Page 2 of Wicked Scorn
“When I’m with you, nothing else matters,” she calls out, and the simplicity of it kicks me in the ass.
“You’re going soft on me, bunny.”
“No, I’m just me but pretty boy, your pocket’s having a seizure or something,” Oakley teases, her breath hot on my neck.
“Damn technology,” I mutter, the spell breaking, reality creeping in with its sharp claws and jagged teeth.
“Trouble?” There’s an edge to her voice, concern lacing it. My sweet little bunny who cares about far too much. This world will eat her up and spit her out.
“Probably nothing,” I lie. Who the hell bombards someone with messages at this hour? My gut twists, intuition screaming that something is wrong.
“Let’s head back.” I hate the words as they leave my mouth, but curiosity is a hungry beast.
“Back? But we just…” Disappointment colors her tone, yet she clings tighter.
“Trust me.” Two words, heavy with meaning.
I downshift, the motorcycle growling beneath us, almostlike a living thing that echoes my frustration. As we turn around, the tension coils between us, thick and suffocating.
We roll up to her house, the bike’s hum dying into silence. I can’t shake the feeling that we’re stepping right into the middle of a shit storm. I dismount, pulling off my helmet, and run a hand over my head—anxious, already gearing up for whatever comes next.
The world shrinks to the beat of my heart, a dull thud against my ribcage as Oakley’s brother and my best friend, Royce, materializes from the shadows of the house. His stance, rigid and unyielding, cuts through the night.
“Jeremiah fucking Blackwood,” he spits out my name like its poison on his tongue, “I should’ve known you’d stab me in the back—you and Penny?”
“Royce, man—” My words choke in my throat, disbelief has to be painting my features. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
He moves closer, eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. His scorn is almost palpable, mingling with the tang of impending rain.
“Stop.” Oakley’s voice slices through the tension, small but mighty. Her hand lands on my arm, something to anchor me while my best fucking friend stands there accusing me of fucking with his girl. “He hasn’t done anything.”
“Like hell he hasn’t!” Royce roars, muscles coiled, ready to strike.
“Royce,” I say, steadying my voice, “I swear on my brothers, there’s nothing between me and Penny.” If he only knew that his little sister has had me wrapped around her pretty little finger for some time now.
“Your word ain’t worth shit right now.” His accusation hangs heavy in the air, a razor blade slicing into me. I may be afucking Blackwood, but to me, my word fucking means something.
“Your trust issues are your own damn problem, not mine,” I shoot back, anger lacing my words. My hands ball into fists at my sides, itching for an outlet.
Oakley steps closer, her crystal blue eyes fierce with conviction. “Ro, listen to me. Jeremiah’s been with me, okay? Just me—no one else.”
“Always jumping to defend him, huh?” He sneers, a wild glint in his eye that says this is far from over.
Royce doesn’t bother to mask the disdain in his voice, throwing accusations like punches I couldn’t dodge. And somehow, Oakley is caught in the crossfire between us, her delicate frame trembling with a mixture of fear and defiance as she stands her ground. “You think this is some kind of game?” he advances, the night seeming to curl around him.
“No,” Oakley’s voice quivers but doesn’t break. “But I won’t let you bully me into believing lies about Jeremiah.”
The air grows thick with unsaid words, laden with distrust and betrayal, a storm ready to burst. Royce’s nostrils flare, his voice is a low growl now, “You’re his alibi? How convenient. How many times has he pulled the wool over your eyes, little sister? You’re a joke to him.”
“Don’t talk to her like that,” I warn him. My blood boils; it’s one thing to come at me—I can take it. But Oakley? That’s crossing a line.
Royce’s laughter dies in his throat, transforming into a low growl. “You’ve got some nerve, Blackwood.”
He turns on me then, his every sinew alive with fury and something else—something wounded lurking beneath the surface of his rage. We stare each other down. “Stay away from my sister.”
“Like hell I will,” I retort without missing a beat, fueled by anger and adrenaline. The fragile thread holding back my own aggression snaps. “She’s just as much as part of my family as you are, you’re just being a fucking dick right now.”
He steps forward until we’re practically breathing the same hostile air. “Everything’s connected when you screw with my life.” His fist clenches at his side like he’s fighting every instinct to throw a punch.
