Footsteps shuffle into the room, and I don’t have to guess. It’s Landon. I couldn’t mistake him for anyone else when my lungs are filled with his delicious smell.
Other footsteps follow. “You haven’t been around.”
A feminine voice.
And it’s not Ava’s, Cecily’s, or his sister Glyn’s. I’ve heard all their voices and they don’t sound snotty like this one.
“Didn’t feel the need to be around,” Landon replies in his signature sarcastic, bored voice.
“You can’t do this. We agreed about our next hit.”
I notice that I’ve been balling my hands into fists ever since I heard the girl’s voice and slowly release them.
I need to be calm. After all, this is my chance to do what I came here for—spy on the asshole.
“Our next what?”
“We agreed we’d slash their tires this weekend.”
“We did?”
“Yes! Everyone is waiting for their orders. We need to sit down and plan this thoroughly.”
“Ever heard of free will, Nila? It’s a curious, liberating feeling that you should engage in sometime.”
“Don’t even think about pushing me to the sidelines again, Lan. You don’t want to cross me.”
“Already have, countless times, including when you were begging for it on your knees.”
My face heats and my fists ball again until my nails dig into my palms.
“Is that what you want?” Her words come out as a purr. “Me on my knees?”
“Not particularity, but if you’re in the mood to bow down to me, by all means. Don’t let me stop you.”
My foot falls back and I slip behind the open door and onto the balcony. My steps are silent and careful despite the red-hot fire that blows through me.
I have to leave, because if I stay, I’ll definitely jump in the middle of the room and punch them both in the face.
It’s me who I should punch. Why have I thought that I’m the only one he plays with for sport?
Of course he has side pieces like Nila to tend to his stupid kinks all day, every day.
I breathe heavily as I climb over the railing of the balcony and jump to the next one—Brandon’s.
Another factor that I forgot about in my attempts to spy on his psycho brother.
I have to make an excuse to Bran and leave, because if I see Landon again, I might accidentally kill him.
And I don’t like these strong emotions I have because of the bastard.
More importantly, I want my chest to stop aching.
18
LANDON
I’m dreadfully, exceptionally, and categorically bored out of my fucking mind.
It’s no secret that I’m prone to lose interest in all objects, people, and concepts. The world, by definition, is a dull place that’s shackled by economic and political expectations and run by societal standards. Once I perfected the art of fitting in, existence turned into splashes of black on gray.
Sometimes, the gray is more prominent and I thrive on the prospect of injecting chaos into the world’s bloodstream.
Other times, like now, black ink dots overflow from my brain cells and invade every inch of my sporadic, hazardous existence.
The party blares in full swing around me, doing a fantastic emulation of a world I don’t belong to by any stretch of the imagination. Ironically, I reign over it.
Loud music shrieks from the speakers, bathing our mansion in tacky, mindless mayhem. Students from REU jump and move to the beat like drunken ants. Despite the designer clothes and the stench of old money, they all blur into one tedious existence.
Once upon a time, when I was young and senseless, I wondered why I couldn’t be bothered to fake joy or pretend like I gave two fucks about people.
Turns out, I actually don’t, and that allows me to make use of their miserable emotions. The world would be much better with fewer people getting in touch with their feelings.
Just saying.
The members of the Elites, whose names I couldn’t be bothered to remember, sit on the sofas on either side of me or join the crowd.
We have our signature Venetian masquerade masks on, which my members use like a get-out-of-jail-free card.
Nila and her imaginary rival, Bethany, have been hanging on either of my arms, begging for my nonexistent attention.
Rory has been glaring at me from beneath his half-mask for the past hour as if I suffocated his nana with a pillow. Fact is, I merely told him that if he doesn’t stop getting high and sabotaging my work, I’ll discard him faster than a used condom.
He said he’s trying to quit, but apparently, not hard enough, judging by his bloodshot eyes. Truth is, I score high on the apathy scale and can’t be arsed about his addiction habits. I just despise wiping up after anyone’s mess.