Cracked Kingdom (The Royals #5)(32)

“Been at the hospital.”

Dom’s face becomes comically contorted as he tries to find the right expression. His girlfriend bops him hard in the chest. “Dom. Act civilized for once.”

Not that he feels it. Dom’s two-hundred-fifty pounds of solid muscle. He’ll be at Alabama next year, throwing fear into the hearts of college quarterbacks. “Yeah, sorry,” he mumbles, and I don’t really know if that apology’s directed to me or his girl.

“He’s sorry,” she clarifies. “His momma would be so embarrassed.”

“Don’t tell her,” he says, looking horrified. “I was just making a joke!”

“It’s fine,” I reassure him. “It’s crowded today.” I glance toward the line, not registering anyone in particular.

“Yeah. Willoughby did a pop quiz in Government on Constitutional Amendments.” Dom looks ready to cry. And I get it. His mom is scary.

“Sounds like I picked a good time to skip.” I pat him on the shoulder. “I’ll see you later. I need to get back to the hospital.”

I turn to get in line when a five-foot-three-inch body slams into me, spilling an ice cream cone down the front of my BAPE sweatshirt.

“Oh my God, I’m so so sorry.” Hartley swipes her hand down my chest, leaving a smear of vanilla ice cream in her wake.

Tamika pushes Hart out of the way and slaps some napkins into my hand. “Girl, you just ruined a fifteen-hundred-dollar sweatshirt with your messy self.”

“Fifteen hundred?” Her jaw drops open.

“It’s fine,” I assure both of them.

Hart’s head pops up and her eyes grow saucer-big.

“Is something wrong?” A new voice enters the fray. I look up to see Bran Mathis, a transfer student and the quarterback of my team, peering over Hart’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” the girls chorus.

“No,” I say at the same time.

His eyes dart from the front of my sweatshirt to Hartley and then back to me, lingering on the stylized ape on the front. Unlike Hart, he recognizes the brand. It doesn’t matter, though, and I tell them that.

“It’s no big deal.” I smile down at Hartley. “You look good. Taking care of yourself?” I check her over to see if there are any signs she’s still suffering—physically—from her accident or, God forbid, her dad hurt her again.

I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. No bruises or cuts or scrapes. No winces of pain or stiffness in the way she moves. A section of her hair falls forward to cover her eyes. I reach out to sweep it back, but a hand comes down on her shoulder and moves her out of the way.

Dom sucks in a breath. Tamika squeaks.

I blink in confusion, following the male hand from my girl’s shoulder all the way up to Bran’s face. It doesn’t register at first—Bran’s hand on Hartley’s shoulder. Bran’s hand where my hand should be.

Hart looks confused, too, like she’s not sure why Bran’s touching her. I reach out and shove his hand away.

“Not cool, dude.”

“Really? You’re telling me what’s cool? Come on, Hartley. You can have my cone.” He pushes his cone—one that’s already been in his mouth—toward her face.

I’m not processing what’s going on here. Bran Mathis is all over my girl—touching her and telling her to put her mouth where his was? Hell no.

“Thanks but I’ll buy her a new one.”

“I don’t need—” she starts to say.

“We’re actually leaving,” Bran cuts in. “I’ve got to get home.”

Hart nods. She actually fucking nods. “Okay. I’m sorry about the sweatshirt. I can clean it for you.”

“You can clean it for me?” I repeat like a dumb fuck.

“Yes, if you want. I have your jacket, too.”

The room tilts and everything’s off kilter. While I’m texting her nonstop, worrying about her every night, sleeping on the floor of her old apartment, trying to convince my baby brother to leave the hospital and go to school so someone can protect Hartley while I’m unable to, she’s getting busy with Bran-fucking-Mathis?

Furious, confused and hurt, but refusing to show it, I slap my mask back on—the one I always wore before Hartley came along. “Bro, when I said we were on the same team, I meant football, not doing the same chick.”

Hart says something, but the rage storm is thundering too loud in my head to hear. I don’t go to school for two days and she’s hooked up with the Astor Park quarterback? It’s like I’m the one that hit my head a week ago. I’m suffering hallucinations and my current timeline is some grotesque parody of what’s going on in the right-side-up world.

“You’re just determined to fuck your head up even more, aren’t you?” I say to Hartley.

She furrows her brow in confusion. “W-what?”

“The doc said you’re not supposed to rely on other people’s memories.” I wave an angry hand at Bran. “You’re not supposed to listen to stories they tell you about yourself, your past—”

Bran interjects. “Hey, I’m not telling her any stories—”

I silence him with a glare, then turn to Hartley. “What you’re doing is dangerous,” I mutter, and then I leave, because if I stay one second longer, all of the chairs lining the plate-glass storefront are going to be through the window and lying on the curb. The urge to hit something, to drive my fist into something and hear a sickening crunch when the impact lands, is too strong. I jerk open my truck door, nearly ripping it off the hinges.