“And I’m helping. You understand getting help on a job, right, Cass?”

She flushes, and slams her glass down.

“Ah, here it is. The tension has arrived. Good times,” Brody deadpans. “Where are Sean and Lily?” There’s a moment of quiet, and then Brody groans. “Really? She’s gone already? But this one was only six months!”

“Maybe don’t bring it up. I know you’re still catching up but he wasn’t expecting it.”

My older brother is a serial cheater. How he can’t expect the women he dates to leave him, I’ll never understand. The bickering continues as we sit down and Mom waits patiently for Maria to serve her before we all make our plates. She glances at me, a potato speared on her fork.

“Peyton, have you gotten a dress for the gala next week? I have a few that would look lovely on you.”

My stomach lurches and I drop my fork, reaching for my wine instead. “What gala?”

“The one next week. The hospital is having it and your father is the keynote speaker. He expects you to attend.”

I don’t believe this. Except, I do. It’s a classic move for my father. I sit back with my wine and my mother’s brow furrows. “Eat, Peyton.”

“Not hungry,” I snap.

Cassidy smiles, a sharp brittle thing, “That’s normal, though, right?”

The dig at my eating disorder stings.

“Shut the fuck up, Cass,” Brody snaps, and I jerk to my feet.

Big hands close over my hips, pulling me back into a broad chest and the scent of soap and smoke. His beard brushes over my bare shoulder as he kisses my cheek, and then he glances up. At my family.

“Mrs. Collins,” he says coldly.

Mom is eyeing Rike like he’s a vagrant who wandered into her pristine house, and I have to swallow my giggle.

“I told you that Peyton is my responsibility. Mine to keep safe and keep healthy. That means I keep her the fuck away from you because you’re fucking toxic.” I gasp, twisting to stare at him. He’s watching my mother, loathing in his eyes. “She’s not yours anymore, not to manipulate. Stay the fuck away from her.”

Mom stands, her cheeks red and her hands shaking. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this furious. “You have no right to even be here.”

He smiles, a lazy arrogant thing that makes my heart pound. “I have the only right.”

And then he escorts me out of my parent’s house.

Chapter 21 : Before

Scott is actually sitting on the new couch when I emerge from my bedroom. Lindsay and Peyton are in the kitchen, and I glance at my best friend in a rare moment without either present. “You good, dude?” I ask.

His eye flick to mine and I’m startled by what I see there. He looks peaceful. Content. That’s a look I’m not used to seeing on Scotty. It’s almost disturbing.

“I’m good,” he says, and the last band of unease loosens. Because it’s going to work. This. Us together, with the women we fucking adore. It’s going to work. He grins suddenly. “Broke in the new bed, huh?”

“You and Linds didn’t exactly go to sleep after bedtime prayers,” I deadpan.

He laughs, a satisfied noise. “Well, she did say ‘Oh God’ a lot, so I think that should totally count.”

“Can you two behave for like, five minutes?” Lindsay asks grumpily, slipping past me to nestle against Scott on the couch.

“Where the hell is the fun in that?” Scott asks, kissing her head absently. “You got class today?”

She nods. “We both have our schedules on the fridge.”

I frown at Scott. "When the fuck did we become dudes with schedules on the fridge?"

"When you fell for a siren in a bar," he shoots back. "Quit bitching. I like sex on the regular."

"Like that was ever an issue," Lindsay snorts, and he smacks her lightly on the back of the head. Peyton ambles up with a cup of coffee and two pieces of toast. I steal one and she growls when I drift too close to her coffee. I laugh softly and kiss her cheek instead. She's not a friendly person in the morning, especially before coffee.

"You need a ride today?" I ask, and she shakes her head, pulls the coffee away from her lips long enough to murmur, "Linds will take me."

"When are your parents getting into town?" Lindsay asks, and Peyton goes tense under my arm. I glance at her and she's glaring at her best friend like Lindsay just stabbed her dog.

"Fish?" I ask, softly.

She breathes out a curse and twists to look at me. "Tomorrow. My parents and youngest brother will be here tomorrow. Dad has a fundraiser. I've been invited."

My head is spinning and I take a step back. I'm conscious suddenly of the tattoos tracing up and down my arms, the eyebrow ring, too-long hair. and beard.

I'm a fucking tattooed hillbilly rock star, and not even a good one. Why the hell is it surprising that she doesn't want to share that with her parents?

It's not. But it stings. More than I want to admit, it stings. Because I thought we were past this. I thought we were in a good fucking place. I've been waiting for six months for the shoe to drop, and I had convinced myself it wouldn't.

It just fucking did.

"I see," I say, simply.

Then I turn and stalk out of the room, slamming the door behind me on her protests and Scott's sharp voice calling Lindsay off.

It doesn't fucking matter. She'll have a pretty excuse, some logical reason why I should swallow her hiding her parents from me. But it doesn't matter. The door opens behind me, but I don’t stop walking.

"Rike, stop!" she snaps, yanking on my arm, and jerking me around to face her. "Let me fucking explain."

"Why? It’s shit I've heard before. I don't really want to rehash, and you'll be late." I force a smile. "You can't be late on your first day of class, Fish. Get going."

She stares at me for a long moment before a disbelieving laugh bubbles up. "Is that really all you've got? You'll be late, get going? Are you fucking serious?"

"What do you want me to say?" I snap. "Your parents are coming into town. You hid that from me. You’re embarrassed. I get it. He's a politician and she's a perfect political wife, and I'm a tattooed high school drop out with a juvie record. I get it. I'm not take-you-home-to-Mom material. But fuck, Peyton. It hurts a little."

She's pale, her freckles standing out against her white skin as she stares at me with wide eyes. "Is that really what you think of me?"

“What did you expect me to think?”

“I expected you to trust me. That I love you and if—” My eyebrows raise, and she scowls “When I choose to keep something from you, it’s for a good fucking reason. I expect you to know that.”

I shrug. “You might be expecting too much, sugar.”

She takes a step back, hurt pooling in her bright eyes. I hate seeing that look on her face. Hate that I put it there. But this is one time I can’t back down.

I give her a final look, a small smile. “Go to class, Fish. you’ll be late."

Then I walk away, and try to think of anything but how much this hurts.

***

The tattoo I'm supposed to be drawing is for a client. A giant fucking back piece—eagles and fish and some other tribal nonsense, all done in dark band and artistic, vague, half-formed images.

It should look amazing if a little bit hipster and pretentious for my taste.

"That is not tribal art," Scotty says, dropping beside me. The breeze of his arrival ruffles my sheet of paper, and I flick a look at him. There is so much I could say here, but why? It doesn't change anything.

"You need to let her explain."

"When did you start taking her side in shit, dude?" I snap, refocusing on the art.