Page 6

“How?” He never looks away from the screen. “Or is it better I don’t know?”

I grin, blowing my vape cloud into the back of his head. “Miranda Weller is a screamer. Shoved it in her mouth to keep her quiet.”

A screamerandfucking flexible. Had her bent halfway over the back staircase to the upstairs ballroom. Of course, Miranda wasn’t who I’d come with. My job for the night was to play escort to a recently divorced ex-congresswoman. Something about making her ex jealous.

Bet it worked, too.

But what can I say? Something about having a woman on my arm–no matter her age or beauty–makes the others want me even more. Hence, my fucking Miranda over a banister.

Pace jerks his head toward the back wall. “Top drawer. I think.”

Struggling to my feet, I walk over to the dresser and open the drawer. All I see are socks, so I push them aside, revealing a stash of worn, wrinkled porn magazines. I pull one out. The date on the cover is faded but I can just barely make it out: 1968. Flipping it open, I see that it’s all bush and full, natural tits. Yeah, there’s a reason to go old school.

Pace glances over. “Hands off, pervert. Other drawer.”

I snort. “I’mthe pervert. Who keeps skin mags nowadays, anyway? Just use the internet like the rest of us, you fucking grandpa.”

“Vintage porn is better,” he mutters, only halfway paying attention. “It’s not like I was getting broadband in lockup.”

I pause, giving him a closer look. The vintage porn isn’t the only holdover from Pace’s eighteen months in prison. He’s quieter than he used to be. Deathly still. Sophomore year, he was bouncing off the goddamn walls at the prospect of getting out for a night, chasing some tail, and getting wasted. He’s been back for two months, and aside from the bullshit process of re-enrolling him into Forsyth’s comp-sci program, he’s only been out once, which was for my bout at the Duke’s Friday Night Fury.

All he does is sit behind those screens–usually in the dark–and talk to his bitch of a bird.

He hasn’t even made an effort to get any pussy.

Looking into the mirror over the dresser, I pop the stiff collar of my shirt and loop the tie around my neck. Even in the dim gloom Pace keeps his room in, my tux looks awesome. It’s the darkest of blues, only noticeable when the light hits it right.

The three of us weren’t raised in Ashby’s house until we were teenagers, but it’d been a crash course after that. Cotillion, etiquette lessons, tutors, long, boring cocktail parties followed by tedious dinners. There was a time Pace did it better than us, the superior brother.Poised, all the older ladies would say, which was doublespeak for ‘cute and facilitating’.

Now, he’s got dark circles around his eyes, the curve of his shoulders heavy and defeated.

Sighing, I begin, “Pace…”

But I’m interrupted. “Are you two ready?” Lex asks, sticking his head in the room.

“Almost.” I pull the ends of the tie, but they slip through. “Dammit.”

“You seriously haven’t figured out how to do that yet?” Glaring, Lex steps in looking like he stepped out of a catalog. A crease appears in his forehead as he looks around the dark room. “Have you considered–oh, I don’t know–turning on a fucking light so you can see it?”

“I’m working on it.” I make another attempt, but it’s as lame as the last. While I struggle, Lex stops by the bedside table and turns on a lamp, then another by the dresser.

“Hey!” Pace barks, frowning at the light. “Screen glare, motherfucker!”

“Turn around,” he tells me, ignoring our brother. When I don’t move fast enough, he grabs my shoulders and spins me toward him, always happy to manhandle anything that isn’t going his way. He picks up the limp tie and levels the ends, but pauses, tugging down my collar. “What’s this from? A girl?”

“No.” I wince when he touches my throat, the cut still raw and tender. “It’s from the job last night. He still alive?”

Lex looks unhappy about the scratch, but he prods at the edges with a clinical precision. “Yes, he’s alive. Thatismy job.”

“That’s a shame,” I reply, remembering the burning hatred in his eyes when the switchblade swiped my flesh. “That little bitch is lucky I didn’t stick him harder.”

Still caught up on the wound, Lex asks, “Did you even disinfect this? And why isn’t Effie in her cage yet? I swear to god, you two are hopeless.”

“I see you got your hair under control.” I eye the knot it’s been pulled into at the top of his head, wondering not for the first time why he doesn’t just cut it. He only ever lets it down when he’s sleeping, and it’s a bitch to tame in the mornings. Every time I bring it up, he just gestures to my own hair, which I dedicate a solid thirty minutes each day to perfecting.

Fair.

He grunts at me, then cinches the knot, yanking the edges tight.