That’s the problem usually.
Today, I spend thirty minutes trying to find something to wear. Finally, I give up and pull on a Forsyth shirt with Killian’s number on the back. I stole it a couple years ago, from some blond sorority girl in my stats class who kept wearing it around campus. I suspect she knew it irritated me. All it took was following her into the showers one day and snatching it up. He may not be with me on campus anymore, but people still need to know he’s mine.
“I can take Tris up there with me,” Dimitri says when I walk in. His eyes are fixed to his phone, even though his hand is shoveling a fork full of sausage to his mouth. “But you’ll probably get an earful from Ms. Crane about it later.”
“About what?” I ask, stopping to pour myself a mug of coffee.
Dimitri looks up to answer, but freezes, eyes lingering on my chest. “Uh. You know, she complains when she goes more than a couple weeks without verbally abusing one of us in person.”
“Well, I can’t miss this drop,” Killian complains, tapping distractedly at his laptop. “Tristian’s dad is already pissy enough we’ve corrupted his firstborn into a life of…” His words fade off when he looks up, eyes zeroing in on my chest. “What are you wearing?”
Grimacing, I try to stretch my top. “All my shirts shrunk in the dryer,” I say, tugging at the front. “I think it’s running too hot or something.”
Dimitri makes a saluting motion with his fork. “Hey, I’m not complaining. I think you look great.”
“I look like I’m wearing a shirt designed for a twelve-year-old,” I grumble, taking my seat. “Did I hear that right before? You’re going to the Hideaway?”
“Some dickbrained John is causing problems,” Dimitri explains, slathering some butter over his toast. “Augustine requested some muscle to scare him off the premises. For good, this time.”
“Someone’s causing problems?” A knot of worry tangles in my gut. “Is Ms. Crane okay?”
Killian gives me a puzzled look. “Of course she’s okay. You know Delores. She’d handle it herself, except she’s on doctor’s orders to relax.”
Ms. Crane’s blood pressure was too high at her last doctor appointment, which is something that’s been nagging at my mind. “She needs to be careful,” I fret, and even though I know it’s futile and not what she’d want, a part of me still wishes she’d move in downstairs. “You should take this John out once and for all. She needs people who can watch over her.” Unbidden, my eyes begin swelling with unshed tears, imagining her alone and in distress. Ms. Crane doesn’t deserve such a fate. I don’t know who this John is, but I hope they kill him. Slowly.
“The fuck are you talking about?” Dimitri gawks at me. “She’s got twenty hookers up her ass twenty-four-seven. She probably couldn’t take a piss without the whole whorehouse knowing.”
“Seriously,” Killian argues, adjusting his shirt cuff. “Why do you think Auggy asked us to come?”
“Oh, I know why she asked you to come,” I darkly mutter, narrowing my eyes at Dimitri. It’s such a sudden turn of emotion from heart clenching worry to blood boiling jealousy that it makes my head spin, but I just can’t help it. “I’m sure she’ll be waiting to welcome Dimitri through the doors with an erotic dance parade.”
There’s a long stretch of tense silence, but I have a difficult time letting it penetrate. My thoughts are just so full of Ms. Crane getting hurt again. And then Augustine with her slender waist and glamorous makeup and shirts that actually fucking fit. I want to hit something, and then double over and have a really good cry about it.
This must be PMS from hell.
“I’m confused.” Dimitri’s fork clatters to the plate and he sits back, dark eyes boring into me. “Do you want us to ride in like big fucking heroes, or let them fend for themselves?”
A lump forms in my throat at his tone, and I have to clench my jaw to stop my chin from wibbling. “You don’t have to snap at me.”
His jaw drops, and he looks at Killian. “I’m not snapping! I’m just completely fucking lost!”
Killian at least notices the tears shining unshed in my eyes. He leans forward to touch my wrist, thumb stroking over my daisy tattoo, and asks, “What’s going on, little sister?”
“What’s going on,” I grind out, both wanting to take his hand in mine and fling it away, “is that I’m tired, and sore, and all of my shirts are ruined, and I wish you didn’t have to waltz into a brothel to save Ms. Crane, but you do, and that’s just something I’m allowed to be irked about.” The first tear falls, even though I’ve moved past the unexpected grief and into overwhelming frustration. I angrily swipe at my cheek. “Just forget it.”