Lucas : A Preston Brothers Novel (Book 1)(33)

I ask, “Is Cooper there? Is he taking care of you?”

She sighs, and I wait, not giving her a response to her question because it matters as much as my name does for New Girl. “He’s up on the deck,” she says. “Is that what it’s called? A deck? I don’t know. He’s with his friends… I don’t know them. But they’re there, and he’s there, and…”

“And so you thought you’d call me because you’re lonely and you want to at least be with someone when the clock strikes midnight?” I’m too drunk to even contemplate how that comes out, but I hear her shift as if she’s rolling around in bed, and she’s sick, sea sick, and I told Cooper that, but it didn’t matter to him because she doesn’t matter to him like she matters to me.

“It’s not like that, Luke.”

It finally occurs to me that I’m holding on to two phones and she didn’t call mine, so I ask, “Why did you call Leo’s phone?”

She shifts again. “Cooper made me block your number.”

“Made you?”

“It’s not like that,” she says again.

I should’ve been Raphael, the bad boy, the black sheep. Maybe then she would’ve forgiven me like she hands out forgiveness to that asshole. “So what’s it like then? Explain it to me.”

“He just… he sees you as a threat. That’s all. Have you been trying to get hold of me? Did you need me for something?”

“No.” I sit up, look down at my phone. 12:02 and the bastard hasn’t even checked in on her. “I just needed you, Laney, and you’re drifting, far and deep into this guy’s web.”

“I feel sick,” she murmurs, and my anger fades.

“Did you take any pills for it?”

“Yeah. They help some. But I’m here all night and—” It’s suddenly silent on her end.

“Who are you talking to?” Cooper asks, his tone as dark as the room I’m sitting in.

I sit up, alert. But the call cuts off and I stare into the darkness, promise myself I won’t call back because I don’t want to make things worse—whatever that means—and so I sit and I stew over my feelings, my hurt, until I force myself to my feet. I don’t go back to my apartment, to my party, to New Girl. Instead, I climb the stairs to Lachlan’s room and I get into his bed. “Just one minute…” I whisper.

12:48 and a text comes through on Leo’s phone: Raphael was a rebel. Some even called him a lost cause. But you’re not lost, Lucas. In fact, most days I fear you’re still the center of my universe.





Chapter Twenty-One





LUCAS





School starts again, new year, new semester, new hope.

Cooper’s back at UNC, his penalty for fornicating with underage girls now over. Small price to pay for such huge fuck-ups but that’s what money means to the Kennedys. A tool, a simple way to navigate through life in the hopes of sheltering members of their family from the harsh, bright lights of reality.



I watch from a distance as Laney steps out of her car in baggy sweatpants and an even baggier sweatshirt, and I wonder if she hasn’t managed to go home and find clothes that actually fit her or if her boyfriend has “made” her start dressing in his clothes to warn off any threats, aka me.

We hadn’t spoken since her phone call New Year’s Eve, and I didn’t even think to try. I’m blocked, from her phone and from her life, and maybe it’s like the night she came to visit me on her eighteenth birthday and we talked about our first Non-Date. I question whether we see things differently. If we always have. Last year, I dated a girl—Bethany—who made an off-handed joke about Laney being a loner because she spent her free period on her own just outside the library, knitting. I ended the relationship the next day, and when Laney asked about the breakup, I told her Bethany had bad breath and kissing her was like licking the inside of a trash can. I knew I could lie and be as crass as I wanted because I knew Laney would never repeat what I said to anyone. She’s always been a key holder to all my secrets. But now she’s dating a guy who treats me and our friendship like shit, and she makes excuses for him. “It’s not like that, Luke.” And when I asked her to convince me otherwise, she couldn’t even come up with a decent lie. And then she texted me, almost an entire hour later, with the most cryptic fucking lie of all. Bullshit, I’m the center of her fucking universe. And bullshit she put me on a pedestal, because if that’s fucking true then to her, Cooper is up in the clouds.



She doesn’t even look up at me when she walks past, her head lowered, books held close to her chest. She looks different. Her glasses, I realize. Hers are black, and these are bright purple and three years old. Her script’s changed twice since she wore those and they look odd on her now, because just like her eyesight, she’s changed, too.

And to think I was actually nervous about seeing her today. I stood in front of my mirror and planned out what I would say to her. It started off with the standard stuff. “Hi, how are you?”…“Did you have a good break?” Even though I knew how she spent her Christmas (at her house with Cooper while her dad was in Savannah with Misty’s family), I’d ask her about that, too. “How did you hold up after New Year’s Eve?” was another one. And then I’d be done with the bullshit banter and ask, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Then I’d go on a tirade about Cooper fucking Kennedy and how I don’t think he’s good enough for her and “Why the hell are you even with him, Laney?”

But no.

She didn’t see me standing here, waiting for her, wanting to expose her bullshit relationship.

She didn’t see me at all.

And when she enters the school, the door closing behind her, blocking me from her presence, it all becomes clear—maybe she never truly saw me at all.



It’s been three days and eight hours since she didn’t see me, but she’s seeing me now, stepping out of my truck and looking up at my apartment stairs where she sits, waiting for me to come home from school. How she managed to get here before me, I have no idea. Maybe she wasn’t at school. I didn’t see her, but then again, I stopped looking for her. Didn’t you hear? I’m blocked.

My phone alerts me to a text, and I pause, make her wait, and read the message.

It’s Sandy from your NYE party. My friend gave me your number. I wanted to see if you wanted to get together sometime. Maybe grab a bite to eat?

I reply: Tonight? What are you craving?

I hope it’s cock because it’s been a long time since I’ve been with Laney, and I haven’t been with anyone since. It would feel like eating a frozen meal after a gourmet steak.

She writes back: Pizza.

Fuck irony in the ass.

“Lucas?” Laney’s standing now, watching me from above, her eyes squinted because her stupid purple glasses are too weak to make her see clearly. Or maybe she’s too weak. Maybe Cooper’s fucked with her head so much she can’t even see straight.

I ask, “What are you doing here?”

“I was waiting for you,” she says. She shuffles on her feet, and I get it because I felt the same way in her room. She doesn’t know if she belongs here and the truth is, maybe she doesn’t. I don’t want her on my steps, near my house, near me. I’m blocked, remember? But by the time I make my way up each step (twelve), she’s looking at me with those eyes, and swear it, those eyes hold a secret power that can bring me to my knees. “Are you busy tonight?” she asks, and she’s looking at my phone like she knows all my secrets. She does.

I want to tell her that I have a date with a girl I fucked on New Year’s Eve, but I can’t lie to her. Not when she has those eyes. “I can cancel.”

“Feel like hanging out?” she asks. “Like old times.”

Old times is a phrase that shouldn’t exist in an eighteen year old’s vocabulary because we haven’t lived enough to have “old times.” I tell her that as I open the door, and she laughs. Her laugh to my ears is what money is to the Kennedys—a tool used to manipulate reality. I know this. I feel this. But I’m as weak as her vision, and I concede, keep the door open for her to enter.

I shoot off a text to Sandy: Something came up. Sorry.

Lane’s already in my kitchen washing the dishes piled high in the sink, like old times.



Small talk shouldn’t seem like small talk when you’re with a friend. It should just be conversation, but my mind is buzzing, trying to come up with “small talk” and there are birds outside and they’re loud, too loud, and I can’t think. She finishes the dishes, turns to me. She’s wearing clothes that actually fit her, a little too well, skinny jeans and a loose (but not baggy) sweater, and I ask, “What happened to your other glasses?”

She shrugs. “It was time for a new pair.”

Why is she lying to me? “They look like the same pair you had a few years ago.”

Her eyes widen, her cheeks redden. Deer meet headlights. “They are. I mean, the same frames, not the lenses, though.”

I press my lips tight and make a show of looking anywhere but at her because it’s awkward as fuck and seriously, small talk can blow me.