Cursing, I looked over at the clock. It was past midnight.
I took off my shoes, jumped onto the bed with her, and pulled her into my arms. She may be unconscious, but I wanted her to feel safe — secure, even if she wasn’t aware of it. Maybe it was because it made me feel better.
I held her all night, and when Tim knocked on the door early in the morning, I told him the story to stick with, ran outside, and puked.
It wasn’t minutes later when I got a phone call from Phoenix. “You did good.”
So why did it feel like I’d just sold my soul to the devil? My reflection stared back at me through the mirror in the room. How many times did a person have before they lost their soul for good? Before they turned to the other side?
I had a sinking feeling I was already there. And the one reason — the one person who could pull me from it — was going to hate me forever.
I found Phoenix in the main lobby. Without saying a word, I sat down next to him and closed my eyes.
The sound of laughter woke me out of my sleep. Phoenix stood, I followed, and soon the door to the hall burst open. Trace barreled through it, tears streaming down her cheeks. A coward would look away. A coward would avert his eyes in shame.
I was no coward.
So I met her gaze as if I knew exactly what I was doing — as if she deserved their ridicule.
She launched herself at Phoenix. He flinched as she pounded his chest, and something flashed across his face. Regret? I wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t fighting her back, almost like he wanted her to beat him to death.
Too early to deal with his masochistic tendencies, I blocked her next hit and stood in front of him. “Let it go, Trace.”
“You son of a bitch!” Tears collided with her lips. “Why would you do that to me?”
Because I was weak.
Because in the Mafia we don’t ask questions.
Because she was dangerous.
Take your pick.
“Maybe don’t drink so much next time.” Phoenix smirked.
I released Trace as guys filtered out into the lobby yelling “Whore!”
She ran out the door, and I just stood there.
The entire football team bullied her.
And I’d helped it happen.
She was crying.
And I stood there.
I deserved nothing from her — not even a smile. I deserved death, and it was about time I let go of the fantasy that I would have anything but that in my future.
“Let’s get ready for class.” Phoenix slapped me on the back. “It’s done. Nixon texted this morning and said he didn’t want to talk about it, so do us both a favor and just leave it, Chase. He’s been through enough, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I croaked. Like I wanted to relive what had just happened? Hell no. “You’re right.”
“Course I am.” Phoenix’s eyes flashed with sadness before he shook his head and smiled. “Now if only the English teacher would think the same thing. Been trying to get in her pants all week.”
And that was it.
No more talk of Trace.
No more talk of Nixon.
Just us, pretending like we were normal college students.
What a joke.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Feeding the monster
Nixon
MY CELL WENT OFF way too early for my liking. It was Mo. She’d want to know what our father had said.
Hell, if the bastard could speak it would probably be something like, “My daughter will never date a man with Campisi blood.” Or something along those lines. So when she texted me with a question mark I answered.
You have his blessing.
Which was a lie.
Because my father was currently keeping court with Satan, compliments of yours truly.
I sighed as another text alert went off.
Mo: Um, do you have any more keycards?
Me: I always have keycards. Why?
Mo: Trace isn’t comfortable eating with us anymore.
I damn-near threw the phone against the wall. Not comfortable? After having given her everything?
Me: Fine. Whatever. I’ll give her a red card if my presence pisses her off that much. It’s better that way.
Mo: The Red Cafeteria???
Me: If she eats in the commons, she’ll get poisoned.
Mo: Right. Thanks.
The door to the room opened. I’d stayed on campus last night on account that every time I’d tried to close my eyes I’d seen my dad’s face. I’d seen the betrayal, and I’d tasted blood on my lips.
“Hey…” Chase’s gaze didn’t meet mine. “…so rough night, it seems?” He popped his knuckles and collapsed onto the couch.
I tossed the phone onto the table, and it made a loud clattering noise. “Yeah, not every day a son kills his father.”
“Not every son would have the balls to do it, Nixon.” Chase looked like shit. Dark circles made his eyes look tired, and there was no spark, no life, just… death.