Page 48 of Necessary Cruelty

“That’s easy since you’re not capable of feeling pity for anyone,” Cal says, leaning over Iain’s shoulder to see the screen and wincing as some fantasy character gets beheaded or worse.

Iain only plays games rated for extreme violence.

“True,” he says with a careless shrug.

Elliot turns back to me. “So what are you going to do about this inheritance thing?”

He is like a pit bull with its jaws clamped, just refusing to let shit go. “None of your damn business.”

“It is if you’re going to be all poor and sad in a few months. My family still has some property in the Gulch if you’re going to need a place to crash. But you’ll have to deal with the crackheads on your own.”

“You can fuck right off.” I know it’s a joke, but that doesn’t stop a full body shudder. The thought of living in the Gulch, after a lifetime with a golden spoon in my mouth, has to be the highest form of dramatic irony. If God has a sense of humor, then he is laughing hard enough to give himself a coronary at this point. I would rather leave town and never come back than deal with the shame of it. “That isn’t going to happen.”

“It is, if Zaya Milbourne has anything to say about it. Or not say in her case. Have you even tried being nice to the chick?”

If being nice includes spending a small fortune on renovating her house so it won’t fall down around her ears in the near future. Although, I have no idea if Zaya sees it that way, since she seems to be refusing to communicate with me.

I’ve sent her maybe a dozen text messages on the brand new phone I picked out, but she didn’t bother to respond. The damn thing is even the same color as the lavender gel pens she always uses in class, because I assume that’s her favorite color.

If that isn’t nice, then what the fuck is?

For some reason, her continued silence annoys me more than anything else has up to this point. It isn’t like I necessarily expected obvious gratitude after everything that has gone on between us, but some acknowledgement would be nice.

I tell myself that the hot feeling burning in my chest is simple rage, because anger is an emotion I’m familiar with. It’s practically my comfort animal at this point. I don’t want to explore the possibility that the emotion I’m feeling might be anything else.

“You could always sneak into her room in the middle of the night, assuming you can get drunk enough for it to seem like a good idea without passing out first,” Iain comments, tone droll.

Cal laughs, but immediately sobers when he sees the look on my face.

I’m going to murder them, take us all out in a blaze of glory. That has to be preferable to dealing with Zaya Milbourne right now.

The more I think about it, the more anger becomes the dominant emotion churning in my gut. Who does the girl think she is to just refuse a deal that will benefit both of us? Without my help, there is no way she will ever rise out of the muck of the Gulch, not with all the forces conspiring to hold her back. But she would rather be poor for the rest of her life than deal with me for a year.

That realization burns just like rage, but with a dark edge of something else.

Iain lets the game system drop to the table with a clatter and opens his lunch bag. “Just so you know, Zaya is going to the Founder’s Ball with Jake Tully.”

Ice slides through my veins, painfully cold. “How the fuck do you know that?”

He pulls a crumpled paper out of his pocket and tosses it at me. I unfold the thing and quickly scan it. One set of handwriting is immediately recognizable, it definitely belongs to Zaya. And the icy cold inside me quickly turns to heat as I read the flirtatious banter that turns into an invitation.

An invitation that is accepted.

It feels good to be angry, like an embrace from an old friend.

“How long have you had this?” The paper crumples into a ball in my fist.

Iain shrugs and takes a bite of his apple. “A few days.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me about it until now?”

“Forgot.”

“Your mom forgot not to drop you on your head as a baby.” I want to blame him for this, but getting mad at Iain is like spitting into the wind. The loogie is just coming back to land in your face. “Fucking Jake.”

Iain raises a sardonic eyebrow. “You want us to drive him out to the cliffs and toss him off?”

I don’t really think Iain is serious, but he says everything in the same bored monotone, so I can never be completely sure. He describes brutal murders with the same inflection as plans for dinner.

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