Page 71 of Rush the Edge

“Lupus!” I shout. “I have fucking Lupus, okay? It’s an autoimmune disease. The whole reason I’m in Chicago is because River met one of the best specialists during his rotations, and if I ever want to get my life back on track, then I need to be able to have readily available resources like Dr. Gibson.” I throw my hands up in frustration. “There! Now you know.”

I’m fuming by the end of my rant.

Kane’s jaw wiggles back and forth, but he remains quiet.

I’m so irritated by what he did to win our game that I refuse to sit in a car with him to head to the apartment complex, so I turn and stomp off down the hall.

“Here!” he shouts from behind.

Now what?

Is he going to throw my panties at me as a reward for telling him the truth?

I turn just in time to see his car keys flying through the air. They land at my feet, but I make no move to grab them.

“Take my car. I’m going out.”

The need to refuse almostoutweighs the exhaustion settling in my bones. But in the end, I bend down and swipe his keys off the floor. Before I leave, I see him skating out toward center ice.

He grabs my bra and shoves it in his hoodie pocket along with my panties.

I grit my teeth. I hate him.

* * *

It’s been two nights, and I haven’t heard a single peep from Kane. There have been no accidental run-ins or impromptu elevator meetings—with Kane, I mean. Malaki, who I learned is the other Blue Devil living with Kane, was waiting for me in the parking garage the night Kane had me take his car. He made up some excuse that he had just gotten home too, but after three random occasions where Malaki has shown up at the elevators, I have a feeling that Kane is having him keep tabs on me. River has been keeping an extra watchful eye on me too, thanks to Kane ratting me out for the little fainting spell I had.

Thankfully, River knows not to tell our parents. Otherwise, my mom’s phone calls would be four times a day instead of two. But I wouldn’t put it past Kane to call them too.

Screw Kane.

Screw him and his hot mouth.

I sigh at my stupidity. The clarity I have while alone should be able to keep me afloat while he’s in proximity, but everything changes the moment he’s near.

I stare at the ceiling like I’m lovesick and wonder what he’s doing.

“Ugh!” Irritation pulls me from the couch, and I head over to my plants.

“You’ll never play games with me, will you?” I ask them while running my fingers over their luscious green leaves.

I spot a little yellow spot on one of the pothos.Oh, so you do wanna play games?

I move the plant farther away from the window, wondering if it’s getting too much light. After plucking the yellowing leaves, I check the soil and give it a little more water.

“There, there,” I say jokingly.

How I became a college dropout, living with my big brother in a foreign city, talking to my plants on a Friday night is beyond me.

Talk about pathetic.

If it weren’t for getting sick, I’d still be living it up with Natalia on College Street, three shots deep and explaining the importance of photosynthesis to some frat boy who I’d forget by morning.

My phone pings with a message from across the room, and I assume it’s her. She’s probably thinking the same thing I am, though she’s actually on College Street with all of our friends.

After placing my watering can down on the counter, I brush the soil off my fingers and grab my phone.

Who is this?

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