For God’s sake. Gritting my teeth, I meet his surly gaze head-on and say, “I’m not fucking your dad. And ew for even suggesting it.”
He shrugs. “It’s not a stretch. He likes ’em young.”
That’s obviously a reference toward Brooke, but I don’t comment on it. My gaze travels back to the picture on the mantle.
Easton and I go silent, for so long I wonder why he’s even still here.
“Uncle Steve was a baller,” he finally says. “Chicks dropped their panties when that dude walked into a room.”
Double ew. That is not something I ever wanted to know about my father.
“What was he like?” I ask reluctantly.
“He was all right, I guess. We didn’t spend much time with him. He was always holed up in my dad’s study. The two of them would sit there talking for hours.” Easton sounds bitter.
“Aw, your daddy liked my daddy better than you? Is that why you hate me so much?”
He rolls his eyes. “Do yourself a favor and stop provoking my brother. If you keep getting in his face, you’re just gonna get hurt.”
“Why bother with the warning? Isn’t that what you want, for me to get hurt?”
He doesn’t answer. He just steps away from the mantle and leaves me in the library, where I continue to stare at my father’s picture.
* * *
I wake up at midnight to the sound of hushed voices in the hallway outside my bedroom door. I’m groggy as hell, but alert enough to recognize Reed’s voice, and even though I’m lying down, my knees actually feel weak.
I haven’t seen him since our fight in the car earlier. When he got back from dinner with Callum, I was already locked up in my room again, but judging by the angry footsteps and slamming door, I’m pretty sure dinner didn’t go so well.
I don’t know why I slide out of bed, or why I tiptoe toward my door. Eavesdropping isn’t really my style, but I want to know what he’s saying and who he’s saying it to. I want to know if it’s about me, and maybe that’s really conceited, but I still need to know.
“…practice in the morning.” It’s Easton talking now, and I press my ear to the door to try to hear more clearly. “…agreed to cut down during the season.”
Reed mutters something I can’t make out.
“I get it, okay? I’m not crazy about her being here either, but that’s no reason to…” Easton’s sentence cuts out.
“It’s not about her.” I hear that loud and clear, and I don’t know whether I’m relieved or disappointed that whatever they’re discussing doesn’t involve me.
“…then I’m coming with you.”
“No,” Reed says sharply. “…going alone tonight.”
He’s going somewhere? Where the hell is he going this late, and on a school night? Worry tugs at my gut, which almost makes me laugh, because all of a sudden I’m worrying about Reed Royal, the guy I attacked in the car earlier?
“Now you sound like Gid,” Reed accuses.
“Yeah, well, maybe you…”
Their voices go hushed again, which is so fricking frustrating because I know I’m missing something important.
I’m tempted to fling open the door and stop Reed from doing whatever he’s about to do, but it’s too late. Two sets of footsteps echo in the hall, and a door clicks shut. Then it’s just one set of footsteps, barely audible as they descend the stairs.
A few minutes later, a car engine rumbles from the courtyard, and I know Reed is gone.
14
The next morning I find Reed in the driveway leaning against Easton’s truck. He’s dressed in sneakers, long gym shorts, and a muscle tee that is open at the sides, and looking hotter than any jerk has the right to. A baseball cap is pulled low over his forehead.
I look around, but the black Town Car is nowhere in sight. “Where’s Durand?”
“You planning on going to the bakery?”
“You planning on burning it down so I don’t tarnish the Royal name by working there?”
He grumbles in annoyance.
I grumble back.
“Well?” he mutters.
I scowl at him. “Yes, I’m going to work.”
“I’ve got football practice, so if you want a ride, I suggest getting in the car because otherwise you’re going to be walking.” He opens the passenger door and then stomps to the driver’s side.
I look for Durand again. Dammit, where is he?
When Reed guns the engine, I start moving. What harm can he really do in a twenty-minute ride?
“Buckle up,” he snaps.
“I just got in. Give me a minute.” I cast my eyes upward and say a tiny prayer for patience. Reed doesn’t take off until I’m all buckled in. “Do you have male PMS or are you just in a shitty mood twenty-four/seven?”
He doesn’t answer.
I hate myself for it, but I can’t stop looking at him. Can’t stop sweeping my eyes over the side of his movie-star face, his perfect ear that is framed by his dark hair. All the Royals have varying shades of brown hair. Reed’s runs closer to chestnut.
In profile, his nose has a tiny bump on it and I wonder which of his brothers broke it for him.