Page 62 of Lesson Learned

Patrick sits up straighter. “Forcheating?On a first offence?”

“The school’s strict as fuck about their achievement levels. It’s not like the place we went where if the children got returned safe, no one gave a shit what they got up to.” I lean forward, growing more enthused about the idea, though it’s to get him and his grubby stares away from Paisley rather than caring if Creighton can take a potshot at his dad. “They seem proud of their track record of academic excellence. It’s an embarrassment if they get outed for this kind of thing.”

“You’re sure?”

My temper boils over. “No, I’m not sure. I’ve been there for five minutes, and I don’t have a fucking clue how anything works.” I slump further into my chair, in unconscious mimicry of his posture. “I’m just using what everyone’s telling me, okay?”

“All right. Calm down.” He stares at the wall, stabbing a pen at his blotter. “Even if they do expel him, there’s no guarantee his dad will care.”

“No, but remember how upset Creighton got when Lock came close to being booted from the place? No one expected that, either.”

Last year, my cousin had tried to plant some drugs in another boy’s room to get him expelled. When it backfired on him, my uncle had come running.

“Yeah.” Patrick glances over. “Go ahead. Just… whatever you do, make sure it can’t come back on you, all right?”

I give a tight nod instead of the eye roll I’d prefer. “You want me to talk to Creighton? Get his sign-off, too?”

“No, I’ll handle all that. Just keep me informed, yeah?” He snaps his fingers a few times, working off excess energy. “You should’ve led with that.”

“I didn’t lead with anything. You’re the one who called me here in the middle of the day for no good reason.”

He stands and moves to the drinks’ cabinet. “You want something?”

“At noon?”

“Is it?”

He rubs a hand over his face, and I notice for the first time how tired he looks. “Are you okay?”

“Just burning the candle.”

There are bruises on his knuckles. Not like you’d get in a fight, more what you’d wind up with by punching a solid surface.

Not much of a guess. When we were teens, my brother often took his frustrations out on the punching bags in the gym. When they weren’t available, a door or a wall would work just as well, with slightly less desirable consequences.

“Is Creighton riding you too hard?”

“If I can get a few things lined up perfectly, Creighton won’t be riding me at all.”

“Right.” I lean forward, examining him as closely as I dare. “Forgot about that relentless ambition of yours.”

“It’s not ambition. I just hate other people being in charge and fucking things up left right and centre.”

There are so many responses I could give to that, but I settle for a nondescript, “Mm.”

He frowns into his glass, tilting the amber liquid back and forth to see the colour change under the light. “If it did come down to a struggle, whose side would you fall on?”

“What sides do I get to choose from?”

His mouth twists in annoyance. “Pick anyone inside the family.”

“Is Lock taking a run at you again?”

“No. I’m not worried about Lock.”

That’s news to me. Since my uncle promoted his out-of-wedlock bastard ahead of my brother, his aggravation has been clear to see.

“You know I’ve got your back.” His eyes flick to mine, a brief glow of relief shining before he ducks them to his glass again. “I barely give a shit about you. I certainly couldn’t give a shit about the rest of them.”

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