Page 48 of Tempting Little Thief

Probably because Bastian looks like he could use the iron a solid steak would provide and I’m a different kind of rich. My meals are strategically planned, prepped, and prepared by cultural, notable chefs. Very rarely is a meal repeated unless we specifically ask, and we do. Sometimes.

It’s the same at Greyson Elite. Based on your profile, extracurriculars of choice, and yes, even field of study, your meals are managed.

“You don’t feed the body, you feed the brain,” is our nutritionist’s favorite line.

I guess barbeque doesn’t fit the bill.

I push my hair over my shoulder and his eyes follow the movement, slowly coming back to mine.

He studies me. “You hungry?”

“No.”

He nods, glancing out the window a moment before looking back, a joint suddenly in his fingertips. “Wanna get hungry?”

Do I?

I don’t know, but what I do know is I should go home.

If my dad finds out I’m here, he won’t call and warn me back to the manor.

He’ll show up with two SUVs leading and three tailing, each loaded down with armed guards. He might shoot Bastian for fun, and by fun, I mean most likely. Of course, it won’t be a lethal shot, he’d go for the foot or calf.

I think.

Either way, Bastian would leave with a hole in his body and not one he could fill with body jewelry. So, if I’m going to risk getting busted, I might as well get high first, and that’s the only reason I open my palm, waiting for him to drop the joint into it.

It’s definitely not because I want to stay here a little longer. With him.

Chapter 9

Bass

The sky’s dope out here. The smog from the city below is not quite as thick, letting a bit of the stars show themselves, shining false hope over all of us, whisperin’there’s more out there, andall you have to do is reach for it.

I’ve been reaching, stacking nonexistent rocks, and climbing invisible, never-ending ladders, and I get no closer to a single thing I want.

A better life for my sister.

A clue to where my shitty mother is.

A fucking purpose of my own.

Thing is, I’m a catch-22.

Poor as fuck but rich in brainpower. Careless but cautious.

I’m black-hearted, but that bitch still bleeds.

I don’t need or want a quiet little life. That shit ain’t for me, not after what I’ve done and what Ienjoydoing, but I can’t figure out a way around my darker needs that leads to what I want most.

My sister happy in a home where she feels safe inside.

Never once has she brought up our mother, and I can’t say for certain if she thinks of her at all, but I hope she doesn’t since there are no happy memories that would come to her mind.

I, on the other hand, think about her all the time. Every day and every single fucking night.

There will be no sense of prevailing while she’s still out there, free and clear. She might not have physically touched us, but she’s as much of a monster as our dad was, and I’mfrothing with the need for her to understand that now. I’m not a lanky, unhealthy boy afraid to speak up or act out.

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