“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.”
“Because said boy is trying to get you to sneak out after dark,” Royce sneers at me. The way his mouth curls has my mind drifting to how badly I want to punch him right in the face. “I’ll give you your phone back later.”
He turns to walk away from me.
“Royce!” I snap, but he doesn’t stop. “I mean it! I’m following you everywhere today until you give me my damn phone!”
Royce spins around and licks his lips. His lips have always been distracting. Bet they’re real fucking soft. I remember last year, Jessica Rueben slept with Royce, and then she went around the whole school talking about his—ahem—skills. She cried for months when he didn’t call her back after one night.
“Oh yeah?” He’s walking backward with an annoying smirk on his mouth. The fact that my brother is painfully attractive is beside the point and not at all helpful when it comes to him and I fighting. “Then I guess you’re coming on the boat.”
“Fuck.”
He disappears into the house and I turn to watch as Orson shoots yet another three-pointer. I didn’t want to go out on the boat with them today because I did actually want to sneak out tonight and meet up with Colson.
“You know, you gotta stop playing with the boy…” Orson teases, bouncing the ball with skill between his legs. His arms come up as he flicks his wrist, shooting the ball through the chain basket. “You’re dancing with the Devil.”
“The Devil doesn’t dance.” I stick my tongue out at him before storming back toward the house. Boat parties are something that all the rich kids throw and always end in a disaster. I hate going to them. I don’t drink. I don’t sleep around with boys—I’ll blame Royce for that—and for the most part, I’d consider myself a pretty good kid.
Especially when you compare me to my best friend, Sloane.
Jogging up the marble staircase and up to the second floor, I pause outside my bedroom door. There’s my room, and then Royce’s room right beside it. Two polar opposites, but neither could truly live without the other. His door is slightly ajar, and my anger has somewhat fizzled. Fighting with Royce does that to me—a lot.
Squeezing the handle, I push on it slightly until it swings open. Royce’s room is dark, moody, and trashy. The walls are the color of freshly spilled blood with silk white trimmings and his furniture is all tarnished aged wood. His bed looks straight out of an old Victorian porno, and speaking of porno, he has a good amount on his walls.
My cheeks heat as my palms itch. “Can I please have my phone back?”
He’s leaning against the headboard of his bed, shirtless, with one foot hanging over the bed and the other pulled up to his chest, his elbow resting on it. His eyes are on mine, hooded and glazed. This is who Royce is. Cocky, brash, and oh-so-fucking aware of every single thing he brings to the table, all to just eat you. He knew exactly what he did to the opposite sex, which is exactly why he did it. I just don’t know who he thinks he is trying it with me.
“Roy?” I mumble, pleading with myself to not allow my attention to fall down his chest. It’s no big deal, I’ve seen him naked a few times—for a few reasons. One being he hardly ever wears clothes, and two, we share a bathroom. “Blueberry Yum Yum” is playing low in the background from a boom box in the corner of his room, which is typical. He has a deep love for Luda’s old music.
He tilts his head. “Do you want to sneak out with him?” His tone is menacing but laced with fascination. He moves his hand over his hard muscles, right down to the button of his jeans. He flicks open the button before standing, tossing my phone down onto his bed.
I push off the doorframe an inch, ready to pounce.
“Well go on then, Duchess.” His eyes come to mine, the soft swell of his lips curving over his freakishly straight teeth. He nudges his head, one hand sneaking into his pants. “Come get it.”
My brain short circuits. I try to reason with myself why that shouldn’t sound so dirty. Brother.
Taking two steps, I dive onto his bed until I land on my tummy, phone in hand and a smug smile of triumph on my mouth. That smile falters when suddenly his fist is in my hair as he tugs my head backward. I gulp, swallowing past the sudden tightness in my throat. He guides my head back by my hair, and I really, really hope no one walks in right now, because it would look like fifty shades of incest.
I’m peering up at Royce as he looks down at me from behind, his head still cocked. “Hmmm, now, see, I don’t want to be thinking that some little fuck has this exact view right here.” His eyes crawl down my back, landing on my ass. He stills. “That’d make me pretty mad.” He comes back to my face, his tongue slipping out to swipe over his bottom lip. “And you know how I get when I’m mad, Duchess.” His brows wriggle.
I slap his arm away and his head falls backward, a loud barking laugh spilling through the room. He clutches his tummy. “Sorry, Dutch. Won’t do that again.”
I roll off his bed. “You’re a prick, and to answer your question.” I glare at him once I’m back in the safe zone, i.e., near the door. “I wouldn’t mind him looking at me like that.” His laughter stops and the temperature in the room falls to levels that could match an igloo.
He takes one step. “Take that back.”
Now it’s my turn to wriggle my brows. “Never!”
He launches at me, but I’m too fast, spinning on my heels and screaming as I take the two steps to my bedroom door. I slip into my room, but when I try to slam the door closed, his arm snakes in, stopping it.