Sicko(14)

I glare at him. “I have no intention of going.”

“Going where?” Orson asks, bouncing a basketball between his lanky legs. “I just saw Matty B and told him we’d load up and head to his birthday.” Everyone laughs except Royce. Just as he’s about to interrupt our laughing, Dad comes out the sliding doors, whistling.

“Roy, a word?” At his presence, I fold my arms in front of myself. I’m instantly uncomfortable and I don’t know why. Royce stands from his chair, making his way into the house. I watch his retreating back with a pang of sadness in my chest. My frown is sharp.

“Hey.” Orson takes a seat at the end of my lounger. “What’s with the frown?”

I grab the leather basketball off him and practice spinning it on the tip of my index finger. “It’s Royce.” I glance toward the door to make sure he’s not coming, before focusing back on Orson’s hazel gaze. “He’s a bit off since the incident and I don’t know if it’s a me thing or a him thing.”

Storm’s eyes go to Orson, and I watch the silent exchange unfold in front of me.

“Girl, stop. The man just got shanked, he’s moody by nature at times. Let him heal.” Sloane wriggles back into her seat and covers her closed eyes with her Versace glasses. “And anyway, it doesn’t help that you’re growing into this total fucking ten and he has to fight all of the assholes off at school.”

“He doesn’t even go to our school anymore,” I interfere, referring to all three of them graduating a few months ago. I only have a couple more months left with Orson and Storm before they begin their life without little old me. “Will you guys miss me when you leave?” Storm is attending Brown and Orson is flying to LA to play for their team.

“Please.” Orson brushes me away.

Storm continues to glare at me. “I literally could not forget you if I tried, Duchess. I mean that from the bottom of my heart.” He says the words with a passive look over his face, stoic and emotionless.

“Well, that’s not very assuring, considering you don’t have one.”

Storm taps his temple. “Ah, she’s catching on.”

“Only took me almost ten years,” I grumble, relaxing into my chair.

“For real, I think Royce is just healing. Sloane is right—for once—” Orson stands, removing his shirt and tossing it over his chair. His brown skin glistens against the sun, while his high cheekbones sit above his soft lips that curve around his straight, white teeth. Orson is beautiful. Insanely attractive. The kind of male that almost everyone stops to stare at.

He runs the palm of his hand over his tight abs. “I’ll have a chat with him.”

Storm raises one thick eyebrow. “Really?” I watch the exchange between the two of them, and for the first time ever, I feel like I’m missing something, or that someone isn’t telling me something.

“Why the secrets?” I ask just as Orson dives into the pool and Storm packs away his laptop.

“We don’t keep secrets, remember?” Storm announces clearly, while carefully placing his entire life into its satchel.

I wait for Royce.

But he never returns.



Later that night I’m in my room, listening to music on my speaker. I still haven’t seen Royce since he disappeared earlier today when we were near the pool. One minute he was with us and the next Dad is taking him away. Something has shifted in the house, and I’m still not sure how or why. After hanging with me for a few more minutes, the boys also drifted into the house. I figured they were going to have that chat with Royce. I don’t want to text them or go knock on Royce’s door. I don’t want to be annoying, even though they annoy me.

Flipping over to my side, I tuck my hands under my face. Tomorrow better be better. Today sucked.





She can’t know. Leaving her is going to cripple me, but I have no choice. Not now. Not ever. And not when it comes to her.





I wake the next morning with stiff limbs, stretching my arms above my head. I’m hoping Royce has calmed down from whatever he was upset about. I want to tell him that we don’t have to go to Matty’s birthday—it was just an invite. I always feel the need to talk him down, but that’s only because he has somewhat become my responsibility, as much as I have become his. We both take care of each other, we always have.

Jogging down the stairs and making my way into the sitting room, I catch both Mom and Dad standing in front of the fireplace, in a hushed conversation. Their chatter instantly cuts out as soon as I enter.

“Morning,” I say nervously, glancing between the two of them. Once again, that same niggling feeling is there. Something doesn’t feel right.

Mom turns to face me. “Honey, I don’t want you to—” Her voice catches in her throat, a teardrop slipping down her cheek. She breathes in, and then out. “The police will be here in a second and I would like you to not stress out.”

“That’s kind of hard to do when you’re standing there quite clearly stressing out, Mom…” My heart rate quickens, my palms slick with sweat as I cross my arms in front of myself. Mom is always composed, trapped in a society where she thinks perfection is the only way to exist. This isn’t perfection, this is fragility. You’re handing humanity a weapon to use against you if all you expect is perfection.