Cracked Kingdom

  I jog down the halls trying to look for him, but come up empty. I slow to a halt near a sign that says “Men’s Locker Room.” I press my ear against the door and hear a squeak of sneaker against tile.

  Taking a deep breath, I knock. “Sebastian? It’s Hartley Wright. Can I talk to you for a minute? I want to apologize.”

  There are a few more squeaks as someone walks closer to the door.

  “Thank you,” I say, and then let out a small scream when the door whips open and I see Kyle Hudson instead of Sebastian Royal.

  “You owe me an apology, too,” Kyle snarls.

  I jump back. “Why do I owe you one?”

  “Because you exist, you stupid bitch.”

  Man, I’m getting tired of being called a bitch. First Sebastian and now Kyle? And to think, a few minutes ago I was defending him to Felicity.

  I could fire back an insult, but what’s the point? He’d only call me a bitch again which, as I just said, I’m tired of. So I turn my back and walk away.

  Or try to.

  A meaty hand with fingers as thick as hotdogs lands on my shoulder and whips me against the lockers. I land with a hard thud that momentarily leaves me breathless.

  “You’re free game now, you know. The Royals stick together, so Easton Royal is going to kick you to the curb.” Kyle approaches menacingly.

  I look around for something to rip off the walls and bash over his big head. “You bring your dick near me and I’m going to cut it off.”

  He shoves me again. “Like I’d stick my Johnson in your dirty pussy. Forget it. But here’s a little preview of what life’s going to be like for you until graduation day.”

  I don’t see his fist coming. It’s something I never expected. I thought he’d try to maul me, stick his tongue down my throat. I thought he’d flip my skirt up and I had my knee ready to go. I never in a million years thought he’d hit me.

  The punch—powered by the anger of a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound boy who’s feeling humiliated and impotent—strikes me right in the gut. I fold over, the contents of my lunch flying out of my mouth. The blow takes my breath away and drops me to my knees. I gasp for air.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see a loafer rear back. He’s going to kick, my mind screams a warning. I curl up into a defensive ball and try to roll out of the way. I don’t make it in time and the hard toe of his shoe strikes my side. Through a haze of tears and pain, I try to figure out how to get out of this. Where’s a safe place? A classroom? Is there a classroom nearby? Come on, Hart! Get up, I scream to myself.

  It hurts to move, though. I hear laughter and then a shuffling sound and then more voices that are abruptly cut off.

  “What the fuck is going on here?” Easton’s bellow practically shakes the halls.

  Above me, Kyle stutters, “H-h-hey Easton. This bitch tripped and fell. Probably wanted to suck my dick but I told her no thanks.”

  There’s a blur of motion that I can’t make out, followed by two bodies crashing to the floor next to me. I hear the sickening sound of flesh hitting flesh. I croak out something, like “stop” or “help” or “no.” No one pays a lick of attention to me. I struggle to my feet, using the locker handles to pull myself upright. I cradle an arm across my side, wondering whether my intestines will fall out if I let go.

  The sound of the fight attracts attention. Students gather at the end of the hall.

  “A hundred on Royal.”

  “No one’s taking your bet.”

  “How about a hundred on Hudson lasting five minutes.”

  “Okay, that one I’ll consider.”

  “What’s going here? Stop! Move aside.” A squat, heavy-set man wearing plaid pushes his way to the front of the crowd.

  Easton’s on top doing his level best to drive Kyle into the floor. The boy is motionless on the ground. His face is covered in blood, as is Easton’s fist. A real worry grips me that Easton’s done some kind of irreparable harm to this boy. Kids have been put into prison for assaulting other students.

  Ignoring the pain, I scramble over and grab his arm as he pulls back to hit Kyle again.

  “Easton,” I moan. “Please.”

  He drops his arm and looks at me. What he sees must be shocking, because a terrible expression transforms his face. He bares his teeth. “I’m going to kill him,” he says.

  “No! I don’t care about him, but I need you with me.” The idea of my sun being taken from me is too awful to contemplate. I’d rather endure a thousand kicks to the stomach than for that to happen.

  “Mr. Royal. Enough of this. One more punch and I’m suspending you. I don’t care how much your father has donated to this school.”

  “Easton,” I beg. “Please.”

  His stiff arm bends a tiny amount. I press my mouth to his elbow and whisper my plea against his skin. “Let’s just go. You paid him back. I promise. You paid him back.”

  “Fuck. All right.” He curls his arm, bringing my head to his shoulder. He bends his head and rests his cheek against my hair. “I’m stopping for now, but I swear to you that if he touches you again, he will be picking his testicles out of his teeth until graduation.”

  “Fair exchange,” I say, but I doubt Kyle will be back.

  Easton plants another tender peck on my forehead before getting to his feet. “How’s the stomach?” He bends over to inspect me, pulling up my shirt.

  I fight to keep it down since we have an audience of about fifty students staring excitedly in our direction. “I’ve felt better.”

  “I want to take you to the hospital.”

  “No, really, I’m okay.”

  “Mr. Royal, you need to step into my office right now.”

  Easton barely looks the man’s way. “I’m taking Hartley to the hospital to check to see if she has any internal bleeding. If she died because you kept her from care, it’d probably be a big ass lawsuit.”

  The administrator’s already thin lips flatten into a non-existent line. “Fine, but first thing in the morning, I expect all three of you there.”

  “Sure thing.” Easton has no intention of keeping that appointment, and as for me, I’d rather be expelled.

  We get into a small tiff over whether I’m going to the hospital—which I refuse—and whether he carries me out of the school—which I also refuse.

  “It’s embarrassing,” I tell him as I bury my face in his chest.

  “This is some heroic shit I’m doing. It’s not embarrassing,” he states.

  “You’re not the one being carried down a hall while a couple hundred students are watching.” There’s one student, in particular, whose gaze I don’t want to meet again. The malicious satisfaction on Sebastian Royal’s face as Easton was lifting me into his arms isn’t a sight I’m going to forget soon.

  “Nah, everyone’s in their classrooms.”

  “I can hear them. No one is in their classrooms.” There’s been a steady buzz of noise from the moment East picked me up. “You’re a bad liar.”

  “They will be. Ella, can you get the door?” There’s a clink of metal against metal as the front doors are pushed open. “Thanks. I’ll see you at home.”

  “Are we still on for tonight?” Ella asks anxiously.

  I have enough energy to give her a thumbs-up, but East has to raise my hand high enough over his shoulder for her to see it.

  “Toss me your keys, little sis. You can grab a ride home with Sawyer.”

  Somehow he manages to catch them without dropping me.

  “You could have opted for the hospital. I would’ve let you walk then,” he rumbles as he makes his way toward Ella’s convertible.

  “No, you wouldn’t.”

  “You’re right. I wouldn’t. I promise that if I get beaten to a pulp by someone two times my size, you can carry me around as much as you want.” He bends his knees and somehow manages to open the passenger’s door without dropping me. He slides me inside and buckles me in, pressing another sweet kiss to my forehead.

  “I ca
n’t believe the headmaster just let you walk out.” I stare over my shoulder at the front of the school.

  “Beringer knows my dad is like an ATM. We Royals get in trouble and our good ol’ headmaster’s buying a new Beemer. It all works out in the end.”

  He’s so matter-of-fact about this and I don’t really care, so I drop it and turn my attention toward an important issue. “We’re going to the apartment, right?”

  He pauses before closing the door. “I thought I’d take you home.”

  How do I explain, in a nice way, that I think his brother might smother me with a pillow? “I’d feel better at the apartment. It’s cozier there.”

  His brows furrow in suspicion, but my not-so-fake moan of pain convinces him to agree. “Apartment it is.”

  No matter how hard I try, I can’t keep Sebastian’s face out of my head. He hates me. I don’t know if it’s because of the accident or because of what happened after the accident, but it’s the ugly truth. That causes me so much more pain than Kyle’s fist in my stomach. I can heal from the punch. I can heal from the kick. I can get over a nasty word from Felicity’s mouth.

  I don’t know that I’ll get over losing Easton. I’m not ready for my world to be dark again.

  But what are my options? I can’t separate East from his family. They’re a unit. A puzzle that only looks right when all the pieces are slotted into place together.

  “You’re thinking about something so hard that it’s going to slow the car down. What is it?”

  I could lie to him. That’d be easy. Or maybe that’s the coward’s way out. That way I can always say to myself that Easton didn’t fight for me. That way I can be the victim. Which is bullshit. I hate being the victim. If my memory loss gave me a new chance at life, then I shouldn’t color my future with lies and self-pity.

  “Your brother doesn’t like me much.”

  “So you saw him?”

  I roll my head toward East. “You, too?”

  He clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Hard not to. Look, Seb’s a few days out of waking up from a coma. He probably shouldn’t even be at school. The boy’s as weak as a kitten. A hard wind is going to take him down. All of that combined with Lauren breaking it off is making him feel down. Give him time to come around.”

  I could do that. I could also fall deeper in love with Easton—so deep that it’d feel like a part of me was torn away when we broke up. Or I could run now in self-preservation. That’s the opposite of being a victim. Running away is the smartest option to take when faced with danger. I’m sure I read that somewhere.

  “I can’t remember events, but I remember feelings. There was a strange unfamiliarity whenever I was with Kyle. Felicity invoked fear. So did my dad. When I thought of you, I always got this warm glow. When I try to press into the endless black box that I think my past is locked into, there’s this deadness. Like I’m standing in the middle of the desert and there’s no one around and there hasn’t been anyone around forever. I yell as hard as I can for as long as I can until I have no breath, but there’s no response. There’s not even an echo. The sound’s swallowed up. That’s loneliness, and when I think hard about the past, that’s what I remember. I don’t want that for you.”

  “What about you? What do you want for you?”

  God, why is he asking me such hard questions? “What I want for you and what I want for me don’t seem compatible at this point.”

  “So is your answer for us to break up?” His voice is even, almost unconcerned. His hands are loose around the wheel and his shoulders show no signs of tension. Whereas I’m as tight as a knot.

  “I don’t know what the answer is. Maybe we wait. We wait until Sebastian comes around.”

  “He has a brain injury. That’s why he’s fucked up. I read about it the other night. It’s actually super common for people with brain trauma to turn out to be angry bastards for no reason. He may never come around. What then?”

  I don’t answer him, because like I told him before, I don’t have an answer. At least not one that I’m willing to say out loud.

  Chapter 31

  Easton

  “I can’t believe the principal just let us walk out like that,” Hart says as I pull up next to the curb in Ella’s tiny car.

  “Headmaster Beringer’s spineless. My dad’s bought him off a ton of times. Last time was when Ella slammed Jordan Carrington around at school. Jordan deserved it. She and her friends cut a girl’s hair, stripped her naked, and taped her to the side of the main building.”

  Her jaw falls open. “What?”

  “Astor Park used to be a madhouse.”

  “Used to be?”

  “Sure. We’re using flags on flagpoles now instead of people taped to the wall. That’s progress. Hold on. I’ll come get you.” I hop out and round the car’s front to get to Hartley. Kyle’s punches have literally taken the wind out of her sails, because she’s still struggling to get out of the car when I reach her.

  “Come on, babe. Let me help you.”

  She sits back on the seat with a sigh of frustration. “I’m still going to the park tonight.”

  “We’ll see,” I say noncommittally. The girl’s as weak as a kitten. I don’t see her going anywhere but the bathroom. There’s no point in arguing much about it on the street, though.

  I slide my arms under her body and lift her into the air. She doesn’t weigh much. I don’t think she’s eating like she should.

  “Can you get the food?” I nod toward the paper bag full of soup and grilled cheese that we stopped to get on the way here.

  She reaches out, wincing at the effort.

  “I can walk,” she asserts feebly.

  “We already had this fight at school.” I grip her closer and climb the stairs. I have to lower her to ground when I reach the top to unlock the door. Despite her repeated assurances that she’s fine, she keeps a hand at my waist for balance. I don’t point it out to her.

  Once the door is open, I pick her up again and carry her into the apartment, not letting her go again until I reach the sofa.

  I pause before setting her down. “Do you need to use the bathroom?”

  “I would rather Felicity tape me to the side of Astor Park than to have you carry me to the bathroom,” she declares, the flinty look in her eye telling me she’s not kidding.

  “Okay.” I leave her on the sofa and fetch our dinner. “I should’ve put the coffee table together.” I gesture toward one of the flat-packed boxes that’s supposed to turn into a wood and glass table.

  “Nah, the floor’s good for me.” She slides off the cushions.

  I watch her carefully for signs of pain, but she doesn’t show any signs of distress. Her appetite is good, too. She gobbles up her grilled cheese, practically drinks her soup, and then leans back against the sofa, enjoying an after dinner Diet Coke and a couple of leftover soup crackers.

  There’s something satisfying about feeding someone you care about. Watching her eat so happily is filling me up in ways that food can’t touch. I trace my eyes over the small bridge of her nose, her straight eyebrows, her full, round cheeks. I never had a type before. I liked all the girls—the rich, prissy ones; the sassy, sexy ones; the round, happy ones. As long as they wanted to get down, I was there with them.

  But now, if I close my eyes and conjure up my ideal girl, it’s Hart’s face that pops to mind. She might not be perfect for anyone else, but it doesn’t matter because she’s perfect for me.

  “Do I have something on my face?” she asks, touching her cheek.

  “No. I like looking at it.”

  She ducks her head in embarrassment. “Stop it.”

  “No.”

  “Seriously, you’re making me uncomfortable.”

  “Nah. You’re embarrassed but you don’t need to be. You’re beautiful.” I stretch out on an elbow and drink the other Coke.

  “Did you pour vodka into your can?” she asks suspiciously. “Because you’re talking like you’re drunk.”

/>   I slosh the liquid around in my can. Remarkably, I haven’t felt the urge to drink lately. Too much shit has been going down. “No, but even if I was, they say that drunks only speak the truth.”

  She scrunches her nose adorably. “Is that really a saying?”

  “It is now. Easton Royal declares it so.”

  She throws a pillow at my head. I bat it aside and lunge toward her. She screams and tries to dodge me, but I’m too fast. I catch her up in my arms and bury my face in her neck, inhaling her sweet scent. She’s warm and soft and right.

  What do I need alcohol for? I’ve got the best drug right here. I capture her mouth, sweeping my tongue inside. My world spins at the taste of her. Her fingers dance around my shoulders unsure of whether she can touch me. When they finally land, the rope that she unknowingly snuck around my heart tightens even further.

  Shit, I love this girl. And because I love her, I draw back. She needs to rest, not be mauled by me. I draw my finger over her forehead and down her soft cheek. “I’m going to put the bed together,” I say huskily.

  She nods, blinking like a baby owl. I force myself upright and walk over to the mattress and the frame that I abandoned because I didn’t have the right tools. I need a bolt tightener, which my little pink set didn’t come with. I kick the metal frame to the side and pull the mattress down to the floor.

  “Have you ever done this before?” she asks, curling up on her side.

  I avoid looking at her because the temptation to climb all over her is way too great. Instead, I root through the bags, looking for the sheet set I bought with the help of one of the store clerks. “No, but how hard can it be?”

  Five minutes later, I’ve worked up a big sweat, taken off my dress shirt, and still not succeeded in getting the damn sheet to stay put. But at least my mind is off my dick for the moment.

  “How does this even work?” I ask in disgust, holding up a large piece of fabric that Hart told me was a fitted sheet—in between her sniggers of laughter.

  “I’m torn between wanting to help you and enjoying the show,” she teases, but gets to her feet and takes the bedding out of my hand.