Page 22 of Choices

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and my heart lodges in my throat, gaping and bloody.

“I hate you.”

“I hate you too. So fucking much.” And then he’s gone. The empty space flays me down to the bone, until all that remains are the charred pages of our unfinished story.

Booting the door to my brother’s room only gains me a sore toe. I ram my palm against the wood instead, smacking it with more enthusiasm than needed. A whoosh lifts my hair as the door flies open and Callan bares down on me, his towering frame dwarfing mine.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he growls, exposing teeth.

“Why is your door locked?” I attempt to look around him to see if he’s got someone in there. He doesn’t take club sluts to bed like the rest of the assholes who live here but I know he isn’t a saint. Frowning at me, he widens the door so I can see the full layout of his space, the bed’s a mess but there’s no one in it.

“I was sleeping and didn’t want to be disturbed.” His hair is a mess of dark waves lying haphazardly on his head. Standing barefoot with no shirt and open jeans that look liked he put them on in a hurry makes me inclined to believe him.

“Thanks for leaving me in my room all night and not coming to tell me it was safe to come out.” I scold, slapping his chest.

Dropping his eyes to the red handprint on his chest and then slowly raising them, his jaw ticks. Rubbing a hand down his mouth he strokes his chin. “Cutter was supposed to tell you.”

Shit.

“He said he was going to on the way to his room.”

“I must not have heard him.” I lie to easily.

The deep frown is back, drawing lines across his forehead, “We done here?”

“No, tell me what the hell happened last night, you and dad scared the shit out of me.”

“Nothing, it was club business.”

“Really? You’re not going to tell me?”

“Nope.”

“What about Nicolas?”

A thunder cloud morphs his features. “What about him?”

“Did you get him to leave?”

“Yeah. He took a cab to some poker game. Listen, Kit, that kid was never here, you understand me?”

“Yes, I understand.” I exhale. I wish I’d never met him in the first place.

“Good. We done now?”

“Yeah.”

As his door closes, the soft clicking of Dad’s door opening gains my attention. Claire peers out, looking like she hasn’t slept in a week. Dad never lets her stay the night in his room.

“Hey,” I say, checking the hallway before meeting her gaze. Her blonde hair lays in clumps around her shoulders. Her eyes are swollen with blossoming bruises. She’s wearing one of Dad’s t-shirts and nothing else.

“Oh, hey. I was going to ask you if I could borrow some clothes.”

Ew. She wants to borrow my clothes? If my dad rips them off her later, I’ll barf. “Everything okay?” I motion to my own eyes with two fingers.

“Oh.” She chuckles, but it’s strained. “I bumped into Cutter last night. He got the brunt of the collision.” She waves a nonchalant hand. “He fell and hurt his head.”

His bloody hair.

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