Page 70 of Wilde's End
“What do you mean?”
He lightens his voice like that might somehow make what he’s going to say easier. “I’m fucking powerless. I see them hurting all the time, making the same mistakes all the time, and I can’t do anything about it. It’s … exhausting. And if I’m that fucking useless, then—” He bites off his words like maybe he went too far. “I used to have a problem. In high school. I made a bit of a name for myself at parties as being able to get … stuff.”
Stuff. I stiffen where I’m sitting, the lightness to the conversation pulling tight in an instant. Too quickly, this feeling of dread washes over me, and whatever he says next, I can’t take in.
“One thing led to another, and it wasn’t good. It felt like the more I could get my hands on, the more people liked me, and then when they got whatever they were after, they disappeared too. Anyway, usual sob story: I started partying too hard, moving from one high to the next and?—”
“Leave.”
Hudson’s head snaps my way, all fake lightness gone as confusion kicks in. “What?”
“I don’t know what the fuck you thought you were doing by coming here—” I’m struggling to keep my voice level. “—but you need to fucking go.Now.”
“I’mtryingto … to … connect with you. To make you understand that I’m not here to purposely ruin your life. That I?—”
I shoot forward in my chair so fast I’m not even aware of moving. “I don’t fucking care! I don’t want to know you or who you were or any of this shit. Now, get the hell out of my house!”
Hudson’s gaping, blinking at me like he’s not sure what’s happening, and I’m honestly not sure myself. My heart is thudding, face building with emotion that’s trying to force its way out of my eyes. Every little scar on my arms and chest and back feels like they’re trying to burn through my skin, and as he glares at me and I glare at him, it feels like all the oxygen around us is growing thin.
His shock melts like a snowflake in spring, and he whispers, “I never want to go back to that. So no. I’m not leaving Wilde’s End. Just wanted you to understand.”
And I know I should say something, but the rippling hurt I keep locked away in my chest is threatening to make itselfknown. I keep my jaw clamped shut, my hands in fists on the armrests of the small chair.
Hudson stands, and there’s emotion trying to beg its way out of his eyes as well, but all we can do is glare at each other until he leaves.
I hear the engine long after it’s stopped echoing through the trees.
Then the scent comes back to me. Oil and fuel and blood. Fresh rain. Pain everywhere.
I swallow thickly before his name can slip past my lips, and so it fills my head instead.
Kyran …
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
HUDSON
Irefuse to cry. I’m used to assholes. I’m used to being ignored, to being brushed aside and my feelings minimized. Sutton would do it all the time. Listen to me rant about something, then sigh and ask if I was done yet. Kennedy says I can’t let that anger take over me, and Hart says it’s pointless to even worry about it.
So I’ve gotten used to not talking at all.
It figures that the one time I’d try again, I’d get … that.
If Wilde had been dismissive, I probably could have handled it better, but that sudden, explosive anger knocked the carefully restrained box of zero fucks over, and I’m struggling to wrangle them again. It’s like he’s unleashed a beehive in my chest, and I can’t calm it down.
This shaken feeling probably isn’t normal, but I’m long past caring.
Hart still has the car, so I can’t even take off in that, and I have no clue where Kennedy is, but it’s better this way. I don’twant to talk. I don’t want to think. I just want to …breaksomething.
I guess it’s a good thing we have a lot to break.
I grab the sledgehammer from our cart of tools and head for the nearest shop. It’s almost completely destroyed inside, either from vandals, age, or the multiple water leaks that have found their way inside. My anger is burning hot as I kick the busted-up door in, and then I ignore the wailing squeaks of the boards as I reach the service counter and lift the sledgehammer back over my shoulder.
Unlike when Wilde was giving our house love taps, I don’t hold back. I swing and swing, moving from the counter to the walls to the door that leads into a back room. I’m panting, sweat pooling on my back, broken fingers burning, and shoulders aching with the effort that I have no plans to stop.
None of this is fucking fair.
