Page 108 of Dukes of Peril

“From my father.”

“He wants you to get clean?” Dusty shares a look with a few select group members–me included. “At least you’ve got that. My old man wouldn’t have cared if I died in South Side’s slimiest gutter.”

Lex gives Dusty this long, disparaging look, like he’s the dumbest man alive. “It’s not like that. Ashbys don’t do this frilly kumbaya bullshit.”

This doesn’t faze Dusty at all. “Well, as long as you’re here, you might as well get acquainted with the rules.” He spins a finger. “Everything said in this room is confidential. All the inner-frat rivalry is left at the door. Nothing in here can be used against you. Who knows? You may actually embrace our frilly kumbaya bullshit–find an unlikely ally or two.” He pauses, but it’s crickets in here.

We play nice, but nobody's walking out of here friends. There’s too much spilled blood.

Dusty shrugs it off. “Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself and how you got here?”

Lex shifts, eyes tightening. “Can someone else talk?”

“They can, but they won't.” Dusty gestures to Lex. “Not sitting in front of a King’s son who’s only here to listen.”

Lex’s eyes flash angrily. “I’m not here to gather intel. I don’t even qualify to become a Prince!” When it’s clear no one gives a damn, he makes a low, frustrated sound. “I’m taking the MCAT this spring,” he starts, jaw tense. “Between finishing my pre-med classes and studying for the exams, the schedule is kicking my ass. I started taking a little bump here and there, just for concentration. Then I needed it to stay awake–alert. I guess along the way, a few things started slipping. Not my grades, but… other stuff. Family stuff.”

Dusty watches him carefully. “And your family is important to you?”

Lex gives Dusty a stiff, grim smile. “My father has high expectations.” I’d love to throw stones, but my glass house is a massive hotel and built by a man I didn’t even know had a secret identity until he tried to kill my girl.

Shit, we’re all so fucked.

Snorting, I mutter, “I hear that,” and Lex turns to stare me down.

“Your father’s Timothy Maddox,” he says.

“Yeah,” I answer, just as aggressively.

“What does he do when you screw up?”

Shrugging, I say, “Tries to lock me away in a mental hospital.” At the resulting hush, the LDZ giving me a bizarre look, I defensively add, “It only worked once.”

Dusty cuts in, “And what does yours do, Lex?” But Lex’s mouth presses into a flat, tense line.

He doesn’t answer.

Dusty tries a different tack. “So this is new for you? Using drugs to cope?” He has this way about him, where he asks these fucking intrusive questions, but you feel compelled to answer.

“Not exactly,” Lex eventually admits, brows crouched into a low scowl. “I partied like everyone else. Typical college stuff. A little weed. Some coke. Ritalin when I needed to focus on a big exam.” My eyes follow his gaze down to his hands. His fingers are slim. Elegant. The kind best served for skilled work. Similar to my own—artists' hands. But also like my own, I see the small tremor running through them. “My dad didn’t even start caring until he had something for me to–” His words bite off, and I can practically see the gate closing, eyes going shuttered. “Whatever. Here I am.”

Dusty must sense that Lex has given everything he’s willing to part with. “Thanks for sharing, Lex. I’m sorry you had to meet us on such a shitty day, though.” His bushy eyebrows twitch as he looks over the group. “I know gossip travels fast through Forsyth, but I wanted to make sure everyone has heard about Sutton.” The majority of the room nods, although one of the Kappas noticeably stiffens while the other stares hard at the floor. “I’ve been told there’s a memorial service on Wednesday.” He gives a low, sarcastic chuckle. “Obviously, showing up for that may not be wise, but if anyone would like to say something, go ahead.”

The room is quiet enough to hear a pin drop. I’m not sure if it’s because of the harsh reality that any of us could have the same happen to us, or if no one wants to poke a viper nest. I use my thumb to smear the pencil shading on my paper and keep my mouth shut.

Dusty takes the reins, gazing thoughtfully into his cup of coffee. “I’ve gotta be honest, fellas, it’s hard watching someone lose the fight, no matter who they are.” There’s a weariness about him that makes me wonder how many members of this little sideshow have died over the course of him leading it. “Everyone here loves their war between east and west, north and south, cops and dealers. We accept the casualties, because there’s nothing we can relate to more than having a flesh-and-blood enemy to strike out against.” Dusty shakes his head. “But when the war is inside of us–when we’re the victim of our own battle–suddenly, it’s incomprehensible. Does that seem right to you?”

The resulting silence grows tense.

“Sutton was a bitch,” the Kappa says suddenly. All eyes jerk to him. A small smirk plays on his lips. “Kind of like an older sister who kept everyone in line. She liked to bake. Cookies mostly, but she also made these amazing cupcakes. She only made those for the Counts on their birthday.”

“Losing Perez fucked her up,” the other one says. His linked hands are balled into tight fists—his knuckles raw and scabbed. I watch him out of my periphery, eyes trained carefully on my sketchbook. I feel his gaze on me, though. The accusation. We took Perez from her—from them. “Shit’s dark back at the house. The old man is pretty much MIA. He even gave his dog to Lars. He’s keeping Amos at the Kappa house.”

No Perez. No Countess. No Lionel. He’s right, North Side is a fucking disaster. But the viper scratch is half the reason I’m here. Half the reason we’reallhere.

I tap the pencil eraser on the paper in a fast drumbeat, and I don’t really understand why, but I’m struck by the impulse to dig up something nice to say. “Sutton was always a, uh, fierce contender at Screw Year’s Eve wrestling match. She gave it her all.”

“Hell yeah she did,” the Kappa says, nodding a little. “She almost took the Lady down.”

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