Malum: Part 1 (The Elite King's Club 4)

Nate steps up to me, his body pressing into mine. “Get your fucking ass into that section and stay there, Tillie.”

I’m so frustrated by him that I’m left speechless. I turn around, ready to listen and go and sit down because I’m fucking tired, but instead I take a sharp left turn and run straight for the door.

“Tillie!” I hear Nate yell, but I ignore him.

Kicking off my heels, I pick them up and start running down the partially empty street, passing the long line of awaiting party-goers. I keep running, annoyed, drunk and feeling a little fucking lost with my life.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Why is everything such a mess and why did I have to have sex with him, like way way back? God, I’m fucking drunk. My running slows as I reach the main street that leads deeper into town. There’re crowds of people now, with the flashing lights and the bright billboards. I swipe the tears off my cheeks. I hate feeling like this. I can’t offer my daughter anything, and I know that in the back of my head, I need to sort out my shit. But while I’m around Nate, I can’t think straight. So. Drunk. He’s constantly playing games with me, games that I don’t mind playing and games that they all play, but right now, I need a nap. Yes, yes I need a nap. And water. And to never drink again. Goddamn Madison. I dip into a small pizza place that looks like it could probably do with a health check, and order spinach and chicken. I’m sitting waiting for my order when my phone starts vibrating against the mustard yellow tabletop for the one-hundredth time since I bolted from the club. It hasn’t stopped ringing, with multiple texts coming through. I don’t want to check the messages just in case I decide to reply.

“Tip?” the pizza boy calls out my name, holding my receipt. I take the box and thank him, tossing an actual tip into the jar before making my way back onto the busy street. I see a taxi at the curb and quickly pull open the door, sliding into the backseat. The pizza box is hot against my thighs, but I don’t care. It reminds me that I can feel, I’m awake and in the now. I am not dead in a gutter. Alcohol is bad. Ba-aa-ad.

I blurt off my—well, Nate’s address and the taxi pulls away. My phone starts in my hands again and I see Pidge flash across the screen.

I answer instantly, completely forgetting that I left him behind. “I’m so sorry, Pidge, I just can’t be there right now.”

“It’s okay, I totally get it. I’m heading home now, I think Ash is angry with me for being out for so long and Nate rushed out straight after you. The dude has a major chip on his shoulder.”

Not sure I like this girl already, but I keep my very drunk thoughts to myself. “Well, I will eat that chip as a snack.” He laughs. I continue around a bite of pizza. “Thanks for coming. Don’t be a stranger and come see Micaela when she’s awake.”

“Oh, I plan to. Hey, Tillie?”

Tillie, not Tip. “Yeah?”

“Don’t forgive him. Don’t take him back. Ever.”

I sigh, massaging my temples and somewhat confused as to why he feels so passionately about Nate. “Sure, Pidge. Sure thing.” I hang up, a little miffed at Ridge’s comment. It was always Tip and Pidge. Our names swapped around just for us to use, but now I’m angry at him. I know Nate is fucked in the head, deranged, a smart ass, hot-headed, and a little possessive at times, but I—I stop my thoughts. I will not go there right now. Pidge is right, not that I’d ever have to make that decision, but he’s right. I could never take him back.

Tillie

After paying for the cab, I take out another slice of pizza, moaning around each bite. Somehow, I manage to balance the box with one hand and my heels and clutch in the other. I’m walking to the side of the main house toward the pool house when my phone starts vibrating again.

“Fuck off,” I mumble, without looking at it.

I’m looking down at my slice while climbing the steps when I freeze.

Nate is sitting in front of my door with no shirt on and blood on his knuckles. He’s got one leg perched up with his arm hanging off it and the other resting beside his leg with his phone in his hand.

He glares at me, and God his eyes are the kind you could never erase from your brain. They penetrate every thought process and take every logical side of you and replace it with everything that is him.

“What are you doing here, Nate, and what happened to your knuckles?”