Whatever It Takes (Bad Reputation Duet #1)(16)

I drop the handlebars and stagger back. “What the fuck?” I sneer, my pulse quickening.

“We’re playing football. You couldn’t be here for dinner—you couldn’t do one thing for Mom, then you’re going to do this for us.” And he adds (like Hunter always does), “You motherfucking cocksucker.” It’s his go-to insult, one I know I might’ve picked up and used before—and I hate that I have. Because it’s lame as shit, among other things.

I grit my teeth and inhale once before I shrug stiffly.

Davis throws the football at my face. It hits my cheek before I can block it. The pain wells, but I stifle it by grabbing the football off the grass. The minute I straighten up, Hunter tackles me with his full weight. He’s two inches taller, fifty pounds heavier, and the wind immediately escapes my lungs.

I choke and try to push him off, but Hunter grips my hair and whispers in my ear, “You think you’re fucking cool? Get up, you pussy.” He slaps my face twice and laughs, like it’s funny.

When he stands off me with the football in hand, I slowly turn towards the grass, kneeling before I rise, my breath caged.

This is how brothers are, my mom always says. They tease the youngest one. You just need thicker skin, Garrison.

I wipe the bottom of my nose with the back of my hand and realize it’s bleeding. Hunter is only a few feet from me, and I’m surprised he doesn’t chuck the football in my eye.

“What? Are you going to cry?” he laughs.

I roll my eyes and just shake my head. I think this is his way of making me pay for whatever emotional hurt I caused Mom today, yesterday—whenever I became more of a nuisance than all of them.

And I’d like to think if I showed up for dinner, we wouldn’t still be “playing football” like this. But they would’ve found some other reason to go hard. They always do.

“Tackle me,” Hunter goads, arms outstretched. “Come on, pussy, let’s see what you’re made of.”

I narrow my gaze, my eyes heated, my nose on fucking fire, and I just think, I hate you. I really fucking hate you.

Davis lets out a short laugh. I hate you too.

Then Mitchell. Fuck you, Mitchell. Grow two feet and walk away from them.

Have I even grown two feet yet? Do I even have a head? I blink slowly, wondering if I’m still blazed.

“What are you, dumb?” Hunter’s smile fades, irritated, pissed. It’s an ugly ass snarl that I’ve met all my life. I remember one moment as if it were yesterday. My parents ordered pizza for dinner, and Hunter called “dibs” on the last slice. He was seventeen, and my thirteen-year-old-self didn’t know better.

I ate his so-called slice.

And then he wrestled me onto the floor, trying to force my finger down my throat so I’d throw it up. After his knee sat on my ribs for too long, I willfully stuck my finger down and vomited that last slice. He didn’t want to eat it. He just wanted to deny me the one piece that should’ve been his. Because he called dibs.

Brothers, right?

Fucking brothers.

Hunter growls under his breath. “Come on!” I learned about a year ago to stop giving into their games. I’d avoid them or just not play whatever they wanted to play.

It doesn’t always make things better, but it makes me feel like I stood up for something. Davis stares at me like I’m a little rebellious punk.

“It’s football,” he reminds me.

“Cool, you two play,” I tell them, heading for my bike again. “I’m out of—” Hunter tackles me, wrestles me on top of my bike, the metal digging into my kidneys. I grimace and thrash beneath him, cursing and trying to throw him off.

He lays his weight into me, his usual insult ringing in my ears. He smacks my face a couple times, the blows harder, and then I gather the strength to shove him off and roll out beneath him. I cough once, digging my soles into the grass, and then I stand up enough to grab my backpack and run.

“Garrison!” Davis yells. “We’re just playing!”

Fuck you.

I run faster, almost tripping as I reach the asphalt, and I look back once to see if they’re following, but all three of my brothers stay behind in the yard. I gather speed towards the main street, off Cider Creek Pass.

Then I slow down, my pulse never slowing with me.

I rub my hands through my hair. “What the fuck,” I whisper, hearing the sound of my shaking voice. Are you going to cry? Then I rub my throbbing cheek, the wetness apparent. “Stupid shit,” I mumble softly and then rummage in my backpack.

I collect a cigarette and lighter, putting the end in my mouth. I suck in deeply, and then I look up and realize how far I’ve sprinted and then walked.

I’m at Loren Hale’s house. It’s a mansion, not as ostentatious as my family’s. The lights are off, and the driveway is empty. I pace back and forth by the mailbox, smoking a cigarette.

I don’t know why I linger. My friends and I—we’ve pranked their house since they first moved to this neighborhood, and at first, we were just curious. Who the fuck are these people? we all thought.

They’re not famous because they did something revolutionary or because they acted, sang, and entertained their way into peoples’ hearts.

They’re famous because Loren’s fiancée is a sex addict. The heiress of Fizzle—a soda empire—sucked a lot of cock.