Page 56 of Even in the Dark

“You know what?” I flick Xave’s chest. “Never mind. I’ll text him.”

He chuckles, wringing his shirt out over the marble tiles. “You’ve got serious issues. You know that, right?”

“Says the guy who doesn't get why it's inappropriate for his five-year-old brother to be hanging out with a bunch of drunk teenagers.”

He rolls his eyes. “Christ. This again? He’s painting people’s nails—not doing shots. Letting Finn stay up and hang doesn’t mean I have issues. It means I’m a fun brother.”

“Annnnd the fact that you think letting him party with you makes you a fun brother is only further proof that your issues are so much bigger than mine.”

Xave ducks his head, shaking it slowly from side to side as he bites down on his lower lip.

“Xave.” I kick at his Vans with my heeled boot. “Seriously. Go put Finny to bed.”

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna start on me too, now?”

“Just go put him to bed… God.”

He shoves lightly at my back, corralling me towards the huge double doors. “Don’t you have a broody juvenile delinquent to check on?”

I laugh. “Kay, thanks for talking.”

He gives me a one-armed hug. “Drive safe, alright? Don’t go putting that watermelon lip crap on while you’re driving.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” He laughs, shutting the door behind me as I make my way down the ornate white stone staircase towards the parking area.

Xave’s not wrong—I do have issues. But I also have good friends, which I’m realizing makes the issues a hell of a lot easier to shoulder. And I’m pretty sure I don’t have to like everything about Dylan Braun to try and be the friend who could maybe help him shoulder his.

Chapter Twenty

Dylan

I’m not good with feelings. Understanding them. Talking about them.Experiencing them.But the feeling when you smash your fist over and over into something—that’s one I’m familiar with. Most times, seems like pain is the only feeling that fits me just right. Deflates everything else down to a level that’s more tolerable.

The feeling’s off tonight, though. Possibly because of some kind of regret that’s pulsing alongside the pain. Don’t usually feel that afterwards.

We got back from the hospital just over an hour ago. Two broken fingers—a fracture that’s seriously called a “boxer’s fracture”. Nothing broken in my foot from kicking the desk, though. Mainly used my heel, so it’s just bruised. The doc was originally gonna just use a splint on the hand, then he and Phil had a little chat in private, and next thing you know, I’m in a full freakin’ cast and swallowing meds to “smooth things out” for the next few days. “While the fingers heal.” Doping me up so I’mless likely to get riled up again and smash my fist into anything else, is what they really mean. That’s their preventative plan for at least the next few days. Which is fine. Not like I want to kick off again in front of the entire family. In front of the neighbors.

In front of Scarlett.

Can’t forget she was here too tonight, to witness me hulking out like some kind of freak side-show act. How she fessed up afterwards to her little lie, the high-and-mighty poise shocked right out of her—because she sure as hell had no idea that tiny deception would end up blowing up so spectacularly in everyone’s faces.

Still can’t figure her out. She’s… tricky. Everything Eli warned me about, pretty much. But also intriguing. Possible that’s part of the appeal she uses to lure you in, though. I don’t know what the hell to think anymore. Which is why I try as much as possible not to. I’m escaping into comics. Started re-reading the entireMoon Knightseries—the two thousand and six version. Not the first time I’ve re-read the series, and I like that it’s not. Makes it familiar. Predictable. Seems that’s something I’m desperate for these past few days. Which makes no sense. Not like anything from my life with Eli is the kind of stuff you’d want to be reminded of.

Just as I’m starting the third issue, there’s a knock on the door, which I assume is Phil doing his fifteen minute check-in.

“Yeah,” I call, my voice still raw from all the yelling earlier.

When the door opens, it isn’t Phil who steps into my room.

It’s Scarlett.

My breath catches for a second. She looks hot, dressed up from her date or party or wherever she went with her dough-head boyfriend.

My eyes narrow. “You need something?”

“No.” She sweeps her hair over her shoulder.

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