Page 75 of Wicked Fury

“Brandon?” I echo, my mind racing as I try to picture the guy.

“He’s on our football team,” Jeremiah confirms, tapping the photo I saved that Nicole was tagged in from a party. “And now that I think about it, I know exactly why she cozied up to him.”

“Because she’s psychotic,” Graham offers rather unhelpfully, but no one says anything because they’re watching Jeremiah as he feels around in pockets, but his eyes are on the photo. Unable to find what he’s looking for in his pockets, he whispers against Oakley’s ear, asking her for something I can’t decipher.

She leaves his side, dutifully following his command, all soft footsteps and golden hair. With a grace that makes my own movements feel clumsy, she walks around the table to retrieve his phone and comes back to stand next to him again. I notice that he doesn’t thank her, but instead wraps his arm around her and cups her outer thigh, patting her there.

“St. Charles game footage,” Jeremiah instructs, never lifting his attention from the file as he flips through. “Pull up our last game, please.” His voice softens on the ‘please’ and he looks up at her like she’s the only thing he’s ever seen in his life.

Oakley is already swiping through the albums.

I watch, fascinated, as the video loads, the screen coming to life with the green of the St. Charles football field, players moving like chess pieces in a grander scheme. And then Lincoln points out Brandon with a scowl.

“Son of a fucking bitch,” Lincoln curses.

“Pause.” Jeremiah’s command slices through the silence. Oakley obliges, freezing the frame on Brandon’s mid-strut.

“Jeremiah, you’re a goddamn genius,” Lincoln says, pulling up the camera footage on his phone from when his car was vandalized.

The room pulses with tension. A flicker of recognition sparks and he leans back, the leather chair squeaking its protest. “I know it’s him,” Lincoln declares, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. “He’s got the same stupid ass walk.”

The thought of that underclassman laying hands on Lincoln’s car ignites an ire in me, hot and blistering. I look up at Lincoln and say, “It makes sense that she’d buddy up to someone on the football team. He would have better access to swap the tests and make it look like yours was dirty.”

Lincoln nods, his arm coming around to wrap around me, pulling me into his side as if having me close is a comfort that he needs right now. “She probably had him beat her up, too. From what you describe, those bruises couldn’t have been self-inflicted.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t have more than one person helping her. She’s not new to this,” Graham says, a huff in his tone saying that he would like to be done with all the bullshit.

“Yep,” Penn chimes in, brushing his baseball cap back on his head with a confident tilt. His grin is all predator. “Let’s pay our dear friend Brandon a little visit, shall we? I’ll get my lighter fluid.” Penn’s smirk grows wider. “That should get him to spill whatever else Nicole had him do.”

“No lighter fluid,” Graham barks.

“How about we just blackmail him?” I ask, because I can already tell that Graham is ready to lose it.

“We’ll call it... persuasive negotiation. But tomorrow cause the freshies are out of town and I’ve got a dick appointment I’m about to be late to,” Penn smirks before getting up and walking right out the front door.

The others murmur and leave as well, and then it’s just Lincoln and me.

Chapter 32

Lincoln

The hallway is a graveyard, as we finally have the house to ourselves.

Jeremiah is off chasing Oakley around campus, Graham is hooking up with someone from the baseball team. No doubt trying to bang the entire starting lineup. At least he doesn’t shit where he eats. If I had to deal with some lovesick football player he fucked and ghosted, I might just pluck my own eyeballs out.

We aren’t going to talk about Penn. I saw him heading out with a duffle bag and he’s either committing murder or committing murder. Unless he fucking calls, I’m not going to worry about it. He can take care of himself. Who fucking knows what Dad has him doing?

Iris’ hand is clasped in mine, our fingers tangled up, and I can feel her pulse beating against my own. For once we’re walking up the stairs together without me having to drag her, or her stomping away from me in anger. Never thought I’d actually fucking see the day.

“Race you,” Iris challenges, a wicked gleam in her eyes.

“Prepare to lose,” I shoot back, already knowing the outcome. My legs are longer, conditioned by countless sprints down the football field, but tonight, I let her stay ahead, just so I can watch the sway of her hips as she moves.

We burst through my bedroom door from the impromptu race.

“Privacy secured,” I declare with a smirk, twisting the lock into place.

“Feeling possessive?” Her voice dances around the room, playful yet laced with desire.

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