He drops the cup in my hand, and then turns away to focus on his friends.
I pour the liquid out in the bushes next to the deck and steel myself for a long, long night.
Luckily, not everyone at the party is a maniacal psycho, and I end up sitting around a table with a bunch of drunk football players, kicking their asses at various boardgames. I’m laughing so hard, my stomach hurts, and for the first time since I got to this school, I almost feel normal again.
Inside though, I know it won’t last long.
And I’m right about that. Around eleven o’clock is when the shit starts, and Creed comes sweeping through the lodge and onto the deck. He turns the surround sound system off, and the entire crowd goes quiet.
“Derrick Barr,” I hear him say as I scramble to my feet and push through the crowd until I’m standing on the deck, finding Creed facing off against this huge guy in a red football jersey. I move around the circle that’s formed until I can see his face. He’s not smiling.
“Shit, here we go,” Zayd murmurs, clearly drunk. His eyes though are still sharp. He takes another drink from his plastic cup, and then lifts it up in a salute. “Good riddance, Derrick, it was nice knowing you.”
“What’s going on?” I ask, but Zayd just shrugs, standing so close to me that I can feel the heat from his body. Underneath the slight smell of alcohol and tobacco, I get a whiff of geranium and sage, this sweet-and-savory scent that makes my nose tingle.
“Creed’s about to destroy someone,” he says, and then pauses, like he’s just thought of something. Zayd turns fully to look at me, cocking one dark brow. His hair might be sea green, but his brows are still black. “When Creed decides it’s time to end someone, he does it with one, clean cut. Tristan, he likes to play with his food. I’ve never seen the pair of them fail before … except with you.” Zayd cocks his head to one side. “Holy shit. Except for you, huh, Working Girl?”
I purse my lips at the nickname, but turn my attention back to the scene on the deck.
Creed is barefoot, but still dressed in the shirt and slacks that make up the academy uniform. His white-blond hair gets tousled by the wind, but the rest of him is still, unmoving.
“You’ve been texting my sister?” he asks, and I see both Andrew and Tristan perk up on the opposite side of the circle. Andrew’s friends with Miranda and me, so that makes sense. But Tristan? I still can’t figure out his intentions toward her. He clearly dislikes her brother with a passion.
“So what about it? She’s a big girl,” Derrick says, tossing back his cup and then crushing the plastic. He chucks it off the edge of the deck and into the darkness which bothers the crap out of me—I can’t stand littering—but I’m rooted to the spot, looking between the two men.
“Did she give you permission to share her photos with your friends?” Creed continues, his blue eyes narrowing to slits. Damn. I thought he hated me, but the ice in his voice is about as warm as deep space. Derrick runs his fingers through his frost-tipped hair, his face tight, like he knows he messed-up big time, but isn’t sure how to fix it. “Well, I asked you a question, you fucking Neanderthal. Yes or no?”
“What do you care what I do with your sister?” Derrick starts to move away when Creed’s hand lashes out and grabs him around the shoulder.
“You don’t leave until I’m finished with you,” he says, and he’s no longer drawling in that lazy, royal way of his. Instead, he sounds like he’s about to lose his shit. “I’ve made it very clear: my sister is off-limits.”
“Yeah, well, your sister’s a whore,” Derrick says with a brutish laugh, shaking Creed’s hand off. He starts toward the sliding doors, and I think for a brief moment there that Creed’s actually going to let him walk off. Silly me.
“Your brother, Darryn Barr, how’s he been doing lately?” Creed asks, and the ice in his voice seriously gives me goose bumps. It’s an awful, awful sound. Derrick pauses, but he doesn’t turn around. “Because from what I’ve seen, he’s been enjoying his new team members more than usual.” Creed slides his phone from his pocket, and sends out a mass text that pings every phone at that party—including mine. I wonder how he got my number, but then, I figure he could’ve easily stolen it from Miranda’s phone.
Oh Miranda, I think, feeling my stomach clench. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what sort of pictures might have been shared around. Why didn’t she tell me? A niggle of hurt worms its way into my chest, but I do my best to ignore it. We’ve only been friends for three months. It makes sense that there’d be things she hasn’t shared with me. After all, I haven’t told her about my mother and the rest stop. Or how she only lives thirty minutes from me, but I’ve only seen her a handful of times in the last twelve years.
We all have secrets we can’t or won’t share. It’s human nature.
I don’t look at my phone, but I can see Zayd holding his. There’s a picture of some guy in a football jersey sucking another guy’s dick. My brows go up in surprise as Derrick snarls and spins on Creed.
“Where the fuck did you get this?” Derrick demands, getting up in Creed’s face. Creed is a few inches shorter, and not quite as wide as Derrick, but to be fair, Derrick is built like a pickup truck, and he’s got a bit of a belly. If it came down to a fistfight, it’d be a pretty even match.
“You don’t have to watch this, you know,” Zack says, making me jump when his voice sounds from beside me. I glance over, but his dark gaze is focused solely on Creed and Derrick. “If you want me to take you back to campus, I can do that.”
“No, I’m … I’m fine.” I cross my arms over my chest to ward off the late evening chill, and find that I’m short of breath, an anxious energy taking over the crowd that’s quickly becoming infectious.
“I have plenty more where that came from, if you’d like to see,” Creed says, lifting his phone again. Derrick snatches it from his hand, chucks it onto the floor, and crushes the screen with his sneaker before he gets back in Creed’s face again.
“You’re going to regret that shit,” he snarls, but Creed doesn’t seem concerned, not in the least.
“Mm, I don’t think so.” He tucks his fingers into the pockets of his red slacks, and lifts his chin. “Somehow, I’m pretty sure it’s you that’s going to regret this moment for years to come.” His face hardens up, mouth a thin slash of ice, and then he smiles. I have to say, between Tristan and Creed … well, if I saw either of them in a dark alley, I’d run like hell. “You’re out of the Infinity Club.”
“You can’t make that decision!” Derrick roars, but Creed just shakes his head.
“But I can, and I did, so get in your car and fuck all the way off.” Derrick launches himself at Creed, but Miranda’s twin is a lot craftier than he looks. He sidesteps the attack, letting Derrick stumble, and then prepares himself for the big man to swing around. When Derrick throws a punch, Creed is there to catch it. He uses Derrick’s own weight and momentum against him, ducking low and then launching the other man into the air with his back.
Derrick flips over the side of the deck and lands in the bushes with a curse, Creed standing over him, limned in porchlight.
“Myron, get the gun,” Creed says, and a dark-haired boy in the crowd nods before moving off. Gun? What gun? Oh my god, he isn’t going to shoot him, is he? My throat gets tight, and my hands curl into fists. There’s no way in hell I’m going to stand here and watch some kid—no matter how big an asshole he is—get shot.
But when Myron comes back, he’s got a tattoo machine in his hand, a box of gloves under his arm, and a small plastic bin with bandages and other various first-aid supplies in it.
“Remove his mark,” Creed says, moving away from the edge of the deck as the crowd ripples, and the whispers start up. On his way back inside, those blue eyes land on mine and stick there. Something strange travels through me, but I don’t know how to identify it, so I ignore it. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. “Come upstairs with me,” he says, and my eyes widen to marbles. Come upstairs?! Is this asshole propositioning me? “We’re going to start a game.”
The crowd mumbles appreciatively, but then Derrick is back up and coming for Creed again.
“You’re just as much of a bitch as your whore sister,” he growls, spittle and blood from his fall flecking his lips. “Next time I get a hold of her, it’ll be more than just a few pictures I’ll be taking.”
Creed turns around oh-so slowly, but he doesn’t get a chance to step in before Tristan’s there, just inches from Derrick’s face.
“You’re finished with the Club, Derrick.” Tristan’s blade gray eyes narrow, and I almost—almost—feel sorry for Derrick. Being on the receiving end of that stare is not a pleasant experience. “Your father’s already being investigated by the FBI for money laundering.” Tristan smiles like a shark, all teeth and primal, driving hunger.
“You …” Derrick stutters, eyes widening. “You set this up.”
One of those perfectly arched dark brows goes up, and Tristan’s smile morphs into a sneer.
“You think I forced your father to divert the interest from his clients’ accounts into a trust in the Cayman Islands? Mm, that’s a little beyond my paygrade I’m afraid. Unfortunately for you, Derrick, you’re about to be friendless, moneyless, and outcast, and I didn’t have to do a thing.”
Myron steps forward, a pair of black latex gloves on his hands, and nods toward a chair that’s been placed in the center of the deck.
“Sit down and comply willingly, or see how easily it is for you to be overwhelmed by a mob.” Tristan just stands there, waiting, as a muscle works in Derrick’s jaw, and his eyes dart back and forth across the crowd. Nobody’s smiling anymore, and a distinct icy chill sweeps over the group.