Snatching my empty ginger ale can away, she stands to walk it over to the garbage can, pitching it in. “She played your games for weeks, you sadistic fuckwit. You can’t handle a little monkey dancing? Then maybe you should give Auggy a call. God, men are the biggest pussies. Everything we put up with from you, and you’re bellyaching about a little—” She pauses, narrowing her eyes at me. “What does she want you to do?”
“Stay sober for three days.”
On her way past, she lobs a sharp smack to the back of my head. “Get the fuck out of my kitchen.”
I clutch my head, scowling. “I’m being serious!”
The glare she levels at me isn’t anything but serious. “You want to know how to ‘wear her down’？ Here’s the secret, you flaccid sack of meat. You don’t. If you really cared about that girl, you’d try building her up for once. You think this is a game to her because that’s how you and your rich pals work. She’s not playing a game. She’s trying to find one fucking crumb of something genuine from a bunch of boys who make it their business to be anything but.” When she scoffs, looking away to mutter, “Eat my goddamn crackers and shut your mouth,” I know she’s letting it drop.
Mostly.
For the next ten minutes, I let her berate me for being soft. For not being ‘South Side’ enough. For being too big of an asshole to women. For being a pussy. For claiming that I don’t want to settle, but then bitching about having to work for what I want. For living with the likes of a Mercer and a Payne, and accepting their scraps like a stray dog. I take it like a man, because I know it’s something I need to hear. I don’t belong in their world any more than they’ve ever belonged in mine. But what Ms. Crane doesn’t understand about us is that we don’t need to. We’ll make our own world.
And I’m going to make damn sure Story is a part of it.
Even if it kills me.
6
Story
“Nine dollars an hour?”
The barista shifts his green visor, nodding. He doesn’t stop working while he talks to me. It’s the Sunday lunch hour at the local coffee joint, and if this is what it’s like during a holiday weekend, then what the hell is it going to be like when all the students are on campus? As if reading my mind, he adds, “It’s more than minimum wage.” He doesn’t sound pleased about it, either. “I can give you twenty hours a week.”
I wince at both the number of hours and the wage. The guys are being cool about me finding a job, even suggesting this place, but I doubt they want me spending too many hours away from them. Being a Lady is an obligation I agreed to—it covers my room and board. Even if I could spare the time between classes and frat duties, making less than $180 a week after taxes isn’t even close to being enough to pay my tuition. I need to face the facts here. No entry-level job is going to be.
How are people supposed to lead straight, moral, legal lives when this is the alternative?
My stomach sinks.
“The application is online,” he says, moving to the next customer. “I plan on filling the position by the end of the week.”
I give him a wan smile, saying, “Thanks,” but I already know I’m not going to apply. Turning, I freeze at the sight of Tristian and Dimitri occupying a table in the corner near the window. I was expecting them to just drop me off and go do their own thing, but instead, they’re huddled close around Tristian’s opened laptop.
When I approach, I realize why.
Killian is on the screen.
Narrowing my eyes, I take a moment to process my irritation, but slowly let the tension slip from my shoulders. They’re closer than ever now when we’re away from home. Killian has spent less time in the weight room recovering from his injury and more time scanning the area for potential threats. And sometimes I think my wanting to go out is the only thing that’s pulled Dimitri from his dark, smoky bedroom these past few weeks.
“How did it go?” Tristian asks, standing up and pulling the chair between them out for me. I notice a plastic takeaway container, but don’t blink at it. I’ve gotten used to Tristian bringing his own food wherever we go.
“Not great.” I eye my brother’s image on the monitor. From the looks of the background, he’s in a brightly lit hotel room, the bed already tidy behind him. Idly, I wonder if he woke up and made it himself, or if he just never went to sleep at all. “There are jobs around, but the pay and hours are shitty.” I slump against the back of the chair. “The only way I’m going to afford tuition is if I go work at the Velvet Hideaway.”