Page 11 of Bitter Lies

Rounding the corner, I find Max standing in the kitchen with a scowl on his face, and he’s the last person I want to see—okay, second to last—but it just goes to show where my priorities lie that I’d take him over the sounds of Griffin fucking some chick.

“Hey,” he grunts.

“Hey.”

Opening the refrigerator for something to do, I pretend to look around and welcome the cool air on my heated face because I’m not technically hungry. For whatever reason, listening to someone else get banged, and good at that, is curiously hot, or maybe it was just the moaning from Griff.

Ugh.

“Did you eat today?” Max asks.

Rolling my eyes to the contents of the refrigerator, I mutter, “Yes.”

“Hmm.”

“What does that mean?”

“Whatever. I’m not in the mood for your shit, Halsey.”

“Ditto,” I say petulantly.

“You little bitch!”

Turning to skewer him with my wrath, I fall back at the look on his face, which is downright ugly, but more than that, there’s an unhealthy flush to his cheeks, and his eyes are pale and glassy.

“What’s going on?” I whisper, looking him over worriedly.

“What? Nothing.” His right eye is twitching as he avoids my gaze.

“Max? Are you okay?”

“I’m fucking fine,” he yells, slamming his fist into the drywall by my head.

Standing frozen before him, I whisper, “Okay.”

My heart is beating so loudly, I can hear it rushing through my ears, and for the first time in my life, I feel actual fear around my brother.

He stares into my eyes for a moment, his own wild, his nostrils flared before he drops his face and turns away.

“What’s going on?” Griff asks from the doorway with a lazy smile, shirtless once again. Fuck me.

We both turn to him, and my heart clenches painfully at his pleased expression before it fades, whether at the awkward tension, our grim faces, or both, I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure I’m not giving off peaceful vibes.

Stepping around Max, careful not to run my trembling limbs against him, I murmur, “Nothing.”

“What’s going on?” Griffin asks again as I walk away.

Pausing at the threshold of my room, I shudder when Max growls, “Nothing.”

He’s so angry, but why? Ignoring the familiar sting of shame because I suspect Max is angrier than I thought over my inpatient stay, I go to close the door, but Miranda, looking adorably wrinkled, stands at the threshold, and I decide I hate her viciously.

“Are you still up for the party tonight?” she asks, her eyes bright.

“Huh?”

“The party at my sorority?”

“Oh, right,” I say because the party is so far from my mind that for a minute there, I had no idea what she was talking about.

---