“No, Sammy,” I say. “I prefer a warm bed, next to my wife, and not out here with you, freezing my balls off.” I wear a half-smile that feels as brittle as the air.
Ryke finally shortens his stride so this trek isn’t as miserable. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still fucking miserable. I want to be with Lily, I keep thinking. If I say it out loud, my older brother will tell me to stop complaining.
“Does your leg hurt in the rain?” Sam asks Ryke. “Because of the titanium.”
My brother has an eight-inch plate in his femur, eleven screws, and a rod and pins in his tibia. He acts like he was never hurt, but I helped him rehabilitate his leg, so I know his body isn’t what it used to be. I lost my brother for a while, but stubborn Ryke Meadows is back now. I hold onto that every goddamn day.
The Ryke who gives up is not someone I ever want to meet again.
The elevation increases as Ryke hikes up the snowy trail. He shakes his head towards Sam. “No. In the cold, my leg is fucking stiff and might cramp, but it doesn’t ache any more or less than usual.”
Connor’s grip tightens on his phone, his annoyance so apparent on his face that I don’t even question its existence.
“Did the artist fuck-up their oil painting of you? I told them not to forget your crown.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Let me at ‘em.”
“That’s what our dog is for, darling.” Connor smiles.
Ryke hears and throws his middle finger backwards at us.
We both laugh.
I never really pry or ask for more details about Connor’s phone, but he waves his cell towards me, trusting me enough to explain.
“Social media is a wasp’s nest. I have no problem stepping on it once and a while. I willingly take those steps, but when people throw the nest in my face out of idiocy and fallacy, it’s the equivalent of twisting a screwdriver in my eardrum.” He scrolls on his phone. “I’m in the process of yanking out the screwdriver.”
I rub my gloved hands together for warmth. “What kind of social media?”
He reads, “At Connor Cobalt.” It’s a tweet. “We know you planted the evidence against Scott Van Wright.” Evidence…he means the tapes of Daisy giving a blow job to her old boyfriend. She was underage, so it was considered child pornography, and it’s what essentially got Scott Van Wright’s ass thrown in jail three years ago. He was the one who filmed it during Princesses of Philly and then kept the footage to watch later—without any of us knowing, including Daisy.
Ryke screeches to a halt. “What the fuck?” He swings back towards Connor, and we all come to a stop in an open clearing, evergreens jutting to the sky all around us.
“I’m not finished,” Connor says like he cut him off mid-fuck. “You deserve to go to jail, not SVW. Hashtag criminal. Hashtag jealous.” He slips his phone in his pocket. “All morning, I’ve been sent hundreds of notifications like that one. Each time my assistant blocks them, the person creates a new account.”
Connor would never waste time blocking people himself. Unsurprisingly, he has employees for that.
“That’s fucking bullshit,” Ryke curses. “Scott deserves life in prison for what he did to Daisy, for what he did to Rose.” Child pornography. Sex tapes.
My jaw locks, and my blood heats. I don’t know how Lily and I escaped that sick fuck. Luck—we were lucky. Daisy got swept under. Ryke—he’s still torn up about it.
“People see what they want to see,” Connor says, “and some people liked Scott with Rose during the reality show. Their taste was questionable from the start.”
It’s almost unfathomable the things Connor must’ve heard…maybe even seen, just to find justice in relation to Scott. We’re all thankful of Connor. For being in our lives. For what he did. But none of us truly realize what he mentally went through back then. No one does except him.
Garrison leans against a tree and smokes a cigarette. “I’ve seen the VanWrighties whole conspiracy theory shit on Tumblr. It’s in depth.”
“VanWrighties?” Sam frowns.
“Sammy,” I say. “Where have you been?” This was a Princesses of Philly era. Forever ago.
“Staying away from you,” he rebuts.
I clap. “Looks like we have something in common. Miracles do happen.”
Sam actually smiles.
Garrison blows out smoke. “VanWrighties are the fanatics obsessed with Scott Van Wright. They chose the name.”
Ryke gestures for Connor’s phone.
Before he hands the cell over, he says, “If you piss on it, it’s still mine.”
He growls in annoyance. “Fuck you.” And he rips the phone out of Connor’s hand.
Ryke scowls at the cell. “What the fuck…? Are these people for real?”
“There are real living humans on the other end, yes.”
Ryke reads, “Hashtag Free SVW. I hope Conner, Loren and Ryke poo-poo in their pants tonight.”
I burst out laughing with all the guys, even Ryke. He tosses the cell back to Connor. It’s easier to let these events roll off. They’re too frequent to waste energy on.
“They also spelled your fucking name wrong,” he mentions to Connor, trying to annoy him.
I swing my head to Connor. “They put an e instead of an o at the end of your name again? I’ll fuck-em up.”
“My name is everywhere. It says more about their spelling skills than anything about me.”
“Conceited and perfect.” I touch my heart. “When can I have one of you?”
Connor grins. “You already have me.”
Sam rubs his reddened ears and then lifts up his jacket hood. “What exactly happened?” he asks us. “I know the news said Scott had tapes of Daisy with her ex-boyfriend, all when she was underage—but they never said how you knew they existed.”
I interject first, “Because the news doesn’t know he found the info first, Sammy. That doesn’t leave here.” I draw a circle in the air around all of us. The girls also know, but the media only learned that Daisy called the police and reported the crime. Not that Connor had any help in convicting Scott Van Wright of child pornography.
He never asked for recognition. Never wanted thanks or anything. Connor did what he did, and he left it at that.
“It doesn’t matter how I knew about the tapes,” Connor tells Sam.
“It does to VanWrighties.” Garrison sucks on his cigarette.
Ryke glowers. “Can we stop fucking calling them that?”
“I didn’t make up the name, dude. I don’t even believe their theories. They’ve been deluded into thinking they know all of you, and they feel entitled to pry since you let them in.”
“Fuck Princesses of Philly,” Ryke swears.
“Their theories are speculative,” Connor says. “It’s no more accurate than the tabloids that claim Ben Affleck is half-alien and the real Brad Pitt is frozen in an iceberg.”
Garrison nearly chokes on his cigarette. “You read The Outer Star Magazine?” That tabloid is garbage.
“His wife pointed it out in the grocery checkout.” Connor, of course, has his eyes on me.
“My wife is adorable. I know you’re jealous, but she’s just cuter.”
“Impossible.” Connor grins.
Garrison stomps on his cigarette butt. “You know, if you let me look at the Twitter accounts, I can find their IP address and send them a virus. It might just be a few people.”
Connor arches a brow. “No. You’re employed by Cobalt Inc. which means that you can’t commit a crime while working beneath me.”
Garrison kicks up snow and dirt. “What happens if I do?”
“I’d fire you.” Connor tightens his gloves and scans the woods for a tree. I’m here for moral support at this point. I yawn into my arm again.
Connor heads towards a nearby fir. “We should pick a tree around here. If we hike any further, it’ll just take us longer to carry back.”
Garrison blows smoke up at the sky again. We invited him to Christmas way before Willow even said she could come this year. He still lives at my house, and he asked me to tell everyone about his brothers. So now they know why he hasn’t spoken to them or his parents since he moved into my place.
He started smoking again, too, but he only smokes outside, so we’re trying not to gang up on him about it.
“Who has the tape measure?” Connor asks beside the green fir. Queen Rose wants an eight-footer.