Heston’s eyes follow mine, carefully assessing the crowd, before flicking back to mine. “Get your ass on the course, and you better fucking win.”
“And if I refuse to?”
He shrugs easily. “Then I guess I’ll have no money to support my lifestyle and I’ll have to move back home with Mommy.”
That’s the thing about Heston. He can’t take me. More than once, Emory has asked, “Why don’t you just kick the shit out of him and get it over with?” I could. Heston doesn’t fight with fists. Too unseemly for him. He fights like this—through others. He takes apart everything you care about and destroys it, bit by bit.
Yeah, I could kick his ass.
And then what?
He knows just how to get me to cooperate. For years, our mother has been my Achilles heel and he fucking knows it. But this time there’s something else at stake—someone else—and I just promised her I wasn’t racing tonight. I’ve only just barely been given a glimpse at earning Sugar’s trust and now Heston wants me to blow it? I run my hand through my hair and curse my life and the fucking rock and hard place I’ve been thrust into.
“Bass! I’ve been looking all over for you.”
I look up at the sky and wonder if I really am cursed.
“Hey, uh, Sydney,” I reply, “this really isn’t a great time—”
“Oh, you’re Heston, right?” she says innocently, like she doesn’t know him. Everyone knows Heston. He used to run the school with the previous set of Devils. He looks down at Syd, eyes zeroed right in on her cleavage. It’s January and cold as balls out here, but Sydney still has managed to show as much skin as possible. My brother looks like he wants to bury his face in her tits to warm up. Jesus Christ.
“Have we met?” he asks, offering his hand while still obviously ogling her. I swear to god, she pushes them out further.
“I doubt it,” I interject. “Sydney is a junior. You know, not even eighteen yet.”
“But not illegal,” he replies with a wolfish grin. “You go to Preston?” She nods. “How have we never met before?”
“Because sophomores weren’t on your radar when you went to school with us.”
He looks at me, eyes narrowed, trying to figure out what Sydney means to me. The answer is ‘jack shit’, but just because I’m not into her doesn’t mean I think she should be thrown to Lucifer himself. But, unfortunately for Sydney, I’ve expressed the slightest defense. Heston won’t be satisfied until he defiles something he thinks I want.
“Sydney,” he says in a slow drawl, eyes raking down her body, “my brother and I need to work out a few things before he races tonight, but if you’ll go wait over there, we can watch together.”
Her eyes brighten and she nods. “Yeah! I’ll be waiting.” She gives me a glance. “Good luck, Bass.”
“You too, Syd,” I mutter, knowing this won’t end well.
She walks off, ass swishing back and forth. I look back at my brother and he’s still watching her go. “Damn,” he says, licking his bottom lip, “where have you been hiding that one?”
“I’m not hiding anything. Sydney is… well, a
friend at best, but not even that. And you should stay away from her. She’s a shit-stirrer. Nothing but trouble.”
His eyes hold mine, like he’s trying to discern if I’m holding back on him—downplaying my relationship with her. “You know I have a thing for trouble.”
“Well that’s it, Bro. Capital T. Your funeral.” I glance over at the car. “Seriously, I don’t think Jasmine is in the right condition to race tonight.”
“Well, you better get her in the right condition, because the bets are locked in and I’m not losing all my money because you pussied out.” He leans forward, face set into a hard scowl. “I told you the conditions. I need the money. If I don’t get it, I move back home. Your choice.”
There’s always a third choice, scratching like a tiger in the back of my head, willing me to bury my fist in this fucker’s face. But even setting our mom aside, this fucking concussion has me vulnerable now. It wouldn’t take much from him. One calculated hit could cause more damage to my already-pressing head injury and end my lacrosse season, or worse. Also, I think, eyes darting over to where Sugar is photographing some graffiti on the side of the building, I’ll lose her for sure and I can’t do that. Not now. Not when it’s barely started.
“You know what?” I hiss, shoving a finger into his chest. “Fine. But you can’t ask me to do something like this last minute again. I fucking mean it.”
He doesn’t respond, just grins widely, smugly, knowing he’s won—again. He strolls off, making a beeline for Sydney. It takes everything in me not to chase him down and pummel the life out of him. Instead, I get in the car and crank the engine, backing it out of the circle and driving it around the corner of the building. I get back out, slamming the door and popping the trunk for my tool kit. I’ve got about twenty minutes to do some last-minute tweaks on the engine.
“Fuck!” I shout, scraping my knuckle on the hood latch. I wish he couldn’t get to me like this, but he does. Every fucking time. My chest gets tight, blood pumping through my veins like lava, nerves firing so rapidly that it makes it hard to even uncurl my fists. My teeth ache with how hard I’m gnashing them and my head throbs with the pressure of it all, vision tunneling.
Unthinkingly, I pick up the tool bag and hurl it across the parking lot, scattering tools with an echoing clang. “Fuck! Fuck! Motherfucking fuck!”