Page 77 of Unlocked Dive
“Poor Jericho. Have you ever had anything that wasn’t mine first?”
What?
33
Echo
Byrd’s fist comes out of nowhere. Or maybe I conjured it with my wishful warning.
“Stay. Thefuck. Away from him.”
Gabe’s head snaps to the side, and he stumbles, catching himself with a hand in the fence right before he hits the ground. The susurration of the thinning crowd washes against the periphery as my awareness tunnels, sharpens, coalescing on the sight of the berserker in the James Bond tux glowering down at my brother.
“Hi, Byrdie. Nice to see you again too.” Gabe spits blood on the concrete and pulls himself back to his feet.
Byrdie? Maybe I say it out loud because Byrd’s gaze hits mine, swimming with familiar remorse. I fucking hate that look. The look that means his doubts are winning. That he thinks hetooksomething from me that I’m too young, too demanding, toobrokento give.
But I’m scared that this time he might be right.
He ignores Gabe, who’s now dabbing at his mouth and examining the blood on his fingers with wicked delight. My heartpounds in my chest, a cavern of chaos between each lurching beat:
Euphoria—Byrd swinging at Gabe like an avenging hero from my boyhood comic book fantasies.
Calamity—Gabe’s eyes dancing between me andmyByrd with savage glee, while his voice says words like, “You didn’t tell him about us?” and “I was his first.”
Byrd finally tears his eyes from mine.
“Stop it, Gabriel,” he says, and his weary frustration torpedoes my last clinging remnants of disbelief. “How many of the people who’ve loved you have you hurt for having something you wanted?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Byrdie. You haven’t been something I wanted for a very long time.”
They know each other.
“I’m talking about Echo, you fucking piece of shit. Haven’t you already done enough damage? What could you possibly gain by hurting him more?”
“How am I hurting him now? By telling him the truth? He called you his boyfriend. Shouldn’t he already know you were my boyfriendfirst?”
Theyfuckedeach other.
Byrd’s shoulders slump, his aggressive posture fading into something helpless and defeated. He shifts his gaze back to mine, his eyes an ocean of regret, and my breath strangles in my throat.
“Yes,” he admits. “He should.”
“Did he tell you about the guy who broke his heart in college?”
Byrd lovedhimbefore he ever loved me.
He moves as if to reach for me, and I flinch back, dimly aware of Gabe’s caustic laughter beneath the roaring in my ears. My voice comes out small and pathetic.
“Why did it have to be him?”
But even as he shakes his head, the bitter symmetry clicks into place, cracking my heart in two. Why shouldn’t it be Gabe who shattered him? And here we are now, two splintered souls trying to pull each other from the wreckage, one eternally apologizing and the other…
Furious.
Not at Byrd—not yet, although sparks of it flicker in the pit of my stomach—but at the absolute asshole who thinks he can trample through his pathetic life over the hearts and dreams of anyone who offers him an ounce of care.
Two Cirque lot security guards approach. One, built like a bruiser, ushers Byrd a few yards away, arguing in low, insistent tones. The other, a woman who looks almost as young as me, murmurs nervously to Gabe about cops and charges and whether he needs to see the on-site doctor.
