Page 111 of Wilde's End
Battle lines were drawn between us early on, and I thought we were well on our way to erasing them. I guess not.
“Do you want this?” I finally ask. Because it’s occurring to me, at the worst possible time, that I need him to. If he wants me, the rest doesn’t matter. But if Wilde can’t even give me a simple word about how he’s feeling, at something deeper than his grunts and this town and the vague hints at the man he is beneath his infuriating silence, then maybe I don’t want this either.
Wilde’s eyes lock on mine and drag me into infinity.
“When I moved here,” he says, “I learned to stop wanting anything.”
I’m caught off guard by how that simple sentence sucker punches me in the chest.
That’s it, then.
I take a purposeful step backward, determined not to let him see how much that’s thrown me. “Then I guess it won’t hurt you to leave.”
Considering how easily he turns away from me and climbs out of the window, I’m right.
My hands roll over into fists as I turn and storm from the room. I thunder up the stairs, two at a time, like I’m trying to race my heartbeat, only slowing long enough to shove through Kennedy’s door.
“What thefuckis wrong with you?”
He jolts awake, blinking into the dark. “Hudson?”
“What iswrongwith you?” My voice cracks, and I hate it. “Why did you have to say anything?”
“What are you …” The sleep haze disappears as understanding kicks in. “Wilde?”
“Yes. It’s fucking over. And I hope you’re fucking happy.”
The way his gaze tracks the bruising on my chest gives him confidence. “Yeah, I am.”
His words ring in my ears. “Excuse me?”
“You deserve better.”
“It’s not your fucking choice!”
Kennedy climbs out of bed, not backing down. “You promised me there would be no more Sutton and then went and replaced him with someone just as bad.” He jabs two fingers at my chest. “He’s hurting you! He’s playing with your emotions and making you think this is a good thing, then sending you home covered in bruises. That’snotokay!”
I’m about to deny the bruises were him at all, but how do I explain the illegal fighting without mentioning the illegal fighting? “This isn’t what you think it is.”
“Oh, fuck off, Hudson. I’ve seen this same cycle so many times. I’m sick of it. How am I the only goddamn one of us that gives a shit about you? Or about Hart? We’re brothers, and you won’t talk to me about things. You find some guy and make him your whole world and ignore every fucking warning sign inexistence. I’m worried you’re going to be murdered one day, and you’re pissed off that I told Wilde you deserve to be treated right? If he can’t give you the actual basics of a good relationship, then I’m glad he broke it off.”
Even with Kennedy’s words echoing a little of the thoughts I was having, I’m too pissed off to agree with him. So much for ditching my short temper. “I’m sorry I don’t fall in love with every person I fuck. I don’t want that kind of relationship. I don’t want the same things you do. Dinner and flowers and love declarations by the third date are the worst fucking things I can think of. You’re a loser, Kenny. That’s why no one sticks around!”
Instead of getting mad, Kennedy’s expression fills with pity. “Wanting respect isn’t loser behavior. The fact you don’t know that makes me feel very, very sorry for you.”
I’m so close to punching those smug words from his smug mouth, but even as I fight that impulse, I’m fighting at the prickling behind my nose as well. Wilde can’t give me a single emotion, and Kennedy gives me too many.
Hartwell stumbles through the door. “What—and I mean this in the unkindest way possible—thefuckare you screaming about?”
Kennedy leaves it to me to answer.
“Our brother not minding his business.”
“And you couldn’t hold off being a dickhead until morning so I could get some sleep?”
Of course. Because it’s always my fault.
Fuck, maybe it is.
