Page 72 of Pray for Scars
But she won’t listen.
She never does.
And it isn’t hatred I see in Maverick’s light blue eyes anymore. It isn’t loathing or even anger. It’s grief. The sickest kind of grief, because we’ve both got scars. We’ve both got wounds that don’t show. But when you’re a child of the 6, you pray for scars.
It means you fucking survived.
But the girls…they won’t.
And that’s another scar that’ll dig deeper than the rest.
He scrubs his hand over his face, takes a step toward me and I tense. But then he pulls me into a tight embrace, clapping his hand on my shoulder in that way boys are taught to do, so we don’t feeltoo much.
But then he gives in, his head on my shoulder, because we already do. We already feel too fucking much.
“Let’s go get fucked up,” he says quietly. “Tomorrow night, because tonight, we got Council.”
My father’s name for our weekly meetings. That shit makes my skin crawl.
I sigh against his shoulder. “Yes. Let’s.”
Chapter Eighteen
“J,”Brooklin says, her eyes on me. “We’re going out.”
I shake my head, bury my head in my hands, feeling the buzz of the rum in my limbs, making my body feel light. I try to muffle my laughter, but it comes out anyway and I hear Brooklin laugh, too, across from me at the small table in the kitchen setup my brother has going on at his warehouse.
They’re armed guards around the perimeters of this place, both outside and inside. Some of his men from the Order of Rain mansion, although I don’t see Trey, or the chef, or Monica, or any of the other people whose names I learned. I don’t ask about them either.
I don’t think I want to know.
I pick my head up, glance at Jeremiah, his hip holding open the black fridge, his eyes on both of us.
“No.” He turns back to the fridge, grabs a bottle of water, closes the door, unscrews the cap. He’s shirtless, with gym shorts hung low on his hips, sweat glistening on his abs. There’s a gym, here, too, because Jeremiah makes sure he takes care of theessentials.
“I didn’t ask,” I say, before Brooklin can give in. Although as I glance at her now, her big blue eyes on me, she’s got a smirk on her lips and she plays with one of her hoop earrings, twisting it in her fingers.
She arches a brow, wondering where this will go.
Jeremiah laughs, takes another drink of water. He screws the cap back on, comes swaggering over to the table, setting the bottle down. He takes a seat, rests his arms on the tabletop. “Good. Because I would’ve said the same thing.” He glares at me.“No.”
I sigh, picking up my near-empty glass of rum and Diet. “Whatever.” I don’t want to fight him, and truth be told, I don’t want to go out. I’ve felt this before, the kind of depression that makes you indifferent. Lethargic. It’s not a sadness. It’s an emptiness. I’d felt it for a long, long time that night one year ago when I planned to end all that bullshit.
Before Lucifer fucked up my life.
“No, notwhatever,” Brooklin says and I pick my head up, shocked. She turns to my brother, fold her arms over her curvy chest. She’s wearing a tight white t-shirt, skinny jeans that hit just right at her narrow waist. She looks like a supermodel.
I’m in baggy sweats and a baggy shirt because I am the furthest thing in the world from a supermodel. I mean, I’m alright, but let’s just say if I wasn’t Jeremiah’s sister, he would definitely not fuck with me.
“She needs to get out, J,” Brooklin presses as my brother stares at her, his brows furrowed. “She needs tolive.Enough with all this heavy shit.” She rolls her eyes, hops down from her chair and stands directly in front of my brother. “Let us go out. Come with us if you want, but she’s twenty-one. She needs to live, alright?”
Jeremiah frowns. “No.”
Brooklin looks like she might set fire to my brother with her gaze alone, and it thrills me a little. Seeing someone else stand up to my brother like this.
“I’m not taking that as an answer, J.” Her voice is hard, and she kind of reminds me of Mayhem now, cold and angry.
My brother laughs, spins in his chair to face her. She steps between his thighs and I avert my eyes.
