Page 83 of House Rules
“You don’t know what’s true,” he snaps, eyes blazing now. “You’re just the latest girl to get in over her head.”
I flinch. He sees it.
And it bothers him.
“I liked you,” he says, softer now. “Still do. But if you want to accuse me of murder, you better have more than paranoia and a bad mood.”
His hand rises, tangling in my hair. He tilts my chin up.
“And if you’re starting a fight because you want to fuck the anger out of your system, I’ll oblige. But you’re going to have to beg.”
Something inside me turns cold. I shove him back.
“Fuck you, Maverick.”
And I storm out before the guilt or the confusion can catch up with me.
Outside,the Savannah sun punches me in the face with its heat. I didn’t even grab my purse. I just needed to move. Think. Breathe.
My heels clack against the pavement as I circle the block, trying to slow my racing thoughts.
Was I wrong? Am I paranoid? Or are they gaslighting me? What the hell am I doing?
I’m so lost in it, I don’t hear the footsteps.
Not until I’m grabbed by the hair and slammed into the alley wall behind a building. A blade presses cold against my throat.
Pedo-stash leans in, breath sour and voice like gravel.
“You’ve kept us waiting long enough, you stupid bitch.”
26
Storm
“Fuck you,”Phoenix snaps, and the door slams like a gunshot in her wake.
I blink once, then twice.
She’s pissed. At Maverick, I assume. Probably said some shit she couldn’t choke down. He has a talent for getting under skin that doesn’t even flinch for anyone else.
But it’s not the door or the anger that lingers—it’s her.
Messy hair clinging to the side of her face. Red-rimmed eyes. Lips swollen like maybe she bit them trying not to cry. And those tears… God, those fucking tears. Most people look pathetic when they cry. Weak. Desperate.
But not her.
Her pain isn't performative. She doesn’t cry for attention, or to manipulate, or because she wants someone to fix her. Phoenix cries when she’s overloaded. When the dam breaks and she can’t shove everything down anymore. And that? That’s when I finally get to see what’s real.
Not the walls. Not the silence. Not the mouthy deflections or cold little smiles.
Her.
Some people think tears are all the same. That you can’t tell the difference between pain and fear and rage once they start falling. But they’re wrong. I know the difference. I feel it. Like static under my skin. Like blood changing direction in my veins.
Phoenix isn’t afraid.
She’s furious. And hurt. And maybe a little helpless, even if she'd cut her own tongue out before admitting it.
