Trouble at Brayshaw High (Brayshaw, #2)(24)

“Raven.”

“Ms. V.”

Interesting fucking timing.

She frowns. “Are you going to invite me in?”

“No.” I lean against the frame and cross my arms. “Not my house.”

“And you care why?”

I blink at her. I don’t care – don’t want to let her in either.

She sighs. “Fine. Listen, I’m here because I was unaware of your new arrangements.”

I run my tongue across my teeth. “What led you this way, Ms. V?”

She blanches a second. “It’s my job to know where you are.”

“Yet you weren’t aware of my new arrangements.” I lift a brow. “Yeah?”

Her eyes tighten. “I ... look, we have to remove you and place you back in the Bray house, with Ms. Maybell.”

We?

“That’s not gonna work for me.”

She hesitates before responding. “I’m afraid it’s not your choice.”

I eye her, already having had suspicions about her character, none of which I’ve confirmed, but still. I stand taller, grabbing onto the door with one hand and the frame with the other.

“How ‘bout this? You call your people and have them come in and remove me?”

She observes me a moment, her voice a little less sugary this round. “Do you really want them to take you in and make you go through a hearing and replacement home, all because you wouldn’t cooperate with me? I’m making this easy and offering to take you back to your original location.”

I scoff, a small smirk coming out as I shake my head at her. “You’re as full of shit as you are sure, Ms. Vega,” I quip, and she fidgets under my unrelenting stare, a crease forming on her forehead. “You do what you need to, and I’ll be here until I’m not.” I go to step back but pause and instead step outside, right in her face. She doesn’t cower away, but her pupils dilate just the slightest. “Since it’s just me and you standing here, let me tell you this now. If you had or have anything to do with that little girl not being in her daddy’s arms every night, you’ll regret it with every bone in your body.”

Her eyes widen, and I step back inside and slam the door in her face, moving to the side so she can’t see me through the long window panel. I lean back for a breath.

Something is off with that chick, I know it, and she was damned surprised that I knew about Zoey. All I know is she better hope she’s legit with noble intentions or she’ll have more than three Brayshaws raining down on her.

With a sigh, I pour some of Collins’ big money bourbon and knock it back, dropping onto the couch.

I close my eyes, taking a calming breath when I’m on the brink of flipping my shit.

I’m in deep and falling deeper, like a fool.

I need to let these people go.

All of them.

Problem is, I’m not so sure I know how. Every day away has me questioning what the hell I’m doing here, with Collins and in this place.

A smart girl would have left by now.

The door bursts open and a sweaty, angry Collins barges through.

Surprisingly, his shoulders relax when he sees me.

“How was practice?” I raise a brow, reaching back for the tumbler and pouring myself another half glass.

He grins. “Fine, dear.”

I scoff and drop back again.

His eyes run over me, and he smiles wider.

“What?” I grow suspicious.

“Your outfit is perfect, you know, for your kind of crowd,” he says, not taking his eyes off my black jeans ripped at the thighs and plain white, baby doll T-shirt. His stare moves over my hair, and the French braid pigtails I threw it in when I got out of the shower. “Hair too.”

“For what?”

“Didn’t you hear?” His smirk has me sitting forward. “Tonight’s Maddoc’s eighteenth birthday party, and you’re my pretty little date, sweetness.” He heads for the stairs, leaving me fighting for air my lungs suddenly deny.

I didn’t even know him long enough to know when his birthday was.

“We leave in thirty! I guess you can wear those ugly ass boots, too!”

Holding in whatever it is trying to claw its way out, I lay back and close my eyes.

This should be interesting.

And by interesting, I mean a fucking nightmare.

I take another shot.

Treacherous bitch.

That’s me.



She came with him, just like we fucking figured.

Glued to him and a little unstable on her feet, they slip inside quietly – like Buck, the guard dog here at The Tower, the club we rented out for the party tonight, didn’t text me the second her used Timberlands hit the cement.

My blood heats, my muscles flexing just from looking at her.

She’s pure fucking natural fire.

No effort from her reads as pure purpose to everyone around her. Tight ass pants and a slice of skin showing above her waist, hair long and twisted back in two, ready to wrap around my fists, the blue tips shining against the light of the room. Effortless sex appeal.

Now if I went off the look in her eye, I’d say she looks like shit. Just as exhausted as I had hoped, and miserable like I wished. She looks as fucked up as she deserves to be for the moves she’s made.