Trouble at Brayshaw High (Brayshaw High 2)

“Come here,” I demand of Maddoc.

When I hear no movement, I open my eyes and look at him.

He lifts his chin, so I lift a brow. With a small smirk, he pushes to his feet, and slowly steps to me. Once he’s towering over my seated form, I stare up at him.

Green eyes, shining in the dark, and swimming with too many thoughts to count.

I grip the bottom of his hoodie and pull, so he bends, placing his hands on the back of the little sofa style patio seat I’m sitting on.

My chest stirs, a tightness I’m not familiar with taking over, and a heavy exhale leaves me.

His slow blink has me swallowing.

“Sit.”

“I was sitting.”

“I didn’t ask what you were doing. I said sit.” I slide my hands under his top and press along his damn tapered waist. “Sit.”

He fights me for a second, frowning down at me, but then does as I asked right as the boys step back out with new, larger drinks.

I glance at Maddoc, but he only stares, waiting for me to fill his brothers in on what I told him on the train.

I reach in the waist of my jeans and pull my knife out. I look to Royce and hold it up. His brows pull in and he nods his chin, so I toss it to him.

His eyes are slow to pull from me and move to the metal in his hands.

“Turn it over, Royce.”

He flips it over and when he does, he freezes a moment, drawing it closer to his face. He sees it, etched into the side in a classic cursive script: Family runs deeper than blood.

What I now know are the Brayshaw’s words to live and breathe by.

Royce slowly pushes right back to his feet.

“What...” He trails off.

Captain snatches it from Royce’s open palm, and his head snaps up, eyes meeting mine.

“This is your knife, the knife you’ve been carrying around here for months?”

“Yes.”

“What the fuck does this mean?” Royce asks, cutting quick glances between the three of us.

“Your dad, yesterday wasn’t the first time I’ve seen him,” I tell them. “He goaded me in there, as if I could forget his face. He knew if he threw out the words I’ve read at least a handful of times a day since the day I first heard them, that I’d remember, but I didn’t need that. I remember his face and his voice.”

“Raven...” Captain visibly pales, his head shaking slowly.

“He was one of my mom’s clients when I was younger. Came by once a week, every week, for at least a year. The day he gave me my knife was the last day I ever saw him.” I nod at Royce, hold my hands up, and he tosses it back.

“When was that?” Royce asks.

“Eleven years ago.” I lick my lips, glancing between the three.

The timeline still makes no sense as far as how long she said he’s been paying her. “She must have pulled some shit right after that last night he was over. I won’t apologize for what she did, I refuse to do that for her, but ... I am sorry you guys lost his physical presence.”

“It’s not your fault,” Royce tells me, and I shrug.

With a frown, Cap stretches back, pulling his brass knuckles from his pocket. He leans forward and hands them to me.

Made of real silver, they’re heavy. Expensive. There’s a tiny anchor, matching the one on his knuckles printed into the side and looping through each finger slot, a thin engraving: Family runs deeper than blood.

My stomach heats and I grip the item tighter.

Royce moves closer, dropping to his knees in front of me. He pulls his hoodie over his head and flips his arm over, showing me the underside of his full sleeve.

Hidden inside the intricate design the words are blended, not to be easily seen or read, hidden there, just for him.

“I have a crest at home I used to wear around my neck, but I almost lost it once. Now, no matter what, my family is with me,” Royce tells me.

Maddoc sits forward and pulls his wallet out, sliding a key from the inner folds and handing it over.

I flip it and there it is again, imprinted perfectly along the edge.

I run my fingers across it, taking a deep breath. “What’s it open?”

“Don’t know yet, maybe nothing, just a token of sorts,” he says, pausing for a moment. “We didn’t have to accept each other once we understood we came from different parents, but we are a family in every sense of the word. We chose each other.” I look up, meeting Maddoc’s eyes.

“And now we choose you,” he vows. “He chose you.”

“He only saw me at night when I was nothing but the dope head, prostitute’s kid he had to distract with ice cream and a fucking movie. He didn’t even know me, Maddoc, or the shit I did in the daylight, even at seven years old.”