Page 46 of The Worst Kind of Promise
Bristol releases my hand with a growl, his lips wrested back from bared teeth. “What the fuck is going on here?”
KJ cups his face. “He just came up and hit me!”
“If you ever fuck with her again, I’ll take my skate and slit your throat with it,” I spit, halfway to launching myself at him again. My traps and delts stiffen, the heat from my internal rage consolidating. I want to hit him again. I don’t care if people get it on camera. What was he thinking giving drugs to someone like Faye? Someone vulnerable and impressionable and clearly not in her right mind.
KJ’s hand falls away, giving everyone a good view of his bloodied, skewed nose. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he hisses.
Bristol stands between us, vexation tugging at every corner of his expression, a six-foot-two fixture keeping me and KJ from scratching each other’s faces off like wild animals. “I don’t care what the fuck is going on. You two are teammates. If you have a problem, you come to me. Do you understand?”
KJ’s groan morphs into a nasally whine. “He start—”
“Do you understand?”
I don’t remember the last time I saw Bristol so mad. Face red, muscles wired, the vein in his forehead pulsing, looking about seconds away from throwing both our asses into the cold pool.
“Yes,” KJ accepts without protest, that faux bravado from his voice long gone. The bleeding seems to have slowed, and the colorful contusions have started to soak into his skin.
When Bristol’s eyes flash toward me, I rival his glare with my own. “You wouldn’t be saying this shit if you knew what he—”
“Langley!” Bristol barks in warning, so loud that he could probably be heard from inside the house. He’s coming to me as my captain, not my friend.
The audience we’ve collected waits for my response, and maybe some of them even jones for another brawl to break out. What are they all looking at? Don’t they have anything better to do?
My teeth are set on edge when I eventually relent. “Understood.”
With Bristol keeping both of us at bay, he commands the crowd to disperse in that authoritative tone he only uses on the ice. A few complaints linger in the air as the stubborn shamble of feet commences, the invisible spotlight overhead snuffing out, freeing me from any more scrutiny.
“We’ll talk about this later,” Bristol orders, his mouth still stuck in a sneer, a continuation of steam hissing out of his flared nostrils and ears.
I don’t have anything to say. I shouldn’t have punched KJ. Or maybe I should’ve, but I should’ve been more discreet about it. Less than a minute and drama-free, right?
KJ’s crew helps him toward the house—accompanied by Bristol—and when I turn around, I’m struck by the sight of Faye and Hayes in front of me.
Faye, with her pale face, and Hayes, with his you-better-start-talking face, both staring at me, expecting an answer I can’t give them.
Fuck me.
17
IF IT ISN’T THE CONSEQUENCES OF MY OWN ACTIONS
FAYE
“You’re grounded,” Hayes says.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“You can’t ground me in a house I don’t even live in, dickhole!”
Did I expect to be arguing with my brother while I’m high as balls? No. In fact, I was under the apparently unlikely belief that all of this would be forgotten by tomorrow. But my stupid brother had to barge into the bathroom and catch me sitting in the bathtub, fully clothed, stroking the side of it like I was Gollum protecting the Ring.
He put the pieces together pretty quickly.
I blame Kit. I knowItook the drugs, but I still blame him. He never came back, even though he promised he would. Then again, he’s said a lot of bullshit that wasn’t true these past few days. I shouldn’t be surprised. I’d punch him right now if I had coordination over my arm.
“It’s not her fault,” Kit interjects, trying to play hero.
