Page 6 of Siren's Heart

I shake my head at him, not sure if he’s become more annoying or I’m just tired. "So, how come you're in my apartment? Who gave you the key?"

"Van handed it to me. Said something about not being woken up in the middle of the night when you inevitably lose yours." He bites the inside of his cheek, probably to keep from laughing at me, and I huff, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

"What use is it if you have a key? Am I supposed to ask you to drive over in the middle of the night when I lose my key, then?" I love our manager most of the time, but sometimes, it feels like he and Asher get a kick out of teaming up against me. It's all in good fun, though, because Asher and I enjoy getting on his nerves just as much. And Van is just as game to team up against Asher with me.

"Well, I'm your neighbor. My parents’ apartment is right next to yours and I’m staying there, so I'd say it's of big use."

I push out a heavy sigh. I knew his parents are from Philly and they have an apartment downtown in addition to their house in the outskirts, but I’ve never been there. "You're infuriating, you know that? Why didn't you lead with that?" I swear to God, he's just as annoying as my blood sibling; no, even more annoying. And he loves annoying me even more than Summer does.

"Now where would be the fun if I did that?" I take the bottle from him and clink it with Asher’s before taking a sip. Holy shit, this is good. After 12 hours of travel, this hits the spot.

"Feeling better?" Asher asks with his eyebrow raised amusedly.

"Hell yes," I answer and set down the bottle. Finally, I have the chance to check out the kitchen.

It looks like a typical rich-bachelor kitchen. The countertops are made of graphite, and the cupboards are painted the exact same color. The room is lit by passive light underneath the counter and cupboards. There are no decorations, no kitchen utensils or machines in sight. Not that it’s an ugly kitchen, in fact, the color palette is right up my alley, but it’s just so empty and stiff. I grimace. "Please tell me the rest of the apartment looks a bit friendlier?"

The tugging at the corners of his mouth tells me it's not. Great.

"You have a lovely balcony, though. I might invite myself over a lot. It's got a bunch of pillows and fairy lights and shit."

"I guess that's something," I say with a sigh and take another swig of my beer. "That’s probably Van’s attempt at making up for this way too-sterile model apartment."

"You're just picky,” he teases me, poking my arm. “It's a perfectly fine apartment. Now, are you excited for training tomorrow?"

I don’t even need to answer, because seconds after asking, Asher bursts into laughter. I guess my face says it all.

It's not that I hate sports, but I loathe, loathe, football. I don't understand the rules. The ball has a super weird shape that I just can't catch, and whenever I jumped over my shadow and played it in the past, I got hurt somehow.

One time, I had a contusion in my hand; another time, I rolled my ankle and walked around limping for the next two weeks. Not exactly experiences I want to repeat, especially with another movie coming up right after the match.

I'd rather just stay here and relax, make some clay figures. Ever since I was a child, I liked crafting little figurines. When I read one of my fantasy books, I used to sit down and try to create the character in clay the way I pictured them in my head. But now that my career is taking off, I rarely have days where I can just sit down and put my whole focus on creating something with my own two hands. It's a gratifying feeling. I miss it.

"Relax, Luca. It's going to be fuuun!" Asher adds with a slightly condescending undertone, exaggeratedly throwing his hands in the air. "For me, anyways."

"I think Mom, Dad, and Summer have a bet going about how soon I'm going to hurt myself," I tell him with a grin. I can’t even pretend to be mad at them. They’re ridiculous.

"Pretty sure my parents have made their bets, too."

Traitors, the whole lot of them. But it’s alright. One day, my chance for revenge will come.

I hide a yawn behind my hand and drink the rest of the beer. "Anyway. Lovely of you to drop by but I've been traveling for, like, half a day. I need a shower and sleep."

"Well then," he rises from the counter and clasps my shoulder as he walks by. "I'm to your left." He points to the right, and I fight the urge to kick him in his butt. But he’s jumping on thin ice. "If you hurt yourself in the shower before the first training, I'm winning the bet, by the way. Just putting that out there."

Oh, he's getting the butt kick. I run after him, but he's already outside the door, his laugh muffled in the hallway. What an asshole.

"Come on, it's not going to be that bad," Asher tries to cheer me up on our car ride to the stadium. I feel better after a good night’s sleep, but the thought of training immediately pulled my mood down to hell.

"Tell me again why you got a car, and I didn't?" I ask Asher, pouting.

Because it's a nice car: Sleek black, with tinted windows, it looks badass. Like something Batman would drive. Well, almost. Asher is a freaking six-foot-five giant, so of course, it's not one of those sports cars where you sit with your butt mere centimeters over the ground.

No, this one is big enough that I almost need to jump to get into it. It’s built like a freaking tank.

"Because Van likes me more." Asher laughs, and I punch his upper arm when he comes to a stand at a stoplight. "Ouch. Maybe he thinks I'm more responsible."

"Or maybe he booked it for the two of us, and you're lying to me," I point out, narrowing my eyes at him. "Wouldn't be the first time. Or the second."

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