Page 10 of Casual Felonies (Wildlings #1)

RAMI

Silas joins me in the kitchen as I grab chicken breasts, artichokes, and various fixings for the grill.

“Mind if I go up with you? I can help with the prep work.”

“Sure, cuz.” I send him a smile. “But only if you bring Cupcake with you.”

Silas wasn’t initially keen on going everywhere with Cupcake.

If he were invited to join us, he’d try to leave her in his apartment, but then he would have panic attacks when she wasn’t by his side.

I think he thought it made him look weak, which is hilarious given how vicious Cupcake looks and how dangerous Sy probably is.

So, all the cousins began pretending like his service dog was the draw, gently teasing him by saying he was only allowed if he brought her with him. Cup’s technically not on duty while in our condo, but her presence is nonnegotiable.

Sy’s a smart guy and knows what we’re doing, but he seems to appreciate our roundabout support. At least that’s what I hope as he and Cup join me on the elevator ride up to the roof.

We are luckier than most in a lot of ways, but this rooftop area is probably my favorite perk of our, frankly, ridiculous wealth.

Between the infinity pool, the lush greenery, the state-of-the-art sun canopies, and the outdoor kitchen, it’s hard to stay in a bad mood up here.

Similar setups grace the building’s many terraces, but this one is all ours.

The sun is nearly gone, and the breeze is perfect.

I walk to the thick glass partition that separates me from about twenty stories of nothing and lean over to check out the Pecan Street Festival.

People are milling around the normally traffic-clogged streets, enjoying artisans’ wares and pop-up restaurants while a popular local band provides tonight’s free concert.

Another perfect Austin, Texas, evening.

Silas and I set up in the kitchen while Cup posts up on the outdoor couch. I start by filling the two big pots with water from the tap over the stove and setting them to boil before organizing everything on the counter.

“Can you butterfly the chicken breasts while I prep the artichokes?”

“Yep.”

Sy grabs my boning knife and a cutting board and gets into it.

“I really am sorry about your gala,” he says, his voice soft as he efficiently butterflies his first breast.

I let out a sigh as I pull out another cutting board and go in after the artichokes.

“I appreciate that our parents are letting all of us find our way with the giving clause, but I feel so fucking lost. Like, yeah, we made lots of money last night, but now all people are going to think about is how wasted Brant was.”

Silas’s hair flutters in the warm breeze as he cleanly slices through another chicken breast. “Maybe it’s,” he starts, gesturing at his head, “but I don’t get why you care so much about what people think. I mean, it’s not like Brantley’s stupidity reduces the spending power of the cash.”

I’m not supposed to know this, but I overheard my fathers talking about Silas’s shitty birth father and how he paid some super unethical geneticist in the early twenties to build him the perfect son.

Baba said he basically recreated Frankenstein’s monster. Uncle Eddie thought he could help, but Dad said it was like putting two aggressive betta fish in the same tank, whatever that means.

Anyway, Sy finally ended up with Dad’s cousin Erik and his husband Ant. They help run an equine therapy ranch, and he seems to find peace with the animals.

When Sy acts like there’s just something wrong with his head, I know it’s more than that, so I focus on explaining the part he doesn’t understand.

“I care for two reasons. First, and maybe this is just the arrogance speaking, but even though Brantley was the one arrested, I was embarrassed because it makes me look like I don’t know what I’m doing.

” I punctuate this by violently slicing off the artichoke tops, stems, and the first layer of leaves.

“Which I don’t, and that leads to the second thing. ”

I wipe the sweat off my brow with the back of my forearm before cutting the artichoke in half, taking out the fuzzy choke, and setting it aside. I grab the next one and process aloud.

“If I look like I don’t have the right people to manage donations in an ethical and smart manner, then the people with the cash won’t give to the organizations I represent. Which doesn’t affect my standard of living in any material way, but it very much does affect the recipients of those funds.”

Silas slices through the last of the chicken breasts, and I shake my head as I grab the grill spray. “Shit, dude. Your knife work is very fast.”

Silas pauses mid-seasoning, then sends me one of his unreadable looks. “I just really like the functionality of a good sharp knife.”

I don’t…really know what to say to that .

I mean, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have any bodies down in that basement apartment of his, but it’s exchanges like this that remind me our parents aren’t super thrilled that we include him in everything.

Which is why everyone here tonight knows to crop Silas and Cupcake out of all social media posts and parental group chat shares. The parents really, really don’t like him.

Sy goes quiet as he finishes seasoning the breasts and places them on the grill. After, he washes his hands and grabs the boning knife to join me in prepping the artichokes.

“I understand what you’re trying to say, Rahm, but it’s inaccurate to call you arrogant,” he finally says, returning to our original conversation as he starts taking down the artichokes in his disturbingly efficient manner.

“Your confidence isn’t derived from putting down or comparing yourself to others.

Sure, you don’t know much about the world outside our family, and you should definitely be way more scared than you are, but again, no one who knows our family is stupid enough to go after you. ”

I open my mouth to ask him what he means by that, but he keeps going, “Also, you got embarrassed, which I don’t associate with arrogant people. I don’t understand it, but?—”

I interrupt him. “You don’t understand embarrassment?”

He shakes his head. “Humans learn mostly by fucking shit up, so why would fucking up embarrass you?” The automatic lights buzz on as the sky darkens, and he tips his knife from side to side, watching the play of the light on polished steel.

“I do get needing to be cognizant of the opinions of those with the purse strings. That does make sense. But if you move on from Brantley and do better at the next event, they’ll move on too. ”

“Brant and I have been friends since we were kids, Sy.”

He shakes his head as he tosses the pile of artichokes into the first pot of boiling water. “Brantley’s been using you for a long time.”

“Using me? ”

Silas nods. “He tags you and your dads on his social media posts more than he does the official Texas account. When Maya got that fellowship, he started tagging her in everything too.”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

Silas blinks, his eyes finally meeting mine. “I thought you knew. I figured you were using his connections too.”

I stare out over the city, surprised he thinks of me this way.

“He’s my friend.” I scrunch my nose. Silas would never lie to me, nor would he pass along gossip. If he thinks Brant’s a bad guy, he’s almost certainly right. “ Was my friend, apparently.”

Silas has nothing to add, so he goes quiet again. It reminds me that Silas doesn’t struggle to communicate. He just doesn’t fuck with chit-chat. And while I assumed he came up here to help me with the prep, maybe he also wanted to make sure I’m okay.

This also isn’t the first time he’s pointed out a blind spot.

I check the chicken breasts as I ponder his words. It occurs to me that Sy’s bringing me the information on Brantley in the same way cats bring their humans a dead mouse. Because cats aren’t convinced humans can fend for themselves.

“I guess I seem pretty ridiculous to you.”

Sy shakes his head as he pulls a few more ingredients from the wagon. “You’re just na?ve. And the only thing ridiculous about being na?ve is choosing to stay that way.”

I give the chicken breasts a few more minutes while the artichokes finish boiling. Sy mixes the lemon-garlic aioli.

“Guess I’ve got a long way to go to not be na?ve.”

“Yeah.”

Fucking Sy.

He sets the bowl of aioli in the fridge and shuts the door. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

He appears to be talking to the refrigerator, but I know he’s not. He’s never been great at eye contact and avoids it like the plague when he’s in unfamiliar waters, mostly because he’s not sure if it’s something a “normal” person would already know.

I happen to think normal is overrated and have always—hopefully—made him feel comfortable coming to me with these types of questions.

“Of course,” I say as the concert drummer slams out a familiar rhythm.

“Did it hurt your feelings when Oakley said he gave Valentine a hand job at Mardi Gras?”

I shake my head as I place the cutting boards in the sink and start scrubbing them with hot, soapy water.

“It doesn’t hurt my feelings because it happened a long time ago, and Oakley didn’t know I was interested.” I rinse off the boards and dry them, appreciating the cool breeze accompanying the darker skies. “Was it my favorite new fact? Not particularly, no.”

“If Valentine asked, would you still want to be with him, even after what he and Oak did?”

I wipe down the knives, considering where his question is coming from.

“What he and Oak did wouldn’t be part of my calculation.”

“Why not?”

Still facing away from him, I slip my knives back into their case, then pour the fresh tortellini into the second pot of boiling water.

“People are allowed to have a sexual history, Sy. And besides, it was just a hand job.”

Though…I wouldn’t call what Truett did to me “just a hand job.”

“Maybe I don’t understand things like ‘just a hand job,’” Sy says, echoing my thoughts. He grabs a hand towel and takes the pot full of boiling artichokes off the stove. “I tend to obsess.”

Understatement. Silas had a girlfriend in high school who moved to New York after they graduated to pursue her acting career. He didn’t take that well. Nor did he enjoy the Star Trek original series reboot, especially the actor they cast as Spock. I believe he’s still sending letters to the studio.

Then again, I might be guilty of a minor obsession myself.

“I kinda know what you mean.”

He tosses the boiled artichokes with olive oil, salt, and pepper. He places them all cut side down on the grill while I flip the breasts.

After another moment of silence, I admit, “Don’t tell anyone, but we did cross a few lines. Me and Truett.”

Sy turns his face before meeting my eyes—one of his moves that makes it impossible for him to pass as normal.

“Is that why he kicked you out? Because you crossed lines?”

I shake my head, then switch my answer to the so-so gesture. “Maybe? He told me to find another barber after I basically begged him to let me…you know.”

Confusion tightens Sy’s brows. “Why would you beg?”

“I was desperate and feeling low. I thought it’d make me feel better to be with him.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. And now the whole thing is messing with my head. Like, why can’t he still do my hair?”

“Isn’t he a one-night-stand guy?”

“Exactly.” I throw up my hands. “Why wouldn’t we be able to go back to being barber and client?”

“Can’t you just ask him?”

“Let’s just say that the way he told me to leave left no room for ambiguity or follow-up questions. He said no, so that’s that. And now it’s just going to humiliate me every time I think about it until the day I die.”

I am so dramatic.

Sy grimaces, then hands me the big pan. “I hate it when I know I’m missing something. It sits like a splinter under my skin until I know the truth. ”

“Same,” I say, prepping the creamy spinach sauce for the chicken.

He moves on to the counter, silently wiping down the already clean surface.

After a moment, he gives me a sideways glance.

“They say a crush is just a lack of information. You could always dig into his online footprint, or if you were feeling adventurous, you could follow him. It might help you figure out what he’s all about.

That’s usually enough to kill a crush stone dead.

” He looks down, then lifts a shoulder. “Usually.”

Huh. I grab the colander and strain the tortellini in the big sink while wondering if Silas has a new crush.

Just as I realize I’ve let the silence stretch on for too long, Sy grimaces. “Sorry. That’s probably one of those consent things.”

Refocusing, I answer, “Yeah, buddy. It is.”

I mean, is it the worst idea in the world? Not… No. I won’t be doing that.

I add the tortellini and the crème fraiche to the wilted spinach while Sy checks the chicken. He grabs a clean cutting board and the chef’s knife from my roll, carefully setting them on the counter.

“I don’t know if you want to hear this,” he says to the cutting board, “but I think I know at least one reason Valentine doesn’t feel he can continue a professional relationship with you.”

Silas learned the hard way that most folks don’t react well to his blunt observations, and it impresses me that he’s trying to give me an out. Then again, I was raised by Anders Bash.

“I can handle it, Sy. Whaddya got?”

He doesn’t answer right away and instead transfers the perfectly grilled chicken onto the cutting board before returning to the counter.

I stand next to him, but I know better than to rush him.

“It’s your naivete that scares your barber,” he finally says, still talking to the cutting board. “Also, you should wait a few more minutes before slicing these up.”

I need a second to make the connection from the start of our conversation to now. I stare at the side of Silas’s head as he pushes the cutting board toward me, then whistles for Cupcake as he angles toward the elevator.

“Wait! What am I most na?ve about? What’s my biggest blind spot?”

Silas and Cup stop in front of the elevator doors. As if coming to a conclusion, he looks at me over his shoulder.

“Maybe you should start with your dads.”