Page 49 of The Oath We Give

We were destined to hate one another, and while I’d like to think I’m above legacy feuds, it’s hard not to continue it when Easton Sinclair is a fucking cunt and has been since I’ve known him.

As we reach the end of the hallway, Rook takes a left, stopping in front of a set of heavy mahogany double doors. Music leaks from behind them, and instead of taking a second to rehash our plan, he presses two tattooed hands on them and shoves.

Full stop, no caution at all times.

His hand is forever on the throttle, and it’ll die there.

“Fucking impatient,” Alistair grumbles as he pushes them open.

“Long time no see, Sinclair,” Rook shouts, holding his arms out wide to the filled room. “Got space to deal us in?”

The four of us filter into the poker room clouded with the fog of cigars. Beyond the veil of smoke, four of Easton’s friends are slumped in their chairs, barely paying attention to their hands, strung out on either drugs or alcohol or consumed with the women that are floating around the room.

Easton doesn’t look much better. Probably the worst I’ve ever seen him in the years I’ve known him.

His face is buried in the neck of some girl in a skimpy red dress, her body, facing away from us, perched on top of the green felt table, poker chips scattered across it. The strings of her dress hang loose on her arms as he glares over her shoulder in our direction.

“Get the fuck out of my house,” he demands, swatting his company on the hip, prompting her to slide from the table and toward another group of women.

The left side of his face has healed decently. Thanks to several plastic surgeries, those burn scars are white, running beneath his eye socket all the way to his chin. Striped skin, wearing a memory of Rook’s hand pressing his face into the side of his motorcycle exhaust.

“Say please,” Rook taunts, smirking.

Taunting him is his favorite game.

Easton’s jaw is taut, twitching with anger at our intrusion, but that’s the only thing familiar about him. He swings his hand, grabbing the neck of a vodka bottle. His blond hair is tousled, eyes red-rimmed, pale skin sickly.

It seems time hasn’t been kind to him either.

“Suck my dick, Van Doren.” He seethes, pressing the tip of the bottle to his lips and guzzling down a mouthful of liquid before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Get out, or the police can make you. Your choice.”

“You’re not my type, man.” Rook shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. “I’ve got a real hard-on for redheads. Maybe try some hair dye and we can circle back to this?”

I don’t need to see to know that he’s wearing a shit-eating grin on his face, knowing Easton is plummeting to a pile of ashes while he gets the girl. He’s deserving of everything he’s living now for what he put her through.

Our last names may have given birth to our hatred. But Sage Donahue? She’s the gasoline for these two.

Easton laughs maniacally, tossing his head back.

My eyebrows twitch together as I glance to Alistair, who is watching him quietly.

“Turning to booze after daddy goes to prison? What a cliché.”Rook mutters.

This sobers him up, the sound of glass shattering as he slams the bottle onto the table. His steps forward are more coordinated than I expected. He walks until he’s in Rook’s face. My friend just grins as the man who represents all of his girlfriend’s pain lifts a fist.

“Touch him.” The click of the safety on my gun rings in the air, the end of the barrel tapping Easton on his temple, “Make this easy for me.”

I watch him tense. Everyone is a tough guy until there is a gun involved.

Silence echoes in the room. Everyone has gone perfectly still.

“Clear the fucking room,” Alistair grunts toward the innocent bystanders still inside.

I listen to the shuffle of feet, hushed whispers as they scurry outside of the room, while I hold the gun to Easton’s skull, watching his glazed eyes as he keeps staring at Rook.

Obviously, Easton’s involvement in the Halo wasn’t enough to get him arrested with his father and the others involved, but we know he’s next in line to take over.

Which means whatever information he has, we want.