Page 151 of Making Choices

Although they have their backs to us as they man the barbeque, I feel Cub and Hunter stiffen with shock. Across the table from me, Isaiah grimaces, then he flicks his attention from Everett to me. In his expression, I read the same worry that fuels me. If my middle brother keeps ignoring his need for physical rehabilitation, he’s going to regret it.

Eventually the damage will be permanent.

Irreversible.

“Fuck you, Anna… I’m not a prospect anymore so you can get down off your damn high horse.” His gaze flashes with malice and, for a second, it reminds me so much of Zeke when he gets into a rage that my lungs seize. The similarities in them, their identical inability to admit that they mightn’t have made the right choices, is confronting. It’s also maddening. As is their propensity to hit me with low blows whenever they’re called out. “Even if I was, you’re no longer the VP’s old lady… that means you hold no fuckin’ sway over me or my decisions. Maybe you should sort out your own shit before you start tryna dictate to me… did you ever think about that?”

“Ev…” Trailing off when I can’t find the words to explain to my brother that I’m only looking out for him, I swing around to head back inside. I walk face first into a man mountain, rebounding off him so hard that it’s only sheer luck and his quick reflexes that stop me from falling on my backside. “Sorry… I’m sorry. So sorry.”

As Slash peers down at me, I know that he’s aware that my apology doesn’t just relate to colliding with him. My remorse is for a week ago, too. We crossed a line that can never be uncrossed, and it’s obvious that he either regrets it or he’s angry that I can’t reciprocate to the level he wants.

Maybe a bit of both?

The fingers circling my upper arms tighten and he pulls me into him, then he exhales sharply and sidesteps me so quickly that I stumble forward.

“Don’t ever talk to your sister like that again.” Slash points a thick finger in Everett’s face. My brother rolls his eyes. “She’s worried about you. We all are… and if that pisses you off, that’s on you.”

Heart pounding as he defends me, I stare at Slash’s back and silently pray for him to turn around and look at me. He doesn’t. Instead, he stomps over to the barbeque and pushes in between Cub and Hunter. Snatching the tongs from Cub, he attacks the sizzling steaks like they’ve personally offended him.

I take a step in his direction.

“Cherub,” Isaiah cautions in a barely audible tone. “Leave him.”

The two younger men manning the grill glance over their shoulders at me with censure in their expressions. Hunter’s face is especially harsh. His ice-blue gaze warns me not to engage with his big brother. Cub is slightly less judgmental, but not by much.

They’ve never looked at me like this.

Do they know what happened between us?

I press the heels of my hands to the cuts I’ve made to the top of my thighs over the past week. My relapse after Zeke told me to move on and Slash stopped talking to me fills me with shame, yet I can’t manage to stop myself from giving in whenever the urge hits. As dark thoughts whip me into a maelstrom of guilt, I rake my fingernails over the soft material of my leggings until the lightly scabbed wounds reopen. As the black cotton dampens with my blood, the sting steadies me enough to hug my arms around my middle and dash inside to get away from their silent condemnation.

Once I’m in the kitchen with the other women, I busy myself. I drink cup after cup of coffee, even though the taste makes me queasy. Joke with my friends. Allow Crystal to fuss over me. Every time I stop moving, or the conversation lulls, the urge to dart upstairs to drag a razor over my skin threatens to overwhelm me. Again and again, I push away the never-ending loneliness that surges in me, pretending all the while to enjoy my friends brief and impromptu visit. They seem to buy my act, laughing at my quips and promising me that the embroidery I had Ziva glue onto Serena’s graduation mortar board as a dick-inspired prank is going to be hard to beat.

Pun intended.

Of course, Nadia doesn’t swallow my ruse as readily.

She shoots me troubled looks all afternoon. As I find myself frozen out by the club brothers for the first time in my life, through our leisurely late lunch where I pick at my food, as we dress up for an evening of fun, while we’re out at a dinner that I don’t eat either, and even on the dance floor at the club—for hours, she worries about me.

I keep waiting for her to broach the subject, yet she doesn’t.

Then I talk her into getting high with me, and her concern is forgotten.

We run amok.

I enjoy the reprieve.

Until I sober up and the sad state of my life smacks me in the face once more.

The razor beckons.

And I give in to it yet again.

33

SLASH

Five weeks later

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