Page 15 of My Fault
There he was—no shirt on, just jeans, surrounded by girls and four muscular friends a little shorter than him.
I watched him for a few moments.
Was this the same guy I’d been having dinner with at a luxury restaurant just a little while ago?
He was, and so it surprised me to see him now. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a mafia movie. They were playing beer pong, but with shots of tequila. My dear stepbrother was killing it. He hadn’t missed once. That meant he wasn’t as drunk as the others.
Nicholas shot and missed on purpose. It was so obvious I couldn’t see how the others didn’t realize it, but they all jeered at him and cracked up laughing. He grabbed his shot and downed it fast.
When it was his friend’s turn, Nicholas went over to a hot brunette girl who was sitting on the black-marble countertop. She was wearing a sky-blue bikini top and shorts that showed off her sun-bronzed legs.
I was too dressed up—too covered up—for a party like this.
Nicholas buried his hand in the hair on the back of her neck, pulled her head back, and French kissed her in the most disgusting way I could imagine, especially with all those people there.
That was my chance. I’d catch him by surprise and quell my burning desire to tear his goddamn head off.
He hadn’t even bothered to see if I was okay. I could have still been stuck there, and he wouldn’t have lifted a finger for me. I was furious I’d let myself be treated that way, even more so for finding myself here in this madhouse thanks to him, so I walked across the kitchen, grabbed his arm to turn him around, and, shocking evenmyself, instead of slapping him as I’d planned, I punched him in the jaw, nearly breaking one or more of my knuckles. It was worth it, though, and he deserved it.
He was briefly disconcerted, as if he didn’t understand what had happened, who I was, or why I’d hit him. But that just lasted a few seconds, and then his face changed, his posture changed, and I found myself pinned where I was standing.
Everyone gathered around us. It was silent as a grave. All eyes were on us.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked, so furious I feared for my life.
If looks could kill, I was already dead, boxed up, and buried.
“You’re surprised I could walk here?” I asked, trying not to be intimidated by his stance, his height, and those terrifying muscles. “You’re a piece of shit, you know that?”
A dry, measured laugh erupted from his esophagus.
“Noah, you have no idea what you’re getting into.” He took a step forward, and I could feel the heat radiating off his body. “At home, you may be my stepsister, but outside those four walls,” he continued, so soft only I could hear it, “this is my world, and I won’t put up with any of your bullshit.”
I didn’t let him intimidate me. There was no way I’d ever allow him to see how much his words and his behavior scared me. I’d lived a life of violence. I wasn’t going to put up with it anymore.
“Fuck you,” I said, and turned around, ready to get out of there. A hand grabbed my arm and pulled, not letting me take another step.
“Let me go,” I ordered him, turning around so he could see I was serious.
He smiled and looked at everyone gawking and then back at me.
“Who’d you come here with?” he asked.
I gulped. No way I was answering.
“Who brought you here?” he screamed so loud I flinched. That was the last straw.
“Let me go, you son of a…” I started howling, but it was pointless. He was holding onto me so tight it hurt.
Then someone else spoke up.
“I know who it was,” said a fat guy with not a free inch of skin left for more tattoos. “Zack Rogers showed up with her.”
“Bring him to me.”
My stepbrother was acting like a delinquent, and I was really getting scared. I regretted hitting him, not because he didn’t deserve it but because I was afraid I’d provoked the devil himself.
Two minutes later, Zack appeared in the kitchen, and the circle opened to let him through. He looked at me as if I’d betrayed him.
