Page 28 of Broken Ties
Taking another sip of my drink, I lean toward him with a smirk, enjoying the way his lip twitches into a curl at me. He’s itching to hit me, to lash out and beat me, but it wouldn’t do a fucking thing to me. Worse, he’d probably injure himself trying. I chuckle at him, letting the smirk on my face flay his ego alive before I put the final nail in his coffin.
“I’m Atlas Bassinger and you’re fucking nothing. Don’t ever forget it, Peter.”
My feet are almostsilent on the stone steps that lead down to the tree-lined road, my Hermes loafers uncomfortable in every way, but I suppose all that money wasted on a brand name only really buys status and discretion. Glancing around, there are clusters of attendees littering the area and the acrid stench of cigarette smoke washes over me. If only I'd taken up that vice. Maybe then I’d have something to distract me from the frustrated fury threatening to consume me.
Blowing out a breath, I already know it’s pointless to mope. Nothing could block the grinning faces of the evil men taunting me from my mind. The doors behind me open again and achorus of laughter and jeering breaks through the sounds of traffic, a reminder that those men are all still waiting for me with their violent agenda back in that ballroom.
My phone buzzes, breaking me out of my brooding, and I'm reminded that the best distraction—the exact reason I’m holding myself back in the first place—has been tucked safely in my pocket all along. Like a lifeline thrown out to sea, Oleander Fallows reels me back from drowning with ease.
The other Gifted are far enough away that I’m not in danger of revealing anything by accident, but maybe paranoia is a Bassinger trait as well, because their distance isn’t enough. I’m too exposed on the falsely idyllic street like this, the lights strung up on the branches giving the whole place a romantic atmosphere while the mood in the air tastes like mass murder. Skirting along the side of the building, I curl in on myself until I’m hidden in the small stone alcove before I pull my phone out. A grin bursts across my lips before I can stop it, and I’m glad I got myself out of sight before I checked the messages waiting for me there.
I’m a fool; in love with my Bond, desperate for every scrap of her attention.
The girl at the coffee cart clearly hates me. She messed up my order again, and I want to cry that I wasted my last free coffee card on this bitter cup of bullshit she handed me.
I mean, it’s not that hard to get right.
Okay, fine, my order is ridiculous, but if she’s a trained professional, it shouldn’t be so hard to make a venti shaken quad espresso with five pumps of brown sugar syrup, two pumps strawberry syrup, dash of heavy cream, with caramel drizzle and extra whipped topping, should it?
I’m being an asshole right now, aren’t I? The poor girl is probably just doing her best and I’m losing my shit over a freebie card.
Distract me, Bassinger. Shit’s about to get rough around here.
Maybe I am just as bad as my father, because despite hating that she’s suffering, I’m filled with a perverse satisfaction that despite having four other Bonds to turn to, she continued to text me her observations and ramblings despite my unintentional absence.
I know the Dravens are filthy rich, but what are the rest of the Bonds doing for cash? I’m one more shitty Econ class away from dropping out and mooching off of them. Tell me one of them is decent and loaded, I need to figure out which one to befriend.
The little dots of her replying appear almost instantly. I have no intention of befriending any of them, but I quickly learned my Bond relaxes into conversation best when given the opportunity to snark. There’s also nothing I enjoy more than hearing how little she regards the rest of the Bond Group, especially given the fact that they’re with her and I’m stuck on the other side of the country.
I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than take anything from any of them, but if you’re fine selling your ass to them for an easy life, then who am I to judge? Who knows, you might actually get along with them.
“Atlas, what are you doing out here like this? You’re going to get us both killed.”
My heart stops dead in my chest, an old reaction of a son who craves his mother's approval and not just being startled by her sudden appearance. Thinner than she has been in years, she’s taken on a waif-like and ghoulish look that’s aging her. The jut of her shoulder bones through her thick wool coat makes me feel sick. My father's preference must be for women in a state of starvation because Rachel is the same way, has been for as long as I can remember.
Maybe he just likes easier access to their bones, to feel them break under the skin more keenly; maybe he likes the sound of them snapping.
My gut churns again.
She raises an eyebrow, unhappy with my silence, and when I slip my phone back into my pocket, her gaze follows the action knowingly. Her lip curls but the moment she opens her mouth, I cut her off.
“What exactly is so dangerous about standing outside, Mom? It’s cold, sure, but Father was meticulous in his planning, as usual.”
That draws her gaze away from my pocket and over to the lines of security that surround us. The building they chose to hold the Gala in is one of the oldest in the city. Built by the non-Gifted, it's one they govern their people in and it holds significance to them that’s easy to spot in the meticulous way they’ve maintained it. The landscaping is thoughtful but fussy, hedges to prune and flowers that require a lot of tending to in order to thrive, yet it’s immaculate. As a people, the non-Gifted care for this place, but that only makes it a target too tempting for the Resistance.
My father enjoys nothing more than spitting all over their history and their customs, so despite there being an impressive number of non-Gifted law enforcers, they’re held in check by the Shields who surround us. It’s a ridiculous show of force, unnecessary and arrogant, but if that isn’t the Bassinger way, I don’t know what is.
My father doesn’t ask for permission.
He takes whatever the fuck he wants.
“Your father has been asking after you all evening. I've spent half the night convincing him and the rest of the council that you’re just going through a second surly teenage phase and there’s nothing for them to be worried about.”
I huff out a breath. “I’m avoiding them because they all make me fucking sick. If you want your little secrets to be kept safe, then you need to figure out how to keep them away from me.”
Tipping her head back, she looks up at the sky as though the shield-distorted inky-blue will be able to solve this nightmare riddle for her. It's not going to give her shit and we both know it. I don't even know how many times I stared up at the same light-polluted sky and begged for a different life; for my father to change, for her to leave him, and, finally, for an answer about why my Bond left me behind. Only one of those requests were resolved, and I’ll never forgive my mother for playing her part in it all.
Finally, she squeezes her eyes shut as she murmurs to me, “Everything I've done has been for you, Atlas. Every decision I've made, every death covered up, every active violence I facilitated, all of it was for you.”