Dirty Wicked Prince (Court Legacy 1)

Maybe Maywood Heights wasn’t as dangerous as I thought.

Chapter Two

Sloane

The drive back home didn’t take long despite the fact my brother and I lived out in the boonies. Trailer parks most definitely used to be the norm for us, so pulling my father’s busted Chevelle up to gates that required a key code entry was different, to say the least.

I tapped in the code I had written on the back of my hand, still trying to not be freaked out by that. Wrought-iron gates opened to me like I was royalty, and I simply shook my head, taking the paved path up to the garage. When the sun was up, a wide overlook of the city could be seen from my brother’s and my new house. We were stationed up on a hill and literally lived out in the middle of nowhere. I hadn’t complained because what was there to complain about?

We lived like royalty.

The house on the hill sparkled, all glass walls and modern like something out of a design catalog. The home was all hard angles and polished uppitiness, definitely not my style or Bru’s. In this case, we hadn’t had a choice. This was our digs.

This was home.

I kept trying to associate that term with myself, home and this town, but I kept having a hell of a time. I’d lived in several “homes” over the years, never having stayed at any of them longer than it took the time to unpack. My brother and I were always on the move, so there hadn’t been a point.

My hand worked the steering wheel as I advanced toward the garage. It was motion-activated to my ride, so I hadn’t even had to touch anything before pulling in.

That was another mind fuck I had to push out of my mind, and I got myself and my groceries out of the car. The new digs definitely had all the modern amenities, but what it hadn’t had was actual food that two teenagers could eat without gagging. The fridge had been stocked with nothing but cardboard and health food when we’d arrived, and I supposed I’d have to have a talk with our guardian about it.

Then again, I obviously took care of things tonight, and I found my brother right where I left him.

“You get the milk?” he asked from his place on the couch, a flat screen about the size of the wall sat in front of him. My brother, Bruno, was playing a game system that hadn’t even been released yet, video games included, and I’d been given an entire room for my art stuff. Really, it was completely over the top, but again, I hadn’t complained. It would be both ungrateful and rude to the person who’d provided it.

I tossed my seventeen-year-old brother the half gallon I got him, cookies too, and he caught both with an ease like he actually played sports. He’d always been built to do such things. He’d just never had the opportunity. My father stressed relying on books and school to get us by.

He had stressed.

Like a savage, Bru ripped off the lid of the milk, then proceeded to down the half gallon right in front of me. We looked absolutely nothing alike. My brother couldn’t hold a tan for anything, and I was naturally golden. Besides our heights being similar (crazy since I was a chick), I couldn’t pass for this kid’s sister any more than he could pass for my brother. My hair was even darker than his chestnut brown.

And I had manners.

“Use a fucking cup,” I growled, heading to the kitchen. I dropped the bags of groceries off, then managed to find a drinking glass amongst the many pearl white cabinets. Those cabinets had been filled as well, crystal dishes Bru would make sure to take out with his butterfingers. I returned with the glass, but by then, he’d already drunk the thing down to half. I sneered. “You’re a pig.”

“And you took forever.” He had a milk mustache when he brought the carton away. He wiped his upper lip clean. “Weren’t you just going down the street?”

“Just down the street” was like five miles from our house on the hill. I knocked his head forward, and he didn’t fight because he knew, despite being slightly bigger than me, I could handle my own. I had in the past. I shrugged. “Ran into a little trouble. Took me a second to get back.”

That was putting it lightly considering I had to stop a near assault, and when I plopped on the sofa lounge, the look of concern on my kid brother’s face was evident.

“What kind?” He put down his controller and everything. Apparently, this conversation was legit serious. The controller hadn’t left his hands since he started playing two days ago. “You weren’t fighting, were you?”

Despite what my brother may think, I didn’t fight just to fucking fight. I fought when people messed with me, completely different. I rolled my eyes. “I wasn’t fighting. But I did have to stop an assault.”

“What the fuck?”

“Wasn’t me. Relax.” I tossed a pillow at him. “Some woman was running and this tool thought he could handle her.” I reached for one of his cookies. “I used dad’s bat. Took care of it.”

Leaning back, I popped my leg up on the couch arm. Despite my reassurances, though, my brother didn’t seem any more at ease.

He worked the controller in his hands. “Okay. Well, I’m glad you’re okay,” he said lounging back. He shrugged before playing his game again. “But maybe we should call Callum.”

“Call him about what?” Callum was our guardian, a family friend that got us this place. He was a businessman, and Bru and I had never met him before circumstances occurred to bring him into our life. Circumstances surrounding our father.

We hadn’t even known he had a will.

But our dad had, which I supposed matched his paranoia. He had always seemed to be on all the time, anxious. He’d had a hard time keeping a job because of it, and we’d moved so many places. He had struggled a lot with his mental health before he’d died over the summer.