Page 67 of Vengeful Rotten Casualties

I sigh and set the bowl of popcorn down. It’s only a distraction anyway. “What makes you think anything happened?” I hedge.

A single dark brow reaches for Avalon’s hairline and she crosses her arms and stares back at me as if to saydo you really think I’m that stupid?She’s not. It’s kind of why I like her.

“Rylie saw you with him,” she says, nodding to the flat screen hanging on the wall of Dean Carter’s living room. “You knew she’d tell Luc and when he left after finding out the other night…” She blows out a breath. “Well, suffice it to say, even I wasn’t gonna try and talk him down. I’m surprised you haven’t said anything. It’s been weeks, but it seems like you guys worked it out?” She phrases the last statement as a question.

“He was mad,” I agree.

Avalon scoffs. “That’s an understatement.”

I blow out a breath. “Yeah, okay, it is.”

“What happened?” she presses. “I mean, obviously you must have talked, but—and I might not know Luc as well—he strikes me as the possessive type. He and Dean were rivals after all, and while Dean has the stoic, badass persona going for him, Luc’s not as different as they’d like to believe.”

Meaning—she knows what Dean would have done to her ass if she’d been me. I can imagine it and I doubt it would’ve looked much different from what actually happened. “Luc doesn’t like to let others know that shit gets to him,” I admit.

She nods. “Neither does Dean.”

“Only Dean keeps himself distant and unaffected,” I point out.

She contemplates that. “Are you saying Luc does that too?” she asks, frowning. “From what I’ve seen, he’s been trying to be up Dean’s and the others’ asses.”

“Have you ever seen him get truly angry?” I ask.

She swipes her tongue across her lower lip and tilts her head. “I’m not sure,” she finally admits. “I’ve seen him mad, but—”

“But not the kind of angry he was the night he found out what I did to get to Andrew Bennington,” I guess. She shakes her head. My head dips down and I find a spot on the coffee table. It’s immaculate, made of heavy oak wood—and yet there are still the stains of life and usage. Barely perceptible rims of glasses that had been set down during times past. I reach forward and trace one.

“Luc is just like Dean in that he was raised as the only heir to a very vast fortune. There were expectations. People came to him at all ages, trying to manipulate and use him. Maybe Dean acts stoic because he doesn’t want anyone to know anything gets to him. Luc acts easygoing because he wants the same. He rarely gets angry—or rather, he rarely shows his anger. When he does, it’s because it overwhelms him.” Around and around I go with my finger, tracing the remains of the cup imprint on the wood. “Most people don’t realize, but he’s actually a lot angrier than he lets on. The kind of anger he possesses—that we all possess—stems from years of growing resentment. Fear. Survival. He may have had money, but he didn’t have love. He didn’t have affection. He didn’t have safety. None of us did.”

Silence stretches long past the end of my words. Finally, I pull away from the table and look back at her. Avalon has dropped her arms down to her sides. She grips the edge of the couch and leans forward, watching me carefully.

After a beat, she speaks. “Can I ask you a question?”

I chuckle. “Have you ever asked for permission before?”

Her lips. “Fair point,” she concedes. Colors fly across the TV screen, distracting me. Somewhere in the house, I hear footsteps. So many people live in this mansion, but at the same time, it’s so big that I often forget. A door closes upstairs, echoing down.

“Why did you approach me in Plexton?” Avalon asks. “Why did you talk to me? Why did you let me keep coming back?”

My attention returns to her. A flash of an old memory infiltrates my mind. Avalon, only a few years younger. The same hair. The same angry expression. Tired. Cold. A little skinnier and malnourished.Why did I approach her?Honestly, I’ve wondered that a time or two before.

“I think…” I roll my tongue into my cheek and bite down, wondering how to explain. “I think there are a lot of reasons why,” I decide. “You reminded me of myself. Alone and fighting for survival.”

“Is that it?”

I shake my head. “No.” I’m not as altruistic as that. “I needed someone too,” I tell her. “I was trapped out there in that fucking house. The only people who ever came weren’t exactly making house calls out of the goodness of their hearts. I think I was trying to find a light in my own darkness and you showed up and I latched on. I didn’t become your friend just to help you, but to help myself too.”

Avalon falls silent for a moment. My chest tightens, but I suck in a breath and quirk a smile anyway, trying to go for nonchalant even as I ask, “Does that piss you off?”

She presses her lips together and shakes her head. “Of course not,” she replies. “That’s how friendships are supposed to be. Give and take. You were a light for me, too, you know. You were right. I was alone. You taught me how to deal, how to cope, how to survive. You taught me a lot.

“I couldn’t save you, though,” I remind her. I couldn’t even save my own damn self.

Avalon rolls her eyes. “I never asked to be saved, Micki.”

But she did. We both did. The two of us—back then—her damaged by her own mother, trapped in a house where she wasn’t sure if she’d be sold to one of her mom’s dealers. Me … fucked over by the man who should’ve just let me go to the state. Both of us were practically begging for someone to come save us.

Unfortunately for our younger selves, though, life isn’t a fairytale. There are no heroes. No knights in shining armor coming to the rescue. That’s what we learned there in the muck and grime of our pasts. If you want to crawl out of the gutter, you’ve got to be willing to get a little dirty.

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