her home.”
Lines form between her eyebrows. The idea of being alone with Chevy clearly rams a stake through her heart. But as Chevy starts for her car, because there’s no way she can hold on to him to ride his bike, Violet trails after him—swerving.
“I’ll get Eli’s truck,” Oz says. Eli’s the father of the girl Oz is dating. He’s also a board member. “Then I’ll pick Chevy up.”
I nod. Not much else to say to that. We watch as the taillights of Violet’s rusted Chevelle pull away. “We could still do it,” I say. “Beat the shit out of those guys.”
Because truth be told, there’s this slow burn that’s peeling away at my insides. The edginess is getting harder and harder to control. First the detective, Breanna’s family leaving her for dead at school, Mom on the brain, Dad’s woman at the house, and now this shit with Violet. Someone’s got to pay for something. There can’t be this much injustice in the world.
“I think one of them’s behind that Bragger account.” I’m dangling bait, praying Oz bites.
Oz gives me the once-over. “Do you have proof?”
I shove my hands into my jeans pockets and Oz shakes his head. “Then we can’t make a move. Board told us we’re frozen with the Bragger situation without proof and their approval.”
“The board can kiss my ass.”
Oz stiffens. He’s a club boy. I am, too, but I color outside the lines. The rumble of motorcycles interrupts his sure-to-be-well-thought-out lecture on how I need to conform.
Two bikes tear past, and it’s not the speed at which they are flying through our town that causes my blood pressure to rise. It’s the patch on the back of their cut. It ain’t a skull, it’s a reaper. The Riot are a long way from Louisville, and they are currently in our town.
“YOUR SISTER HAS officially joined civilization.” Addison props an elbow on Joshua’s shoulder, and because he’s taller, her arm is angled up. Joshua stares at her like he died and went to heaven. He’s sixteen and has been way too infatuated with my best friend for two months.
They look odd yet beautiful together. She’s blond-haired and fair. Like me and Liam, Joshua also has black hair and is well tanned from summer.
Joshua clutches his heart. “I’m so proud. It seems like yesterday Bre was making up stories about being around the Reign of Terror. Oh, wait, it was yesterday.”
Addison swats him on the back of the head, and when Joshua overly dramatizes his pain, she throws him a mock kiss as she walks over to me. She tosses my cell in the air. I catch it and sigh. Thomas just fixed it and, thanks to Addison, that cell was seconds away from breaking again. “How is it possible that I already have five followers?”
“I sent out an invite to everyone in your email contacts. You now have to wait and see if the rest of your contacts will actually follow.”
My stomach rolls. Great. A popularity contest and my senior year hasn’t even started yet. “I can delete the account, you know.”
“You could,” Addison responds. “But you won’t. I know you’ve wanted on Bragger but have been hesitant to do it. Consider this your push.”
“Why are we friends?”
“Because I’m pretty,” she says to me, then cocks an annoyed hip as she assesses Joshua. “That Reign of Terror stuff wasn’t bull. We were terrified.”
He eyes Addison in a way that suggests he’s thinking things involving her that seriously gross me out. “You could have called me. I would have given you a ride.”
I toss my arms out to my sides. “I asked for a ride! I texted, remember?”
“I said her, not you. Besides, Liam picked you up. FYI, I overheard Zac and Elsie conspiring to act like you don’t exist again. That should make bedtime fun.”
Pretending I don’t exist. It’s a fun game all my siblings have played on me. Liam started it when he was eight—mad we were forced to share a bike as a Christmas present. To this day, I’m not sure how he felt slighted. It was a boy bike.
“Then do me a favor,” I say. “You give them baths and get them in bed. I’ve got dishes.”
Joshua claims his keys from the hook by the door. “No can do. Mom called. She forgot her checkbook and told me to tell you to make sure they’re in bed by the time she gets home.”
“Ask Clara to get Mom.”
He grimaces. “That would mean Clara would have to stop living in a dark room feeling sorry for herself. I don’t do angst. You want her help, you ask for it.”
We both know the result of that conversation. I’m envious of Joshua, always have been. He’s an island in our family. Calm. Tranquil. Maintains his distance from everyone he’s blood-related to. Joshua learned quickly to befriend people outside of our family and he sticks closely with them—not us. And my family believes I’m the smart one.
“Have fun.” Joshua waggles his eyebrows as he opens the door. I launch a wet dishrag in his direction and Joshua dodges it by racing out. The rag hits the door frame with a wet splat.
Glass crashes in the living room. I hold my breath and a split second later Elsie’s screaming. It’s not her fake cry for attention, it’s the real one. I’m across the kitchen, slamming my hand so hard on the swinging door that it stings my palm, and breathe a sigh of relief when I don’t spot blood pouring from her head.
Mom’s last nonbroken vase is in pieces on the floor and Elsie is nursing her elbow. There’s a small trickle of blood, but no bone sticking out of the skin. The small child who was bent on ignoring me for the rest of the night holds her hands up to me. I swing her up on my hip, then scan the room for Zac.
He’s crouched on the other side of the sofa, waiting for someone to tear into him because his younger sister is hurt. Elsie sobs and sobs in my ear like someone ripped off her arm. A heaviness descends upon me and the urge is to go upstairs, crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head, but that isn’t an option. At the moment, I’m the designated parent.
“Zac.” Even I detect the exhaustion in my tone.
He stands and looks like a puppy someone hit with a rolled-up newspaper. I should ask what happened. I should tell him he has to play more carefully with our sister. I should tell him he knows better than to have that plastic sword in the living room, but I don’t. I may be the closest thing they have to a parent, but I’m only seventeen and right now seventeen-year-old me wants to run away.
“Let’s go upstairs and start baths,” I say.
With his head hanging, Zac trudges up the stairs in silence. Middle-school-demon Paul watches me with wide eyes from his spot on the couch. I very much notice the controller in his hand and the paused game on the TV. He didn’t listen to me. He didn’t take a shower. He didn’t even attempt to police our younger siblings or help Elsie when she fell.
A
