Page 48 of Of Pranks and Passion

I never realizedEaston was from an influential family. It made me a little nervous, to be honest. With his grungy look, I guess at one point I decided he was just as poor as I was, and we were equal that way. He said he didn’t use family money and liked to pay his own way, but he had one hell of a safety net if things went wrong. Meanwhile, I had a vindictive sister hell bent on hurting me, and a family who thought she did no wrong. Was it wrong to be a little jealous?

I pushed the thought away when Easton opened his front door, and all his friends piled in. Coach and Angel already knew what happened and had seen the damage, but Chuckles winced when he looked at me, putting one hand on my shoulder.

“No offense, man, but you look like shit.”

“Kinda feel like shit, honestly,” I replied quietly. I had pain meds last night, but they’d long since worn off, and I had a headache brewing behind my eyes, and my body felt like one big ache.

“Did they give you anything?” Angel asked, giving me a one armed hug as he slid past. He carried a box with him,and Chuckles had a paper bag with a French roll sticking out. Everyone seemed to have brought something, which was kind. Easton said he didn't have any food in the house.

I didn’t remember much from the hospital, so I shot a questioning look at Easton, who nodded.

“He needs to take them with food.”

“I’ve got that covered,” Coach said. He came in last, with an enormous pot that smelled delicious. How it was still warm after traveling here was beyond me. Unless we were close to The Hideout?

Everyone dropped their items off in the kitchen, leaving Coach to set things up. The kitchen, like the en suite bathroom, looked like it belonged in those luxury magazines that boasted about apartments normal people could never afford. The whole place was like that. Floor to ceiling windows showing a view of the city, marble countertops, the works. It made me a little uncomfortable to be there, and not one inch of it felt like Easton. There were even some nice-looking clothes in the closet that really didn’t match his personality.

Like he could tell I was uncomfortable, Easton rested his hand on my lower back, leading me over to the living room and the pristine white couch. I knew I just showered, but it still felt like I was going to ruin it just by sitting on it. Easton threw himself onto a cushion without a care, but I would never be comfortable sitting beside him. Instead, I crawled into his lap and hoped he’d forgive me for the clingy affection.

I waited for him to say something. So did the rest of his friends. I felt all eyes on us once I settled. At The Hideout, we never cuddled. We didn’t have to pretend to be a couple there. We didn’t even sit next to each other most of the time. The only time Easton demanded it was if he thought Angel was getting too friendly. But he didn’t even bat an eye when I sat in his lap. He let one arm drape loosely around my waist, the othersnagging the remote to turn on the I-don’t-even-want-to-guess-how-many inch tv. He turned on the sports channel and relaxed against the couch without a care in the world.

Angel raised an eyebrow at me as he sat down on the couch. I lifted a shoulder. I still felt a little raw from yesterday and needed the closeness. I wasn’t about to point it out to Easton and start asking questions.

“When I was collecting your winnings, Riker mentioned a special fight night between you and an old classic who wants to come out of retirement. He wants to make it a big deal like they do on TV,” Coach said from the kitchen, breaking the awkward silence in the room.

“No,” Easton answered fluidly without taking his eyes off the tv.

“Figured you’d say that, but he offered three times as much as a normal fight,” Coach continued as he came to join us. He handed me a bowl of stew with a fresh piece of bread resting against the side, and I was forced to slide out of Easton’s lap so he could eat, too. “He said there’s a lot of attention on it already.”

Easton huffed out a scoff into his food, inhaling half of it before replying. “It’s a trap.”

I frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Those fights are supposed to stay quiet. They aren’t legal, and if it gets too much attention, it’ll draw in the cops. Either Riker is under their thumb or too much of an idiot to realize he’s setting everyone up to get arrested.” He tipped his head back to look at Coach, who came in with a few more bowls of stew. “Time to find a new place.”

Coach nodded. “I’ll look into it.”

Glancing between the two of them, I frowned. “I thought Coach had a regular job.”

“He does,” Chuckles answered, balancing the bowl on his knees from his spot in the weird-looking egg-shaped armchair. “He manages Phantom out of the goodness of his heart.”

It was a tease, and when Coach came back out of the kitchen with his own bowl, he rolled his eyes. He sat on the floor so he could rest his bowl on the glass coffee table.

“I also pay him,” Easton said around a mouthful of food. “He doesn’t make a lot, and he likes to donate to charity. He needed a little extra cash each month.”

Pursing my lips, I considered it. I mean, it was nice that Easton gave him that option, and Coach didn’t look uncomfortable being there, but… “What do you all do? I don’t think I ever asked.”

“I’m a gym teacher,” Coach said evenly as he dipped his bread into his bowl. “It doesn’t pay much, but intercity kids need suitable role models. I’d rather take a shitty paying job and help people than a good one lining the pockets of assholes who don’t deserve it.”

Smiley raised his hand like a kid in class before answering, “I’m a chimney sweep.”

I jerked my head back, surprised, but before I could question him further, Coach reached over and smacked him on the back of the head. “No, he isn’t. He’s on disability after a stint in the military left him with brain trauma that causes seizures.”

“The weed helps,” he said sheepishly, rubbing the sore spot on his head.

I’d only ever seen Smiley high, or getting high, so I couldn't imagine him in the military. His hair was long and wavy, past his shoulders, and he had a similar grungy style as Easton.

“Here. Look.” Angel handed me his phone with a photo pulled up. I had to squint to tell the difference between the two. It was in the smile that I could finally match it. Even in the military and not high as a kite, he was always smiling.

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