Sicko

“Why is everyone in here?” I say, faking a smile.

“Girl, please let me take you home for a shower.” Sloane is reaching for me before I can protest, but I don’t move away from Royce. I can’t bear the thought of being away from him. Not right now—not ever. That probably makes me sound crazy, and maybe I’m somewhat—wholly—dependent on him, but is it a bad thing? Royce and I have always been a package deal. Before I can say no, I catch Dad observing Royce and I closely with a slight frown and tight lips. His narrowed eyes swing between Royce and I ominously. I’ve never had a relationship with Dad, mainly only my mom, but that was no comparison for what he shared with Royce. They have a solid relationship filled with banter and love. Something close to fear scratches its ugly nails down the spine of my back as he assesses me and the situation that I’m in. Has he always stared at me in this way? Or I’m only just noticing now because my senses are on high alert? Or is this new, since what happened last night? I still haven’t found out what actually happened and how Chambers came to stabbing Royce.

An idea pops in my head, forged there by my raging anger that someone wanted—no, tried—to kill my fucking brother last night.

I slip off the bed with new determination, grabbing Sloane’s hand and forgetting all about the way Dad was staring at me. “You’re right. We should go.” Everyone stops their chatting, and I know what they’re doing, they’re all waiting for my mental snapping point.

“Duchess,” Orson warns. “You okay?” Only Royce, Orson, and Storm call me Duchess. No one else. One time when I was ten years old, Trevor Maxwell tried to call me Duchess during PE. I punched him in the nose. That was the first and only time I ended up in the principal’s office, but not the first time that I broke someone’s nose. My brothers always protected me. It’s time for me to do the same.

“I’m fine. I need a shower. I’ll be back.” Sloane and I begin making our way to the door, but just as I reach for it, I turn my head over my shoulder one last time, my eyes resting on Royce. He’s fast asleep, his lips parted. He looks so peaceful. Someone tried to hurt him. Bad. And now, as stupid as it might sound, I want vengeance, and I know where to go first.

The first thing that I realistically should have mentioned was that my lack of popularity and friends isn’t because I don’t attract them or that no one wants to be friends with me, because history would show that that’s not the case. It’s that my brother usually scares everyone off, which admittedly, is why I have the balls to do what I’m about to do.

After taking a shower and changing into clean clothes, Sloane and I make our way down to the kitchen. I open up one of the cabinets, keys upon keys staring straight at me. I don’t have my permit yet, but I know how to drive.

I should choose one of the low-key cars. The ones that won’t stick out. So I won’t choose Dad’s Porsche, or Mom’s Tesla. There’s no point taking the Range Rover or Royce’s Ford. My fingers flex over the keys to Royce’s black 1969 Camaro.

I smirk, swiping them off the hook.

“Um, are you sure that’s a good idea?” Sloane’s blue eyes swing between me and my metal carrying fingers.

I flick them into the palm of my hand and nod. “Yes, and stop freaking out.” We make our way into the garage and I slide into the driver’s seat of Royce’s immaculate old-school ride. The leather upholstery is new, the dash polished with sweet-scented oil. It smells of freshly stitched leather, a hint of Royce’s cologne, and a breath of cigarette smoke.

My chest contracts with his smell as I close my eyes and dig the keys into the ignition, twisting it over until the deep rumble of the V8 vibrates beneath my butt.

“Listen,” Sloane murmurs, reaching for her belt and clicking it in. “I’m all for this”—she gestures up and down my body— “but I can’t lie. I’m also very scared, considering you’re fucking with Royce Kane, and I get it. You’re his little brat who can do no wrong, but I gotta say…” She whistles lowly, but before another word can come out of her mouth, I slam it into first gear and press my foot down, flooring it out of the garage with a roar of smoke and a scream of tires.

“Oh my god!” Sloane yelps, grasping at the door handle. Her laughter is infectious as we fly onto the main road, my hair whipping me across my face with the windows down. “I have to video this.”