Page 102 of A Ballad of Betrayal and Beauty

That is, until the unthinkable happens.

Walking into the barracks I’ve lived in for almost a year, I stop as a chill races down my spine. At the end of the row of bunks, where Joel and my beds are, sits Logan.

“Hey, what are you doing here? You know you were supposed to report to the mess hall ten minutes ago,” I say.

For a second he blinks stupidly at me, but then something hard crosses over his face, and with a quick look past me at the door, he sets his jaw and stands. “You’re cutting me out, aren’t you?”

I pull back, confused, before looking around for some context. “Uh, what?” I step closer and realize my trunk is open.

“Carnal Sins?” he asks, a piece of paper crunched in his hand. “Really?”

I shrug and glance down at the crude logo Joel drew during class after we thought of the name together. “Joel and I came up with it. Killer, right?”

He scoffs, his fingers tightening around it. “I can’t believe this. You and your fucking boyfriend are doing everything without me. I see the two of you together. You’re cutting me out of the band. You’re cutting me out ofCarnal Sins.” He spits out the last two words like they’re poison on his tongue.

I cross my arms. “Hardly in a position to cut anyone out of anything here,” I say with a laugh, gesturing around us. “Not like I can hold auditions for another guitarist.”

His face reddens. “You see? Yousee? That. Right fucking there, Prentiss, you asshole.” He steps toward me with his finger outstretched. “You think you’re so goddamn superior than the rest of us. But you’re just an arrogant prick who wants to take away the only thing I have going for me.”

I hold up my hands, stunned. “Dude, what the hell are you talking about?”

“The band? The songs? Everything we worked on together? You can’t just take that from me,” he says, his voice rising. “I won’t let you.”

But my head is trying to piece broken information together. “We haven’t kicked you out of the band, Logan.”

“And what about everything else?”

My eyes narrow. “What else?”

“The songs, Prentiss. The songs!” he shouts, his face turning redder and redder. “They’re mine!”

In what world does he think he has any ownership over songs thatIwrote? Then it clicks together and my eyes widen. “Wait,” I say, stepping toward him. “Wait, wait, wait. You don’t think you co-wrote those with me, do you?”

“I sure as hell do,” he spits.

I do something that I know, even in that moment, I’ll regret one day. I laugh. I laugh so hard that I clutch at my stomach, the muscles aching while he seethes in anger. “Samuels, are you out of your mind? Since when does you writing down lyrics as I dictate them to you make you a cowriter? That’s like saying you co-wroteRomeo and Julietbecause you copied a verse line by line in your notebook.”

I laugh some more, but as it dies out, I understand he’s serious. “Logan, you can’t think that’s what that was,” I insist, stepping forward again. “I mean, I appreciate you helping me get them on paper, butIwrote them. I composed them. Me. All by myself.”

The reality of what he’s suggesting starts to eat away at me, the fragile friendship we’ve had for months fraying rapidly. Was it ever real? Did he just use me? And while he wouldn’t be my pick for my best friend now that I’ve met Joel, he’s still my friend. At least, I thought he was. The betrayal stings like the prick of a hundred wasps.

“I thought you just wanted to help me,” I say, so close now I can feel his rage radiating. “You know I have problems writing. You told me it shouldn’t stop me from becoming a real musician. A real songwriter.” I push him hard in the chest. “But this whole time, you wanted them for yourself? Was everything you’ve ever said bullshit?” I push again and he stumbles, his face hardening before he strikes back and lunges for me.

We go down hard. A tangled mass of limbs and fists and boots. I try to get up but he grabs me by my belt to pull me down again. He kicks the back of my knee hard and I cry out as he gets to his feet. He steps over me, but I dummy sweep his legs out from underneath him and he falls like a sack of bricks into my open trunk.

As he tries to scramble away, I shoot to my feet and fall against the support beam in the center of the room, between the rows of beds. My leg kills, and my cheek and arms are tender to the touch as I try to catch my breath.

“What’s this?”

I roll my eyes, thinking maybe he’s trying to distract me, but when I see what he’s holding my throat tightens.

“Who the hell is Dusty Connors?”

“Give that to me,” I say, reaching for it, but he rips it away at the last second, and I know now he’s got me—I gave too much away.

His head tilts. “Is this . . .” His eyes focus on the letter and my stomach sinks.

“Give me that,” I say through gritted teeth.

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