Page 65 of Hell to Pay

Rafe could be a dick but he wouldn’t come after me in a situation like this. Maybe it was because he was the king of licking his wounds in private, or maybe it was just because I was starting to suspect feelings — his and everyone else’s — scared the shit out of him, but he’d leave me alone, give me the space I wanted.

I closed my bedroom door and lay down on my bed, replaying the moment with Matt. Under his anger had been humiliation. He’d been told the truth not by me but by someone who would lord it over him at school when high school probably wasn’t any easier for him than it had been for me before my nudes scandal.

What were they saying to him? That everyone had seen his sister’s tits? That his sister was a slut?

I was surprised to find it didn’t bother me. The kids at Blackwell High felt like kids in a movie or TV show, people who didn’t really exist.

But they existed for Matt, and I knew all too well how miserable they could make him on an everyday basis.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and texted him.

I’m sorry.

I waited but no dots appeared and I wondered if he was in the closet, if my mom was making him pray because he’d left the house without her permission, because he’d stayed with his whore of a sister and the three devils who’d corrupted her not once but twice.

Only this time, I’d chosen it.

And the worst part of all? The worst part of all was that even now, even sick with worry about Matt and swimming in shame, I didn’t think I’d take it back.

What did that say about me?

42

LILAH

I spentthe weekend not even trying to hide the fact that I was wallowing. I’d been strong forever, keeping my chin up, looking for the silver lining, remembering that this too shall pass, all those dumb things that people said when they wanted you to move past your misery so they could move past it too.

I was tired. So fucking tired.

I just wanted to sleep, and I was relieved when Nolan and Jude didn’t ask me about what had happened with Matt. They’d both said they were sorry, so it was obvious Rafe had told them, but I was glad that was the extent of it, glad Rafe had done the work of telling them about the whole humiliating situation so I didn’t have to.

They were extra nice to me over the weekend, ordering my favorite takeout and ice cream, letting me pick the movies we watched without argument, and generally being agreeable both with me and with each other.

By Sunday I’d sent fourteen texts to Matt — all unanswered — and I was finally sick of my self-pity. The Bastards were working a contact with immigration in Greece who was trying to cross-reference the names of the Cantwell villa owners against flights into the country over the last year, but we were otherwise on hold with Imperium Fratrum, and since there was nothing I could actually do about it, I put on my gym clothes and headed for the basement.

I didn’t pass any of the Bastards on my way down, which was just as well. I wasn’t in the mood to talk.

During my explorations of the house, I’d learned that there was a huge office with a steel door in the basement off the garage. I’d only gotten a look at it once, when I’d asked Nolan what was behind the door, secured with a digital keypad mounted to the wall, but the room had made an impression.

There had been a whole wall of computers, plus what had looked like shortwave radio equipment and a bunch of other stuff I didn’t recognize, and I’d learned that when the house was quiet, it was usually because the Bastards were in the office. Their work was still mostly shrouded in mystery, something that was probably for the best if I didn’t want to end up in a federal prison somewhere.

The gym lights came on automatically and I started into the room, then stopped in my tracks when I noticed two new pieces of equipment. Now, along with the rowing machines and treadmills and ellipticals and free weights, there was a sparring mannequin, plus a wooden target on one wall.

I walked slowly toward the mannequin, like it might surprise me and come to life. Locke had a couple of them in the Gym, but I hadn’t used them much since we’d had real-life sparring partners.

I kicked out one of my legs, testing the mannequin with a kick to its weirdly featureless chest. It felt solid under my foot, then rocked back before bouncing forward.

I turned my attention to the wooden target and noticed there was something in the center, right in the red bullseye. I was a couple feet away when I realized it was the hilt of a knife.

I rocked it back and forth until it gave way and looked down at the weapon in my hand. It wasn’t as pretty as my Mini Osborne, or as sleek. This was a tactical knife, heavy, with a wicked steel blade and a grip made for a big hand.

I set it aside and pulled my knife out of the pocket of my hoodie, then walked back a few steps, widened my stance, and threw.

The Mini Osborne landed two inches to the right of the bullseye.

My spirits lifted. I’d continued working out in the basement gym since I’d been living with the Bastards, but I hadn’t sparred with anyone in months, and I’d never had a proper target to practice with using my old knife.

This was going to be fun.

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