Wrath (Sinful Secrets 4)

His pretty face is careful. "No one told me."

I drag air into my lungs, my eyes lingering on the straps of his black backpack. Fucking bastard doesn’t even have a normal backpack. I grit my teeth and wave at his car. "Go, Masters."

"Oh, so I'm Masters now?" He lifts a brow. Out here in the driveway in the morning light, I can confirm that he looks like a different person than he did a few weeks ago—bulked up, tanned, and showered, in a fitted black T-shirt and the gray shorts my mother bought him.

I give him a scoff. "You're no one."

A mean smile’s twisting my lips as I slide into the driver’s seat. I put the key in the ignition, and he moves into my line of sight. He’s standing right in front of my car—because of course he fucking is.

I crack the window just enough so he can hear me say, “You want another black eye, dickface?"

He steps toward the window. "I won't talk to you."

I'm clenching my jaw so tightly it aches. That's when I hear my mother's voice call, "Joshua?"

Through the passenger’s side window, I see her waving from the porch, and I know how this will end. Dammit.

I crack my window slightly more. "Get in the backseat, dickface."

I'm surprised when he does. He sets his backpack beside him, rolls his window down, and waves at my mom, and she waves back at the two of us like we’re the fucking Brady Bunch. A little while ago, she took a picture of us both in the kitchen, as if we're real brothers. Ezra’s got a shiner, so he told my mom and Carl that he rolled off the bed last night and hit his face on the nightstand.

"You're a fuck," I say as I pull out of the driveway.

"I know."

I'm so surprised by his agreement that my eyes fly to the rearview mirror. Ezra lifts his brows. He must be in a rush to show me what a fuck he is, because as I'm processing that exchange, I hear a click-like sound and glance back again to find him lighting up a cigarette.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

He waves the damn thing at me. "It's not lit. Yet." As I roll through the four-way stop at Broad and Franklin, he lights it. He cracks his window, and he starts to smoke his cigarette in my car.

I make it through two lights and one more stop sign before my temper surges. I swerve onto the road that leads down to the little league fields and slam my foot on the brakes at the first field.

"GET OUT."

He's got his hand out the window. For a second, I wish I could roll it up.

"You heard me. Get the fuck out of my car!"

When he doesn't move, just lifts a brow, I yank the keys from the ignition, march around to his side of the car, and throw his damn door open.

Ezra steps out slowly, like he just had the idea to get some fresh air. Like it’s a long drive, and he’s getting out to stretch his legs. I watch in dismay as he takes another drag of his cigarette, then flicks it to the ground and steps on it.

"Is this about last night?" His right hand flexes at his side. "You wanna fight it out? You get the first shot." He smirks slightly, with his bruised eye.

God, I want to hit him. I want to hit him again and again, until he’s gasping and he feels like I did last night. I want to smash his face in so he knows he can't fuck with me. So he'll stay out of my sight for the rest of the year.

"C'mon, Mills." He gestures to his cheek. "You're not gonna break it."

His eyelids look heavy, and I realize he's not sneering. He looks tired, almost desolate.

"Go on," he says quietly. "I'm ready."

In my mind, I do it. I can feel the pop of pain to my knuckles and the rush of perverse satisfaction. I can see him wobble on his long legs. Me, hitting my new stepbrother right before school.

"Fuck you, Ezra." I walk to the driver's side and get in, drumming my hand on the wheel until he gets into the backseat.

For the remainder of the ride, there's silence in the car. I crack both of the back windows to air the space out, and Ezra says nothing. Thankfully, it's only a few minutes.

Our two-story, red brick high school is set back off the road that leads down to the new ball parks, right by the bluff. There’s a nursing home across the street from Fairplay High, and behind that and across a field, the middle school.

The Fairplay High School parking lot is bustling even though we're early. It reminds me of the traffic in an anthill—all the little cars, some moving in a line but others breaking away, snatching up the better parking spots the way an ant goes for a crumb. I find a spot on the second row, reserved for seniors.