Page 13 of Distorted Obsession (The Distorted Trilogy #1)

liam

Ignoring the crowd of rubberneckers, I storm from the building and try to control my breathing.

Anger rolls off me. I can’t believe I did that. My father would have my head if he knew what I just did. My mother and sister would be equally as pissed. Mason, though, with as angry as he still is about everything, he’d understand.

She’s her.

How can she be her?

Sighing, I try to reconcile the two truths. Eva Pierce is the daughter of the family who nearly ruined mine, and the girl I can still vividly taste on my tongue.

Images from that night flit through my mind. The way we synced— the way we synced .

We didn’t exchange names that night, and I wanted to kick my own ass for agreeing to that bullshit, but I had every intention of finding her. I searched faces any time I was on campus or in town. Any girl who remotely looked like her, I did a double-take.

Grinding my teeth, I flex my jaw. “Fuck,” I shout, clenching my fists at my sides and doubling my speed. I need to get away from people and my thoughts.

I weave in and out of the sea of students as they rush by, before turning off the main path down a quieter walkway—not stopping until I come to a set of benches surrounding some monument in the center.

The area is perfectly manicured, almost better than the entire campus. A vibrant array of flowers surrounds the slate-gray structure, and the benches sit on the grass around the pavement, shaded by oak trees.

Everything here looks so serene—like a calming energy is emanating from the space, instantly reducing the tension in my shoulders.

Inhaling the waning summer air, I walk closer, stopping to read the inscription. It’s a memorial.

In The Loving Memory of Farrah Amira Jacobi. Daughter, Sister, and Best Friend.

The world is dimmer without you, but the heavens shine brighter because of you.

Sleep well, for your pain is over.

And while our pain is everlasting in this life.

We know it’s temporary until the next.

Sawf nuhibuk fi hadhih alhayaat wafi alakhirati.

We will love you in this life and the next.

I gaze down at the translation on my phone before lifting my eyes to reread the words.

I’ve heard bits of what happened to her Farrah.

She was so young— too young to suffer such a fate.

She’s gone, but this place feels more honest than anything I’ve touched in weeks.

I can’t imagine what pain she was in, but I’m glad it’s ended.

My heart breaks for them. I know the Jacobi brothers attend Groveton College.

However, Colter and Cooper have never mentioned they have a sister.

And I do mean have because even though her physical presence is no longer walking this Earth, death can’t take who she is to her family.

Farrah didn’t suddenly stop being their sister.

I turn, approaching the wooden bench directly in front of the memorial, then sit and try to sort through my thoughts.

Eva didn’t deserve to be accosted by me as soon as she exited the class. She’s not even responsible for the current state of our family’s business.

But she is a Pierce— guilt by association, or in this case, by DNA.

Why shouldn’t we use her to get back at what her family has done to mine?

Because, asshole, she isn’t her father or her brother, I rationally argue. How would the Bradley name be perceived if news broke that we bullied the Pierce’s daughter for revenge?

Why would anyone have to find out?

I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting the turmoil raging in my mind, causing my head to throb.

Lifting my gaze to the sky, I watch thick white clouds pass, wishing to be as at peace as they appear. They remind me of the words on the monument— the world is dimmer without you, but the heavens shine brighter because of you.

I’m interrupted by the buzzing in my pants pocket.

“Hello,” I state, answering the phone without looking.

“Lee. Is that you, my grandson?”

I smile when my grandmother’s sweet, comforting voice registers in my ears.

“It’s me, Nana. How are you?”

“Oh, don’t you worry about me, Lee Bear,” she croons, and I groan at her nickname for me. “I’m just calling to remind you that you and your brother are expected to be at the debutante ball for Edith Langston’s granddaughter in two months.

That reminder makes my skin crawl. Lillian Langston and her family are everything wrong with high society—bitchy, selfish, money-hungry, elitist snobs on the best of days. That entire bunch is rotten to their classist core. I’m surprised we still have an invitation.

“Don’t give me any lip, Liam Turner Bradley. We need to portray a strong united front until your father is able to right what was wronged,” she scolds. “So, you and Mason will be in attendance, and one of you must be her escort for the evening.”

“Well, I’ll let Mason know what’s expected of him,” I reply.

Lillian has wanted Mason since she learned what lust is. Not to mention, I’m about three shades darker than the Langston family prefers—gladly continuing the bullshit colorism plaguing our community.

I curl my lip in disgust at how, even centuries after the Emancipation Proclamation, some slave-like mentalities run far and deep. With the help of society, of course. Some would argue that while the physical chains have been unlocked, the mental ones have continued through generations.

“Liam,” my Nana hisses through the line, ripping me from my soapbox. “Do you understand?”

I massage my temple, the once dull headache has morphed into a constant thrumming. “Yes, Nana. I’ll make sure Mase is informed of our expectations.”

“Good. Now, how are you liking your new school?” she asks, and for the next twenty minutes, I fill her in on how Mason and I are adjusting.

Then she tells me how Ashley Murray has been trying to take her position as lead soprano in the church choir and how she saw Deacon Williams with someone who was not his wife at the country club.

Leaning back on the bench, I’m grateful for the distraction. Talking about the latest gossip is far more appealing than the debacle that was lecture earlier.

“Okay, Nana. I’ll talk to you soon. Tell Granddad we emailed his assistant our game schedules. I’ll be playing against our old school next month.”

We exchange a quick goodbye, and I end the call before she can rope me into volunteering at the church when we come home. But the moment my thoughts are no longer distracting, my dilemma comes crashing back in.

“Can you tell me what I should do?” I ask, staring at the memorial as if Farrah will somehow tell me which path to choose. I wait, hoping for something, but obviously, there’s no response. “Time to get out of the sun, Liam,” I mutter as I stand.

I slip my phone into my pocket, grab my bag from the spot before the memorial, and reread the inscription for the third time.

“Thanks,” I whisper into the wind, wishing it could carry my gratitude to her. Then, I spend another brief moment enjoying the peace Farrah brings to this space before heading back to my dorm.