Page 22 of Wicked Scorn
“Stay away from her,” I growl, my voice a low, dangerous rumble that echoes through the locker room like a warningshot. “If I ever see you or anyone else looking at those pictures again, I’ll fucking end you. Do you understand?”
Zeke nods frantically, his face pale beneath the overhead lights. Good. Let him be afraid. Let them all be afraid. Because I’ll be damned if I let anyone touch Oakley. Not while there’s still breath in my body and rage burning in my soul. He’s not bucking back, but I feel the need to add, “Oakley belongs to me. If I hear you talk about her, or even fucking look at her for too long and I’ll break your kneecaps. This is your one and only warning.”
I move to walk away from everyone in the locker room when a shoulder slams into mine, sending me stumbling sideways. Heat flares in my chest, ready to unleash on whoever was stupid enough to do that, but it’s Graham’s familiar scowl that greets me.
“Jesus fuck, Jeremiah! You trying to get kicked out of the game before we even play?” he snaps, muscles tense judging but the grinding of his teeth I hear.
“Back off, Graham,” I growl, clenching and unclenching my fists, trying to leash the anger boiling in my veins. But all of it is in vain because it doesn’t abate, only shifts targets.
“Talk to me,” he insists, stepping in front of me to block my path. “You’re not usually like this. What’s going on?”
“It’s Oakley,” I admit, the words tasting like poison on my tongue.
“Oakley?” His brow furrows, confusion etched across his face. “What about her?”
“Photos,” I spit out, “The chick on Zeke’s phone. It’s Oakley on a damn website in a bunny mask. Dammit, Graham, what the fuck is going on?”
“Shit.” He runs a hand through his hair, piecing ittogether. “Alright, let’s deal with this rationally. Going all Hulk on everyone isn’t going to help her.”
“No.” The word is a sharp blade.
“Okay, okay.” Graham holds up his hands. “Let’s think this through. You go full Hulk, and what? Coach benches you, maybe worse. Then what good are you to anyone else?”
“Fuck.” I scrub a hand down my face. It’s annoying as fuck when someone else is the logical one in this family. “I know, I know.”
“Listen,” he says, his tone shifting, “we’ll sort this out. But right now, you need to get yourself together. We’ve got a game to win.”
“Did not have me being irrational on today’s bingo card,” I snort, but the sarcasm fades as I meet his steady gaze.
“Thanks,” I mutter, the gratitude genuine despite everything churning inside of me.
“Anytime,” he replies, clapping me on the shoulder roughly. “Now let’s show St. Vincent’s who they’re messing with.”
We turn back toward the sounds of the locker room, the feel of anticipation thick in the air.
A sudden burst of laughter cuts through the tension in the locker room, and my head snaps up to see Penn grinning as he leans against a row of lockers. “Well, well,” he drawls, his eyes flicking between Graham and me. “This is fucking great. Looks like Linc’s fucking his sister and your little bunny is a stripper. I really need to start carrying popcorn around with me everywhere. There’s always a fucking show.”
“Shut the fuck up, Penn,” I snarl, my fists clenching at my sides. His answering laugh is a jagged thing, cutting into me deeply. He’s fucking unhinged, psychotic more than any of us, just how Dad wanted it. I don’t know what he saw inmy brother that he didn’t in the rest of us, but when Penn fixates on something, there’s no drawing his attention elsewhere.
I can taste the anger, bitter and metallic on my tongue.
“No need to get all worked up.” Penn smirks, raising his hands defensively. “Just stating the obvious. I mean or do and take that shit out on St. Vincent’s so we can shut them out.”
“Enough!”
“Aw, come on, Jere. Can’t take a joke?” He chuckles, and the sound grates against my skull.
“Joke?” I spit back, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “You think this is funny?”
“Lighten up, brother,” he says, his eyes glinting with mischief that only serves to fuel my scorn. “Just some locker room talk, right?”
“Locker room talk,” I echo hollowly, my heartbeat pounding in my ears like it’s trying to escape. “Stay the hell away from Oakley.”
“Or what?” he challenges, eyebrows raised in mock surprise. “You’ll break another phone? Damn, baby bro, you’ve got it bad.”
“Enough, Penn,” Graham interjects, but his words are distant, drowned out by the roaring in my head.
“She’s off-limits,” I mutter under my breath, forcing my hands to uncurl from fists.
