Page 41 of Study Games

Suddenly all those evenings working out in the gym with Crush didn’t mean so much at all.

A large hand I knew well gripped my shoulder too tight, hard fingers digging into bruised skin beneath the borrowed hoodie that offered sweet fuck all protection.

I didn't let the wince show because I needed that pain to function right now. Because it curtailed the brewing panic that I wouldn't be enough to save her despite the effort we put in driving hours halfway across the state to be here and confront her family without asking permission.

It’s what we did best.

“You're not alone, man. We've got this.”

He propelled me to the front door, standing on the shallow step behind me. Maybe that was his style of leadership. I had no idea. But it felt more like I was being shoved off the pirate gang plank to my death rather than into a place where I'd be able to solve the world's problems.

Or at least Waverly’s problem’s.

Just one. The brother who seemed to owe the twins enough to threaten her within an inch of her sanity and to beat me into a bruised up meat sack.

Yeah. I’d settle for that.

I raised my fist and banged my knuckles on the fly screen door hard enough to burst stitches. Crush muttered something that sounded like a curse and a prayer melded into one whipped out a packet of freaking Band-Aids, managing to patch up me before the door opened.

An older, male version of Waverly, slightly shorter than me, unwashed with a few day’s scruff on his chin and stinking of beer peered out at me.

I blinked back.

“Not what I expected,” I muttered. And clamped my mouth shut.

Jesus. The girl was contagious. For the first time in hours, a slight smile lifted the corners of my lips at the thought of her.

The deep, tanned lines around the man’s eyes crinkled further. “What was that?” the kid barked.

I realized that, despite the scruff and lines and scars on his hands and face, he could only be a year or two older than me. Watching him closely, I tilted my head to one side. Something in my shoulder screamed at the action.

Pain, my friend. Welcome to the party.

“You’re Waverly Alloway’s brother?”

“What’s she done?” His pinked eyes swept over me. She better not be pregnant.”

A rude noise rumbled deep in my chest. Crush maintained his hard grip on my shoulder. “I’m Napoleon Lancaster, president of the Kingsman frat house at Rippton university and your sister’s… friend.” His face never changed in my periphery as he stepped up beside me. “May we come in?”

Now there’s some serious breeding shit.

My father clearly missed a few steps in my upbringing. Clearly, the last year befriending Crush hadn’t rubbed off on me like my father hoped. Or maybe I just rejected the concept.

“Sure.” Vincent Alloway looked away from Crush before he kicked the screen door open on its rusty hinges.

Neat and tidy on the outside, rotten on the inside.

I knew what we would find beyond that door before we stepped inside. Paint peeled off the walls. Marks scuffed every vacant surface, and there weren’t a lot of those. Beer bottles lined every table at hip height, and the floors could’ve used a damn good clean. Hell, I was an artist and I didn't pick up after myself but this – I was messy, this was unhygienic.

Standards, man.

“Glad she doesn't live with him,” I muttered behind my hand.

Crush nodded, his mouth set in a hard line as he glanced back to Cooper who remained behind. The goalie didn't move from his place as sentinel at the sports car, and nobody in their right mind would dare to confront the tank of a man based on his girth alone.

We followed Vincent through a labyrinth of dingy hallways that opened into a dimly lit living area and looked to be in the same condition as the rest of the small cottage.

He sank onto the couch amid stained cushions, scattering magazines and newspapers that stank of wet dog despite that I hadn't seen one. Still not acknowledging we stood in his living space, crowding it, he popped open a fresh beer that magically materialized his hand.

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