Page 64 of Broken By Silence
“Babe,” she drawls the second she picks up, her voice still thick with sleep, “it’s eight in the morning. If this isn’t you telling me one of your rich boys finally wired me five grand, I’m hanging up.”
I almost laugh. “No, it’s not that. I just need a night. Tonight. Out. You, me, Zara. Drinks. Loud music. Pretending I’m not actively losing my mind.”
Angel perks up immediately. “Oh, bitch. Say less. You want to meet there? And are you going to dress like a slut or a slut-slut?”
“Somewhere between tragic and unapproachable,” I say, scrubbing my face. “The kind of outfit that screams ‘yes I’m hot but touch me and I’ll bite your fingers off.’”
“Done. Zara’s in?”
“I’ll text her. Heads up, though, I will have Claire tailing me since I can’t go anywhere alone right now.”
“Think we can get her to do some shots with us?” Angel asks, and I laugh.
“If anyone can, it will be you. Right, I love you, get some more sleep.”
“I love you too, bitch.”
I hang up, already lighter.
Angel’s chaotic, but she’s the kind of chaotic that makes me forget for a few hours that my life is basically one long Greek tragedy. Zara’s different—soft, steady, the only reason I’ve survived more than two semesters of marine biology without drowning myself in the lab tanks. Together, they’re my escape from the testosterone that seems to be suffocating me slowly.
Of course,Crew picks the exact moment I’m pulling myself out of bed after a nap to appear in my doorway, leaning against the frame like a menace. His hair’s a mess, his hoodie looks like it’s survived three wars, and he’s holding a chipped mug that saysWorld’s Okayest Human.
“Afternoon, baby,” he says, too chipper. His grin is crooked, infuriating, and somehow—God help me—endearing.
I narrow my eyes. “What do you want?”
“Only your eternal love and devotion,” he shoots back, then takes an obnoxiously loud sip from the mug. He smacks his lips like he’s tasting fine wine. “Also, I had an idea.”
I flop back onto my pillow, groaning. “That’s never good.”
He ignores the jab. “No, seriously. Since you’re running off to get drunk with your girl gang—Angel and Zara, right?—I thought I’d arrange a little bonding time for the boys. You know. Me, Elijah, Roman, Archer, Oscar. Just the fellas.”
I lift my head enough to squint at him. “You mean five emotionally stunted men in one room together? That’s not bonding, Crew. That’s a cage fight.”
“Exactly.” His grin widens. “Male bonding.”
I press the heel of my hand to my forehead, trying not to laugh. “Fine. Just don’t kill one another.”
“Oh, no promises,” he says cheerfully. “But if we make it through without murder charges, that’s growth, right?”
I roll my eyes, but a small smile tugs at my lips anyway.
Crew’s been patient lately—toopatient. I can feel him hovering, not in the smothering way, but in the way someone does when they’re just waiting.
Waiting for me to crack.
Waiting for me to stop pretending I’m not breaking apart.
Waiting to catch me when I finally fall.
I’m not ready for that. Not yet. Not when my chest already feels like it’s full of splinters and every day adds a few more.
By the timethe afternoon sun drags across the kitchen, there’s a knock at the door. Three identical cardboard boxes wait on the step, each one labeled.
“Special delivery,” I sing as I drag them inside, stacking them on the counter like trophies.
Elijah’s the first to appear, sleeves rolled up, dampfrom washing something in the sink. He eyes the stack with suspicion that borders on paranoia. “What did you do?”
