“Yes, you do. You totally act like a little kid.”
I bristle. “Is that why you never saw me like you saw Reed? Because I’m a little kid?” I might’ve been Ella’s first Royal, but Reed has always been first in her heart. And that bugs me.
Everyone’s always loved me best. Mom, girls at school. Hell, old ladies get stars in their eyes any time I come into their orbit. Reed’s face wears a perpetual scowl and Gideon never had the time of day for anyone but Savannah Montgomery. I’m the golden child, yet lately I keep losing.
I catch a reflection of myself in the glass cupboard. I’m still as good-looking as ever. I’m charming and hilarious. My body could be on the cover of a magazine, partly thanks to good genes, but I work on it, too—lifting and football. Claire can’t stop chasing after me and it’s been ages since we went out.
Nah, I haven’t lost it. Ella got hooked by Reed early on for some inexplicable reason, and Hartley Wright just has a rod up her ass. She’s antisocial.
“I’m not a kid,” I mutter.
Ella sighs. “Okay, what’s really going on here? Is everything all right?”
I avoid her concerned gaze. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Are you sure? Because you’ve looked bummed ever since that girl dumped water on your head at lunch—what’s her name again?”
I manage a half-hearted grin. “Hartley, and I’m not bummed about that. I’m Easton Royal and the world’s my oyster. Besides, she’ll come around eventually.” I pinch her cheek. “Gotta go, little sis. Don’t wait up for me tonight.”
She stiffens. “No fighting.”
“No fighting,” I echo with the roll of my eyes.
“Easton…”
“I’m serious.” I hold up my hands in an innocent gesture. “It’s Tuesday, anyway. No fights on Tuesdays.”
Ella doesn’t look entirely convinced. “So then where are you going?”
“Somewhere that good girls shouldn’t be seen.” I grab the rest of the apples and walk out.
“Easton!” she yells after me.
I give her a wave but don’t turn around. I don’t want Ella following me tonight. She’d be full of disapproval and that would take the shine off my glow.
Upstairs, I throw on my favorite pair of jeans. The rips in the knees are getting larger and are starting to look less like a fashion statement and more like I stole them from a hobo, but I don’t like throwing shit out. Besides, where I’m going, it doesn’t pay to look like you have money. I find a hoodie on the floor and shrug that over my favorite black wifebeater tank.
Palming my keys and a few hundred dollars, I take the back stairs to avoid Ella, Dad, and all the other prying eyes. In the garage, I pull the tarp off the splurge that I’m hoping Dad doesn’t notice I bought. The motorcycle is used, but I couldn’t swing a more expensive one without setting off warning bells in the accounting office. Any purchase over ten grand is flagged these days. I’m kinda glad of that anyway, because some of the places I’ve been going, something pricey would stand out and likely get boosted.
I roll the black-and-silver Yamaha halfway down the drive before climbing on and gunning it the remainder of the way. It takes thirty minutes to reach my destination.
Outside the rundown house, there are a half-dozen people smoking—cigarettes, of course, because weed’s not legal here and probably won’t be until the entire country okays it. Inside is a different story. Not only is there weed, but a whole drugstore of choices. I didn’t come for that, though. I’m trying to stay away from the drugs, although it hasn’t been easy.
Just seeing a joint can make my mouth water and my tongue tingle. I force my eyes away from the group who are cutting white powder at the table and make myself tromp down the stairs. It’s hard, but I promised my brothers, and after seeing what it did to my mom, I’ve tried to eliminate that one addiction. I don’t have a death wish. I just want to have a good time. The pills helped settle me down, mellowed me out enough to enjoy life, but I know that too much of a good thing can lead to disaster.
At the bottom of the stairs, a guy with a gut large enough to be seen from the Pacific greets me with a finger salute. “Royal.”
Tony’s size is deceiving. He looks soft, but he’s the one guy down here you don’t want to piss off. One swipe from his paw and you’ll be out cold.
I clasp the bouncer’s hand and go in for a manly side hug. He gives me a bone-rattling back slap before moving aside. In the dimly lit cement box, four tables are set up. No smoking is allowed down here due to the fact that it’s already a fire hazard. There’s only one exit and that’s up the stairs.
There’s plenty of booze. Three of the tables are already filled, but the fourth has three empty chairs. Although the dealer is new to me, I throw my five spot into the middle regardless.
“Long time, no see, Royal,” says the guy next to me.
“Hey, Nate Dog.” We slap hands. His is coarse from working on the docks. I met him after a fight once and he invited me to one of these games. I think it’s because he knew I had money and wanted to relieve me of some of it. Whatever the motivation, this place is a good way to blow off steam. I don’t mind losing and, for the most part, I break even.
Despite me having at least three inches on him, I still feel small around Nate D. It’s not just his age but the way he carries himself. He knows who he is. Gotta admire that.
The third player lifts his chin in my direction, acting like a tough guy. He straightens his shoulders under the oversized hoodie designed, I guess, to give him more bulk than he really has.
“You got a problem with me?” the kid asks, jutting his chin out.
“No. Why?”
“You were staring,” Nate D informs me.
“Yeah, look at your own cards.” The kid is getting on my nerves.
“You’re just so cute that I can’t help myself,” I say.
Nate D covers his mouth with his arm to stifle a laugh, and even the stone-faced dealer cracks a smile.
The kid doesn’t think I’m amusing. Too bad the punk has no sense of humor. Someone hands me a bottle of beer as the dealer whips out the first hand. I chug half the bottle before coming up for air.
I might’ve given up one addiction, but I can’t shake all of them. I told Ella once that it’s part of my genetic makeup. I get obsessed with shit. That’s just how I’m built and I’m not going to be sorry for it. I don’t hurt anyone—or, at least, I try to avoid it.
I pick up my cards and start playing. Not only does the punk have no sense of humor, but he’s bad at cards. He doesn’t pay attention to the ones that have been played and he makes reckless bets.
After five quick hands, he’s lost all the money in front of him while my pile keeps growing.
“You’re lucky tonight, son,” Nate D sighs, throwing his three sixes on the table in frustration.
“That’s your second straight in five hands.” The kid scowls at me. “You’re cheating, aren’t you?”