Page 6 of Worse Than Wicked
I’ve trained myself not to react to their touch the same way they trained me to tolerate it against my will. That doesn’t mean I enjoy it. It means I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing my discomfort. Baron likes it too much, and Duke finds it too amusing. It is fuel to both, like the gasoline we poured along Devlin’s back wall before we lit the match, watching it all go up in flame. We danced on the lawn untilthe firetrucks came, Duke spinning me around until I laughed, something that surprised us both.
He’s the only one who’s ever done that. Even Baron only engages my intellect. Duke brings me to a higher level, reminding me that my body is not simply a container for my brain, but a thing with its own sizzling sparks. Sometimes I regret that he’ll pay for his crimes just like Baron will.
Then I remind myself that he committed those crimes willingly, gleefully.
“What’s your favorite thing we’ve done so far?” Duke asks me, draining his glass.
Baron frowns at him.
Duke ignores it and refills his glass from the bottle.
“Mine was all the fucking,” he says, offering me a grin and reaching over to squeeze my knee under the table. “Oh, and eating your pussy.”
“Speaking of,” I say. “Should we get an order of caviar for Seeley?”
“Anything you want,” Baron says. “Now answer his question.”
I think it over while the white-gloved waiter brings our food and sets it before us, China plates with tiny sprigs of watercress and a pinch of tender leaves and delicately shaved vegetables curling up from the center, a drizzle of dressing spiraling outwards from it.
“You can be honest,” Duke says. “No one will overhear. Baron rented the whole room, so we don’t have to worry about being disturbed.”
He wiggles his brows and drains his glass again before picking up his salad fork. The waiter has disappeared, leaving us alone on the top floor of the restaurant, under the rafters wound with vines, the room lit only by the flickering candles in thecenter of each tablecloth. It’s simple and minimal and elegant, like the food. Like Baron.
“I liked decorating our house with you,” I say, searching for the answers that will please both men. “And I like our weekly date nights.”
“But which one was your favorite?” Duke presses. “Sailing? The Halloween party? Painting with a Twist?”
I shake my head, finishing the bite of salad before answering. “I was better at trivia night.”
“I didn’t ask what you were best at.”
“I like doing things that play to my strengths.”
“Understandable,” Baron says, and I can tell he approves of my answer, even if Duke doesn’t. I hope that later, Duke will remember that the first thing I mentioned was something we did together, just the two of us. Baron had no interest in making our house feel like home or look beautiful—like me, he likes doing what highlights his brilliance, not his weak points.
Duke eats a few bites of salad and then pushes his plate away. “We need more champagne.”
“I think we’re okay,” I say, touching his hand. “It’s dinner, Duke. Not a party.”
“I know that,” he snaps, then drags his plate back and shoves the entire last forkful of salad into his mouth, making a big show of cramming it all in at once and chewing with his mouth open like the rude boy he pretends to be. I know better, though. He grew up like me, eating meals where the presentation was more important than the food itself, where knowing which utensil to use was as essential as waiting to be excused or answering the obligatory questions guests lobbed our way, though they had no actual interest in the answers. Embarrassing our parents was not an option.
Duke makes up for it now, but I know he’s faking. That he’s the fakest of us all.
Maybe he’s the one playing both me and Baron. Or maybe he and Baron are still playing me, playing the long game, and they’ll flip a switch as quickly as they did the last time.
But they don’t know that I’m playing the long game too. That I don’t care which boy is which. It doesn’t matter. That’s why I didn’t care that, when we moved in together, they burned the same scar into Baron that Duke has. They had some excuses that made it seem like it was for us, even for me, but I know it was so that they’d be indistinguishable to me once again. That’s when I knew they were still trying to outmaneuver me, and when I decided that despite his superior ability to elicit sympathy, Duke truly is just as cruel as Baron.
“Happy now?” Duke asks, snagging my glass and downing my champagne before offering me a cheeky grin.
I don’t have a chance to answer, because the waiter is there to clear our plates and replace them with larger ones, our bite-sized entrees plated in the center of each, careful not to smear the elegant swirls of sauce that ring the very edge.
“Bring us another bottle,” Duke says, lifting the empty one.
The waiter nods and whisks it away with our salad plates.
“Are you excited to be going back to Maine?” Baron asks.
I’m touched by his attempt at small talk, obligatory as it may be.
