skates between some people, her wings flying about.
She’s racing around like a reckless little shit, zigzagging between the other skaters.
“Mimi, slow down!” I skate toward her, and she giggles as she picks up her pace.
All of a sudden, she crashes into a tall person’s legs.
The prickling sensation that seems to be a constant lately spreads across my back and pours into my bloodstream, flowing like lava.
Either I’ve picked up hallucinating in addition to all the other fucked-up symptoms my brain has come up with, or I’m looking at Marcus.
I blink and he’s still there.
So he’s real? He better be. I really don’t want to deal with hallucinations on top of everything else.
Or maybe he’s a dream.
He looks a bit softer than usual, dressed in jeans that outline his long, muscular legs that go for damn miles. A thick navy-blue sweater stretches over his broad shoulders, hugging his frame like a second skin.
And his hair…what the fuck did he do to his hair? It’s not styled per se and is still as untamed as usual, but there’s a sort of side part. Some haphazard strands fall on either side of his forehead, making him look like skating porn.
Doesn’t help that he sort of towers over almost everyone here, so it’s hard to miss the motherfucker.
Though his gaze is entirely on me—those metal eyes unreadable like a stormy day that keeps grumbling in the distance but doesn’t get close.
“I’m sorry,” Miley whispers, staring up at him, and her little eyes widen.
I know the feeling, Miles of Trouble.
“Don’t worry about it.” He smiles down at her as he lowers himself to his haunches and offers his hand. “I’m Marcus. What’s your name?”
She peeks at me, as she should, but then when she finds me too busy looking at him, she shakes his hand. “Miley. This is my brother, Preston. He’s so cool and famous. You can be friends.”
“Friends,” he repeats the word in a drawl as his gaze flits up to me. His eyes are still unreadable, the gray dark gloomy like that fucking static in my head.
“Yup!” Miley pulls at my hand. “You can, Pressie, right? Right?”
A twitch lifts his lips before he sighs dramatically. “I don’t think your brother and I can be friends.”
Miley frowns. “Why not?”
He smiles at me, but it’s dark and almost…what? As if he’s holding a grudge against me?
It should be the other way around.
I basically apologized. Just how far does this lunatic expect me to lower myself? Does he even know who I am?
“I tried, Miley,” he says to my sister. “It didn’t work.”
She throws her hand in the air. “You can just try again! Pressie is really nice.”
“Is he now?” He stands up as I pull Miley to my side. “Are you nice, Preston?”
“Whatever do you mean? I’m the nicest person you’ll ever meet.” I lift my sister with one arm, balancing her on my hip. “Isn’t that right, Mimi?”
“So nice!” She drops a kiss on my cheek. “And so cool.”
“Hmm.” Marcus glides toward us, standing close enough that I’m assaulted by the smell of him that’s so intoxicatingly potent, it goes straight to my starved lungs.
“I wonder why he’s not so nice to me, Miley?”
“Cut it out,” I mouth, but he’s just staring at my sister, who pouts.
“Why aren’t you nice to Marcus, Pressie?”
“I am—he just doesn’t appreciate it.” I plaster on a fake smile. “Me spending time with him is already a privilege. He should be thankful I give him anything at all, Mimi.”