Page 1 of Unholy Confessions (The Paper Rings Trilogy #1)

" Must be nice being the kid of a world famous rock star and America's sweetheart." The words are pushed out of the gritted teeth of my opponent.

I smirk, tucking my fingers into my palms so that I'm prepared for the next hit. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"You know what it means."

His head is knocked back as I land a punch on his cheek.

The rage coursing through me laughs as some of it calms down with the impact of the blow.

This is the only way I can seem to clear my thoughts lately.

Hurt and be hurt. "Yeah I do, and you know I don't take that bullshit lightly.

" With those words, I punch again, relief flowing through my body as he hits the ground.

"Anyone else wanna go?" I question, looking around at the crowd that's gathered.

Back when we first started this little underground fighting club, there weren't many people who came to watch. Now, word has gotten out, and I'm slightly worried it's going to get back to my parents. When no one raises their hand, I shake my head and walk over to a bench.

"I hate that you do this."

The words are said quietly behind me, but I don't have to turn to see who it is.

Montgomery Winston. We've been best friends since the first day we were introduced to each other.

I'm a year and a few months older than her, and we were introduced the day she was born.

Over the past year, it's started to grow more serious though.

I'm starting to notice how fucking hot she is, and how much she seems to worry about my well-being.

It's nice.

Sometimes it feels as if she's the only one to care.

My older brother is always off doing something with the band he's put together.

Although I want badly to play guitar with him, I'm not allowed to just yet.

He doesn't seem to worry about me as much as he once did.

We used to do things together, but somehow last year, the three-year age gap between us became too much.

He just wants to be cool with his friends all the time.

Ignoring Montgomery's words, I tilt my head toward the door. "Wanna get outta here?"

Her blue eyes flash brightly at me. "Are you sure? Mom said I probably shouldn't be riding with you until you turn seventeen."

I grin up at her. "You always do what your mom says?"

"No." She shakes her head. "Let's go."

The cool evening air hits my face as we step outside the warehouse.

My knuckles are still bleeding, but I don't give a damn.

The adrenaline is starting to wear off, leaving behind that familiar hollow feeling in my chest. It's there all the time now.

Especially since I started having trouble concentrating and sleeping a year ago.

Montgomery walks beside me, her long blonde hair catching the streetlight as we head toward my truck.

"You're bleeding," she says, catching my hand in hers.

Her fingers are soft against my torn skin, and I have to resist the urge to pull away.

Not because I don't want her touching me – hell, I want her touching me more than I should – but because I don't deserve gentleness.

Not when I keep putting myself in situations like this so that I can tire myself out, or at least concentrate on one thing for more than a few seconds at a time.

"I'm fine." The words come out rougher than I intended.

She stops walking and turns to face me, those blue eyes of hers studying my face like she's trying to solve whatever seems to be broken inside me. "No, you're not. You haven't been fine in months, RJ."

The nickname hits different when she says it. My mom calls me Rhett, but Montgomery’s always called me RJ. Lately it sounds different on her lips. More intimate somehow.

"I said I'm fine, Montgomery." I yank my hand away and keep walking toward the truck.

"Don't call me that." Her voice is sharp behind me. "You only call me Montgomery when you're trying to push me away."

She's right, but I don't acknowledge it. Instead, I unlock my truck – a black Chevy Silverado that my parents got me for my sixteenth birthday – and climb in. She hesitates for a moment before getting in the passenger side.

The silence stretches between us as I start the engine. The radio comes on automatically, playing some mainstream pop song that makes me want to punch something again. I switch it immediately to a rock station.

"Where do you want to go?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.

"Somewhere we can talk without you hitting people." She buckles her seatbelt and looks at me with those damn eyes again. "How about Hattie B's? I know you haven't eaten today."

She's right again. I haven't eaten anything since this morning, and even then it was just a piece of toast before school. My stomach growls at the mention of food, betraying me.

"Fine." I put the truck in drive and pull out of the parking lot.

The drive to Franklin is quiet except for the rumble of the engine and the occasional sigh from Montgomery.

I can feel her watching me, probably cataloging every bruise on my face, every cut on my knuckles.

She's always been observant like that. When we were kids, she'd notice if I was upset about something before I even knew it myself.

"Your dad's going to notice," she says finally as we hit the highway.

"He's not home." The words come out bitter. "He's not supposed to be home for another few days. He has stuff to do with the tour that yours doesn't." I mention her dad, a member of Black Friday, along with mine.

"RJ..."

"Don't." I grip the steering wheel tighter. "I don't want to talk about it."

But that's not entirely true. I do want to talk about it, but only with her. Montgomery is the only person who's ever really listened to me, who's ever seen past the whole "son of famous musicians" thing to whatever mess I actually am underneath.

We pull into the parking lot of the chicken place, and I can see through the windows that it's busy inside.

Good. The noise will give us cover to talk without everyone staring at us.

Being Garrett Thompson's son means I can't go anywhere without people recognizing me, and tonight I just want to be a normal sixteen-year-old kid eating chicken fingers with his best friend.

Except Montgomery isn't just my best friend anymore, is she? Not with the way my heart races when she smiles at me, or the way I catch myself staring at her lips when she talks. Not with the way every other girl at school seems boring compared to her.

"Come on," she says, already getting out of the truck. "I'm buying."

"Like hell you are." I follow her toward the entrance, my pride stinging a little. I was raised to always treat a girl the way my dad treats my mom, and if they knew she was paying for her own food? I'd never hear the end of it.

She laughs – actually laughs – and the sound makes something in my chest ease up. "Fine, tough guy. You can buy mine. But I'm getting banana pudding too."

"Deal."

Once inside, we place our order, and then head to find a place to sit.

We find a booth in the back corner, away from most of the other customers.

Montgomery slides in across from me, and I try not to notice how the light from the neon sign makes her skin look like it's glowing.

She's wearing a simple white t-shirt and jeans, nothing fancy, but she looks better than any girl has a right to look.

"So," she says as we wait, "want to tell me what that fight was really about?"

I shrug, picking at the napkin dispenser. "Same as always. Some asshole running his mouth."

"About what?"

"About my family. About how everything's been handed to me on a silver platter." I look up at her. "About how I don't deserve anything I have."

Her expression softens. "You know that's not true."

"Is it?" I lean back against the booth. "I mean, think about it, Gum.

My parents are famous, so I get opportunities other kids don't. I have money, so I can afford things they can't. I drive a truck that costs more than most people's houses.

Meanwhile I have trouble concentrating and can't sleep at night. Maybe they're right."

Her eyebrows raise at the concentration and not-sleeping comment. Fuck I didn't mean to say that out loud.

"They're not." Her voice is firm. "You think having famous parents makes your life easier? RJ, you're sixteen years old and you're so angry all the time that you're getting in underground fights just to feel something. You think that sounds like an easy life?"

They call our number, and I'm grateful for the interruption. Getting up, I escape her gaze and make my way to the counter. Her words hit too close to home, and I'm not ready to unpack all that yet.

We eat in comfortable silence for a while. The fingers are good – spicy and greasy and exactly what I needed. Montgomery keeps stealing my fries, which should annoy me but doesn't. She's been doing it since we were kids, and it's one of those things about her that feels like home.

"EJ's band is playing at The Lounge next week," I say eventually, trying to change the subject to something less heavy. "He hasn't told Mom and Dad yet."

"Really? That's a big deal." She pauses with a fry halfway to her mouth. "Are you going?"

"Probably not." I take a sip of my Coke. "I wasn't invited."

"Oh." She sets the fry down. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine. I mean, it's not like I expected anything different." But it's not fine, and we both know it. It stings like hell that my own brother doesn't want me around for what might be the biggest night of his life so far.

"Maybe he just assumes you know you're invited," she suggests, a small smile spreading across her face. "You're his brother."

"Yeah, well, being related to someone doesn't guarantee anything." I finish my chicken fingers and lean back. "Trust me on that one."

Montgomery reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers. "Hey. Look at me."