Sicko

Apparently, it took him forty-five minutes to talk to me, but then after that, we never stopped. Now I’m fifteen years old. You could say things have changed.

“Royce!” I yell at my frustrating brother as he circles the basketball court in our back yard, holding my phone up in the air. “Give it back to me right fucking now!”

He laughs so loud I want to shove my foot in his mouth. Royce has become increasingly annoying over the years, but I know without a shadow of a doubt that if I need anything, it would be my big brother who I would ask first.

He must have stopped mid-run because I slam into him, my face squished against his back before falling to the ground. The blue sky swims above me amidst the yellow rapture of the sun.

An arm hooks around my mid-back, bringing me safely back to my feet. “Nah uh, you don’t get to die on me yet, Duchess. You still owe me that twenty dollars.”

I push off his chest, ignoring how hard his muscles are beneath his shirt.

“Give me my phone!” I place my hand out to him with the other on my hip.

“I heard that one of these little freshmen at school wanna take my sister out on a date…” he teases, and it’s then that I hear another voice behind me.

Orson’s whistle pierces through my eardrums. “Damn, someone new to the rules? Didn’t know that you can’t take little Miss Jade Kane out on a date without going through her big brothers?” Naturally, my annoying brother also has annoying friends who also annoyingly have claimed my—so-called—annoying ass. I’m untouchable at school. It’s not helpful when you wouldn’t mind being touched.

“He’s new. I will let him down nicely,” I plead with Royce, watching as his thumb hovers over my phone. He wouldn’t actually go through my phone, but if a text happened to come through while he was holding it, then I’m almost certain he would—Ding.

Fuck.

He tilts his head. I watch in sheer horror as his eyes fly over whatever words have popped up.

He glares at me. “Who is this little fuck?”

“What’d he say?” Orson asks, running his fingers through his dark, curly hair. Orson is a six-foot-six half-Mediterranean French, half-American basketball god, and one of Royce’s best friends. I’m not actually sure how they became so close, since Orson is talented and managed to graduate from high school top of his class. Royce isn’t dumb, but he can be an idiot. Yes, there’s a difference. Orson also just got drafted into the NBA, which only adds to his ever-growing list of reasons why so many girls want him. I had a serious crush on him for the better part of my life, until I watched the girls he’d go for. All so beautiful. Way out of my league. His smooth brown skin and dark green eyes were killer, but when he flashed his pretty smile, all the girls dropped dead. He and Royce had that in common for sure, but that’s about as far as the similarities go.

“He fucking said that he wants her to sneak out,” Royce snaps, his fingers flying over my keyboard.

“Royce.” I shake my head, scolding him. “I’m fucking fifteen. It’s a lot less than what you were doing at my age and you damn well know it.”

“Beside the point.” He glares at me, his thumb hovering over the send button. “I lived through all of my shit so you didn’t have to.” He winks at me. “I’m a good brother like that.”

“Royce,” I whine, stomping the sole of my Vans against the concrete.

Orson bounces the basketball between his legs and aims up at the hoop, shooting from the three-point line.

“You guys will never stop picking on her.” Another familiar voice comes from behind me again, and I turn to face the third boy to make up the triple threat—Storm Mitchell. Royce, Orson, and Storm have all been best friends since elementary school—which means yes, I’ve known them practically all of my life. Storm Mitchell was nothing like Orson or Royce. Storm was the smartest kid in our school and had an IQ to back it. He has never had a girlfriend—though plenty wanted him—and he always, always, had his laptop near. See, Stormy was going to cure the world of all their problems one day, he just had to create the right app to do so. Storm has blond hair, gray eyes—that match angry skies—and his skin is as white as snow. His eyelashes are thick, his teeth straight. He is perfection in a strangely odd package. I loved Stormy, even if he never smiled. You get used to it after a while.

“Yes,” I say to Storm as he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. “Royce is trying to scare a boy that I already said I would turn down.”