Page 5

Cold turkey.

Honestly, I’m not sure which was worse.

The silence settles with a heaviness that I try to ignore as the THC takes hold, dragging me further into the mattress.

But Pace’s room is never silent for long.

“Who’s a dirty bird?” There’s a long trill, and then, “Suck my balls.”

Pace sighs, long and beleaguered. “Thanks for teaching her that, fuckface.”

Laughing, I watch his bird–an overly excitable, inky mynah–pluck a key from his keyboard before running victoriously up the length of the desktop with it. She’s been eyeing that key-cap all night. He doesn’t bother to stop her from flinging it off the edge, singing out, “Who’s a dirty bird?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, pulling another key-cap from the drawer beside it and clicking it on. I don’t need to ask what she took. Effie has been taking the same key off his keyboard since he got her, back in middle school. It’s how she got her name.

F12.

The two of them are practically inseparable. I think Pace’s prison stint was harder on her than anyone else. Lex and I took care of her while Pace was away, but she never really stuck to either of us. The day he came home, she got so worked up that she bit the fuck out of anyone who tried to re-cage her.

Brightly, she sings, “Suck my balls. Suck my fuck. Wicker. Wicker. Suck.”

I cringe at the way my name sounds when she says it, the ‘r’ never quite right.

It sounds like ‘wicked’.

Huffing, Pace brings up an image on the monitor closest to her. It’s the view from the highway sky cam. “Perch somewhere and settle down, you dirty-mouthed bitch.”

She flaps a wing when she sees the monitor, giving another long trill. But never one to let the last word go, Effie gives one last, “Suck my balls.”

I crack the fuckup.

Pace’s room in the PNZ townhouse we share is a lot like mine and Lex’s with its dark, oversized furniture and a wall of built-in bookshelves. Similar trophies and awards line the wall–hockey mostly, although when Pace went to lockup, mine changed to lacrosse and Lex quit sports entirely. The ones up on Pace’s shelves are dusty, just another reminder of how different things are now. The other difference in our rooms, aside from the large bird cage, is the elaborate bank of monitors against the back wall. There are a variety of computer towers stuffed beneath the desktop, their internal fans whirring away. It’s always hot in here, and I feel it now, tugging at my collar.

Pace still hasn’t resumed his typing, hitting the vape pen again. “Good thing you waited for me. Last time we trusted you to hook up, we spent six days smoking Mr. Rosenstein's glaucoma prescription.”

I extend my middle finger. “Fuck you. Mrs. Rosenstein was really generous to give that to me, considering she didn’t get a piece of my gold-plated dick.” The woman in question was a forty-something ex-dancer. In her prime, she thought marrying a rich geezer was a fast and easy way to a fat life insurance payout. Unfortunately for her, Mr. Rosenstein became Forsyth’s longest living citizen. His decrepit ass is probably running off nothing but pure spite.

Gotta respect that.

Pace turns his head, his dark eyes narrowing. “He still making you do all that?” I know without asking exactly whichhePace is talking about.

“Only sometimes,” I answer.

Pace knows I’m lying. Healwaysknows. “I bet the Lords would pay you better,” he says, and the touch of derision in his voice isn’t meant for me, but it still makes my buzz turn sour. “South Side knows how to treat their whores.”

“Please,” I scoff, knitting my fingers behind my head. “I’m the best paid whore in Forsyth.” It’s not usually sex. Sometimes this town’s female–occasionally male–elite require an escort to public events, and honestly, who better? I’m young, athletic, well-connected, and leagues hotter than anyone else in this town. “If Father needs me to dress up every now and then to be someone’s arm candy, then that’s what I do.” I give Pace a meaningful look. “Clearly you’re not above it.”

Pace is dressed in a full tux. He grimaces without even looking away from the monitor. “Fucking dog and pony show.”

A quick glance down at my own tux brings it all back to me, and I laugh. “Oh, shit. That’s why I came in here. I need a tie.”

Right.

Shit to do.

Pace passes the vape pen back, coughing. “What, you don’t have one?”

“Not a bowtie,” I explain, taking another hit. “I lost it at the Christmas party at the country club.”