I’m off the pills now. Mom’s OD scared the shit out of me and I promised my older brothers I wouldn’t touch that junk anymore. But the addictions don’t go away. It means I have to feed the thirst in other, safer ways—booze, sex, and blood. Tonight, I think I’ll choose blood.
“Easton.” I find a worried Ella studying my face.
“What?” I ask, reaching for my water glass. The subject of conversation has shifted away from the trial, thank God. Dad and the twins are now engaged in an animated conversation about soccer, of all things. We’ve never been a soccer family. Sometimes, I wonder if the twins are even Royals. They play lacrosse, watch soccer, aren’t fans of fighting, and have zero interest in flying. That said, they have Mom’s features and the Royal blue eyes.
“You’re smiling,” Ella accuses.
“So? Smiling is bad?”
“It’s one of your bloodthirsty smiles.” She sneaks a peek across the table to make sure Dad isn’t paying attention to us. Then she hisses, “You’re fighting tonight, aren’t you?”
I drag my tongue across my bottom lip. “Oh yeah.”
“Oh, East. Please don’t. It’s too dangerous.” She presses her lips together in concern, and I know she’s remembering the time Reed got stabbed at one of those fights.
But that was a total fluke that had nothing to do with the actual fight. Daniel Delacorte, an old enemy, hired someone to take Reed out.
“That won’t happen again,” I assure her.
“You don’t know that.” Determination gleams in her blue eyes. “I’m coming with you.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.” I raise my voice, and Dad’s sharp gaze swings toward us.
“What are we arguing about?” he asks suspiciously.
Ella smirks, waiting for me to field that one. Dammit. If I keep arguing with her, she’ll tell him I’m going to the docks, and we both know Dad’s not too keen on that idea anymore, not since Reed was knifed down there.
“Ella and I can’t decide what movie to watch before bed,” I lie. “She wants a rom com. I obviously want anything but.”
The twins roll their eyes. They know bullshit when they hear it. But Dad buys in. His deep chuckle washes over the patio. “Give it up, son. You know the woman always gets her way in the end.”
Ella beams at me. “Yeah, Easton. I always get my way.” When I get up to fill my glass, she follows me. “I’m going to stick to your side like glue. And when you go to the fight, I’m going to make the biggest scene ever. You’ll never be able to show your face there again.”
“Can’t you go pick on the twins?” I complain.
“Nope. You have my sole and undivided attention.”
“Reed’s probably throwing a party because he’s not under your thumb.” I hear her breath hitch, and I look up to see her cheeks turn from pink to white. Oh, crap. “I didn’t mean that. You know he can’t stand to be away from you.”
She sniffs.
“Seriously. He was on the phone with me before dinner crying about how much he missed you.” Silence. “I’m sorry,” I say, and I am, truly sorry. “My mouth runs ahead of my brain. You know that.”
Ella raises one eyebrow. “You should stay in to make it up to me.”
Check. Mate.
“Yes, ma’am.” Meekly, I follow her back to the table.
“Giving in without a fight?” Sawyer murmurs when we take our seats.
“She was going to start crying.”
“Damn.”
After dessert, I nudge Ella with my foot and nod toward the twins. She nods back and then turns to my dad.
“Easton and I have calculus homework, Callum. Do you mind if we go?”
“No, of course not.” He waves us off.
Ella and I escape inside, leaving the twins to clear the table. We used to have staff to do that for us, but Dad fired everyone after Mom died. Except for Sandra, who cooks for us, and his driver, Durand. There are maids who come in a couple times a week, but those aren’t live-in positions.
As Ella and I desert them, Sawyer and Seb grumble about how they’re going to be late to see Lauren, the girl they’re dating. I feel no sympathy. At least they have plans tonight, instead of staying home.
Upstairs, I get comfortable on my king-sized bed and flick the TV on. The football season hasn’t started yet, so there’s no Monday night game. ESPN is playing highlights from pre-season, but I’m not paying attention. I’m too busy scrolling through my phone contacts. I find who I’m looking for and press Call.
“’Sup, Royal,” comes Larry’s deep baritone.
“’Sup, nerd,” I say cheerfully. Lawrence “Larry” Watson is a two-hundred-and-eighty-pound offensive linesman, a good buddy, and the biggest computer geek I know. “I need a favor.”
“Hit me.” Larry’s the most easygoing guy in the world. He’s always down to help out a friend, especially if he gets to use his hacking skills in the process.
“Can you still hack into the mainframe at Astor Park? I’ve got a pair of Tokyo twenty-threes chilling in their box.”
“The Air Jordan fives that were only released in Japan?” He sounds like he’s about to cry. Larry’s a huge sneakerhead and he’s always wanted this pair that my dad picked up during a business trip to Tokyo.
“The same.”
“What do you want? Grades aren’t out yet.”
“Just some student information. Full name, address, phone number, that kind of stuff.”
“Dude, that’s just basic contact info. You ever heard of Google?”
“I don’t even know her last name, asshole.”
“Her, eh?” He laughs in my ear. “Shocker. Easton Royal’s looking to score.”
“Can you help me or what?”
“What’s her first name? Maybe I know her.”
“It’s Hartley. She’s a senior. She’s about five foot nothing. Long black hair. Gray eyes.”
“Oh sure,” Larry says instantly. “I know her. She’s in my AP Gov class.”
I perk up. “Yeah? You know her last name?”
“Wright.”
I roll my eyes at the phone. “Right as in you know it, or riiiiight, as in why would you ever know it?”
“Wright.”
Impatience jolts through me. “Right what?”
A loud boom of laughter thunders over the line. “Wright,” Larry wheezes out between chortles. “W-R-I-G-H-T. Her name is Hartley Wright. Damn, son, you dumb.”
Oh. Okay, I’m dumb. “Sorry, man. Got it. Hartley Wright. Do you know anything else about her? You got her number?”
“Why would I have her number, bruh? I’m with Alisha.” Larry once again uses his Are you from Planet Stupid? tone. “Give me five minutes. I’ll get back to you.”
He hangs up. I kill time by watching sports highlights. It’s closer to ten minutes, not five, when my phone beeps in my hand. I check the screen, grin widely, and shoot Larry a quick text.
You da man
I kno, he texts back.
I’ll bring sneaks tmrw
I waste no time sifting through the intel Larry sent me. It includes a phone number, an address, and a link to an article from the Bayview Post. I click the URL and discover that Hartley’s father, John Wright, made a run for mayor a few years back, but he lost the race. Also according to the article, Mr. Wright is the assistant district attorney of Bayview County.