Page 483 of Filthy Elites

“Stepsiblings at best, and it hardly counts when we live in different states and don’t spend any time together. You’re my mom’s new stepson, and we’re just people who went to the same high school for a few months.”

A look, that if I didn’t know better I’d say was hurt, flashes across his face. “She misses you.”

“Who?”

“Your mom. She misses you.”

“She chose not to speak to me for a year, not me.”

“You left.”

“I don’t want to discuss this with you. It’s none of your business,” I snap, increasing my pace and hoping he’ll leave, but instead he just walks quicker, staying at my side.

“Of course it’s my business, she’s a good person, she didn’t deserve you treating her like that.”

Stopping, I spin around to face him. “I’m glad she’s with your dad, I’m glad she’s happy and that you and she have a good relationship. That was all made easier by me not being in the picture, so I’ve actually done you a favor. My relationship with my mom ended when your friend told me if I left him he’d take everyone I loved away from me. He won, he did take her away, but she let him. So this is where we are. My choice, his choice, her choice, they led me here and her to your dad. I was happy living with my dad, she was happy falling in love and getting married. Everyone’s a winner.”

“Starling”

“Look, Evan, it is what it is. We’re not family, we’re definitely not friends. I’m assuming my mom asked you to look out for me or something, but you don’t need to. I’m never going to tell anyone you’re my mom’s husband’s son, and you don’t need to worry about me trying to cash in on your name here, because I won’t, ever. So how about we just pretend like we’ve never met and if my mom asks, then I’ll tell her we have lunch together once a week, or something.”

“Starling.”

“What, Evan?” I ask wearily, rubbing at the headache that’s starting to form behind my eyes.

“We could be friends.”

I scoff. “No, we couldn’t.” Forcing my feet into motion, I walk away, pushing my AirPods into my ears and turning up the volume as Eminem blasts loud and angry, fueling my steps with more vigor and my heart with enough bravado to not look back.

My head is pounding by the time I slide my key card into the scanner on the front door and stumble inside. The stairs feel insurmountable, but I’d rather struggle to get to my room, than crash in the living room and be found by the housemates I’ve yet to meet.

Each step makes my brain rattle, my eyes blur and the ball of tension I can feel in my neck worsen. When I finally mount the top step and spot my bed, I crawl on top of the comforter and then collapse in a heap, my backpack still over my shoulders.

“Urgh,” I moan as I force myself upright, letting the bag slip from my shoulders and fall haphazardly to the floor. There’s a bottle of pain meds in the bathroom, but the thought of getting up and walking there makes me feel ill, so instead I slump down onto the mattress, close my eyes and try to push all thoughts of Evan, Courtney, Green Acres, my mom and Sebastian from my mind.

“Wake up, little bird.”

The softly spoken, familiar voice curls through my mind, wrapping around my brain like vines hanging from a tree. My eyes flutter open and for a moment, I swear I can see him, standing at the end of the bed, his face hidden in shadow, but then I blink and when I open my eyes a millisecond later, he’s gone, an unwanted figment of my imagination.

It’s twilight, the sun’s starting to set, casting patterns through the window and across my room. It’s pretty and I glance out of the glass, admiring the dying orange embers that are highlighting the horizon.

My head feels better, but my neck is stiff and my mouth is dry. I’ve slept the day away again and forgotten to eat. My stomach feels hollow when I remember the last proper meal I ate was the last dinner I shared with my dad two days ago. Rolling into a sitting position, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and head for the bathroom, relieving my bladder before washing up and grabbing the bottle of painkillers from the counter, tipping two into my hand.

Making my way back to the bed, I grab my backpack from where I dumped it earlier and take out one of the bottles of water, using the liquid to swallow the pills before drinking the rest of the bottle. I eat half the sandwich, but the bread is dry, the salad limp and the chicken kind of mushy so I ditch the rest into the trash can.

For the first time since I got here yesterday, I can hear noise from inside the house. My housemates are downstairs and even though I really don’t want to, I should go down and at least introduce myself to them. Assuming we all pass our classes, we could be living together for the next four years, so I need to make an effort to at least be on a polite, friendly basis with them.

My mouth feels disgusting, so I brush my teeth and smooth down my hair. It used to be almost to my butt, but since I moved to my dad’s I had it cut off to my shoulders. I used to love my hair, now it’s just long enough to tie up and apart from occasionally straightening it, I rarely fuss with it.

I glance at my outfit. It’s a little rumpled from sleeping in it, but I really don’t care. If these people dislike me because I’m a little creased, then it’s just one more reason to stay away from them.

Grabbing my cell phone and key card, I slide my feet into flip-flops and head downstairs. The sound of music seems to be coming from the kitchen, so I slowly make my way toward it, not allowing the trepidation I’m feeling to send me running back upstairs to hide in my room. All I have to do is introduce myself, be polite for five minutes and then I can escape again.

When I step into the kitchen I spot someone leaning into the refrigerator. It looks like a guy and when he straightens, it’s obvious that it’s a he and he’s tall.

“Er, hey, I guess you’re one of my housemates,” I say.

The guy turns and my mouth falls open. “Hunter?” I gasp.

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