Twisted Palace
Page 10
I shake my head curtly. “No, I’m here to play football, nothing else.”
“Hope so,” the big man says.
And then it hits me, what Hunter’s really concerned about. He’s a scholarship student at Astor and needs a free ride for college. He’s worried my drama is going to scare colleges away.
“Scouts are still gonna come to the game to see you, Hunter,” I reassure him.
He looks doubtful, but Wade pipes up in support. “No doubt. They’re all salivating over you. Plus, the more wins, the better you look, right?”
That seems to satisfy Hunter, because he doesn’t voice another objection.
“See?” Wade says cheerfully. “’S’all good. So let’s just go practice our nuts off and compare notes about who we’re all taking to Winter Formal next month.”
One of our wide receivers snickers. “Seriously, Carlisle? What, are we a bunch of chicks now?”
With that, the mood in the locker room lightens.
“This is bullshit,” Ronnie snaps. “He shouldn’t freaking be here.”
Or maybe it doesn’t.
I stifle a sigh.
At Ronnie’s unhappy glare, East slaps his chest. “C’mon, Richmond, let’s do a few Oklahoma drills. Maybe if you can put me on my ass once, you won’t worry so much about the press.”
Ronnie flushes. The Oklahoma drill requires one player to take on another while the teammates huddle around in a circle. East hardly ever loses, and certainly never to Ronnie.
“Fuck you, Easton. That’s the problem with you Royals. You think violence solves everything.”
My brother takes a step forward. “It’s football. It’s supposed to be violent.”
“Gotcha. So killing a woman you don’t like is just natural for you guys, huh?” An ugly smile twists his mouth. “I guess that’s why your mother killed herself. She was tired of dealing with psychos.”
The thin thread of my self-control snaps as a red haze washes over my eyes. This piece of crap can say whatever he wants about me, but to drag my mother into this?
Oh. Hell. No.
I’m on him in a heartbeat, one fist slamming into his jaw as we both crash to the floor. Shouts break out all around us. Hands reach out and grab my collar and the back of my shirt, but nobody is able to haul me off him.
I hear a sickening crack. Primal satisfaction rushes through me when blood spurt out of Ronnie’s nostrils. I broke his nose and I don’t give a shit. I get one more blow in, a jab to his chin, before I’m suddenly wrenched away.
“Royal! Where’s your fucking head!”
Instantly, the anger in my gut is sucked away and replaced by a knot of anxiety. Coach is the one who pulled me to my feet, and now he’s standing there, his face red and his eyes glittering with fury.
“Come with me,” he growls, bunching his fist into the bottom of my practice jersey.
The locker room is as silent as a church. Ronnie is staggering to his feet and wiping his bloody nose. The other players are staring at me in apprehension. Before Coach drags me through the doorway, I catch a glimpse of East’s uneasy expression, Wade’s frustrated one, Hunter’s resigned one.
Shame churns inside me. Damn it. Here I am, trying to prove to these guys that Royals don’t answer every minor bit of bullshit with a fist, and what do I do? I bring out the fists.
Fuck.
6
Ella
Word of Reed’s arrest spreads like a prairie fire. While working the register at the bakery, I can hear the aborted whispers and feel the weight of covert stares. The Royal name is mentioned frequently. One fashionable elderly lady who comes in every Monday for a blueberry scone and a cup of Earl Grey tea point-blank asks me, “Are you that Royal ward?”
“Yes.” I swipe her heavy platinum card and hand it back.
She presses her pink-painted lips together. “Doesn’t seem like a good environment for a young lady.”
“It’s the best home I’ve ever had.” My cheeks burn, part embarrassment and part indignation.
For all their faults—and the Royals have many—my statement is entirely truthful. I’ve never had it better. For the first seventeen years of my life, I lived with my flighty mother, one foot in the gutter, one hand reaching for the sky. At any given moment, I wasn’t sure we’d have enough to eat during the day and a roof over our heads at night.
“You seem like a nice girl.” The lady sniffs, her whole demeanor saying that she’s reserving judgment on that comment.
I know what she’s thinking—I might be a nice girl, but I live with those evil Royals and one of them is on the front page of the Bayview News as a potential suspect in the death of Brooke Davidson. Not many people know who Brooke is, other than she was the sometime companion of Callum Royal. But everyone knows the Royals. They’re the biggest employer in Bayview, if not the state.
“Thanks. I’ll bring out your stuff when it’s ready.” I dismiss her with a polite smile and turn to the next patron, a younger professional woman who’s clearly torn between wanting to hear the gossip and wanting to make whatever early morning appointment she’s all dressed up for.
At the wave of my hand for her card, she makes the quick decision that she can’t be late. Good call, lady.
The line moves on, and so do the comments, some hushed, some intentionally carrying across the small café. I ignore them all. So does my boss, Lucy, although her ignorance stems from busyness rather than deliberate indifference.
“Weird morning, isn’t it?” Lucy says as I’m hanging up my apron on the back hook. She’s elbows-deep in flour.
“Why do you say that?” I feign ignorance.
From the racks of cooling baked goods, I pluck an extra muffin and donut for Reed. If it were me, I wouldn’t be able to eat a bite, but that boy seems to have a stomach of steel. Apparently being accused of murder doesn’t faze him one bit.
Lucy shrugs. “Vibe seems off. Everyone’s quiet this morning.”
“It’s Monday,” I say, and that reply seems to satisfy her.
After all my goodies are packed away, I sling my backpack over my shoulder and make the short walk to Astor Park. It’s hard to believe that only a few months have passed since I started school here. Time flies when you’re fighting bullies and falling in love.
“Hope so,” the big man says.
And then it hits me, what Hunter’s really concerned about. He’s a scholarship student at Astor and needs a free ride for college. He’s worried my drama is going to scare colleges away.
“Scouts are still gonna come to the game to see you, Hunter,” I reassure him.
He looks doubtful, but Wade pipes up in support. “No doubt. They’re all salivating over you. Plus, the more wins, the better you look, right?”
That seems to satisfy Hunter, because he doesn’t voice another objection.
“See?” Wade says cheerfully. “’S’all good. So let’s just go practice our nuts off and compare notes about who we’re all taking to Winter Formal next month.”
One of our wide receivers snickers. “Seriously, Carlisle? What, are we a bunch of chicks now?”
With that, the mood in the locker room lightens.
“This is bullshit,” Ronnie snaps. “He shouldn’t freaking be here.”
Or maybe it doesn’t.
I stifle a sigh.
At Ronnie’s unhappy glare, East slaps his chest. “C’mon, Richmond, let’s do a few Oklahoma drills. Maybe if you can put me on my ass once, you won’t worry so much about the press.”
Ronnie flushes. The Oklahoma drill requires one player to take on another while the teammates huddle around in a circle. East hardly ever loses, and certainly never to Ronnie.
“Fuck you, Easton. That’s the problem with you Royals. You think violence solves everything.”
My brother takes a step forward. “It’s football. It’s supposed to be violent.”
“Gotcha. So killing a woman you don’t like is just natural for you guys, huh?” An ugly smile twists his mouth. “I guess that’s why your mother killed herself. She was tired of dealing with psychos.”
The thin thread of my self-control snaps as a red haze washes over my eyes. This piece of crap can say whatever he wants about me, but to drag my mother into this?
Oh. Hell. No.
I’m on him in a heartbeat, one fist slamming into his jaw as we both crash to the floor. Shouts break out all around us. Hands reach out and grab my collar and the back of my shirt, but nobody is able to haul me off him.
I hear a sickening crack. Primal satisfaction rushes through me when blood spurt out of Ronnie’s nostrils. I broke his nose and I don’t give a shit. I get one more blow in, a jab to his chin, before I’m suddenly wrenched away.
“Royal! Where’s your fucking head!”
Instantly, the anger in my gut is sucked away and replaced by a knot of anxiety. Coach is the one who pulled me to my feet, and now he’s standing there, his face red and his eyes glittering with fury.
“Come with me,” he growls, bunching his fist into the bottom of my practice jersey.
The locker room is as silent as a church. Ronnie is staggering to his feet and wiping his bloody nose. The other players are staring at me in apprehension. Before Coach drags me through the doorway, I catch a glimpse of East’s uneasy expression, Wade’s frustrated one, Hunter’s resigned one.
Shame churns inside me. Damn it. Here I am, trying to prove to these guys that Royals don’t answer every minor bit of bullshit with a fist, and what do I do? I bring out the fists.
Fuck.
6
Ella
Word of Reed’s arrest spreads like a prairie fire. While working the register at the bakery, I can hear the aborted whispers and feel the weight of covert stares. The Royal name is mentioned frequently. One fashionable elderly lady who comes in every Monday for a blueberry scone and a cup of Earl Grey tea point-blank asks me, “Are you that Royal ward?”
“Yes.” I swipe her heavy platinum card and hand it back.
She presses her pink-painted lips together. “Doesn’t seem like a good environment for a young lady.”
“It’s the best home I’ve ever had.” My cheeks burn, part embarrassment and part indignation.
For all their faults—and the Royals have many—my statement is entirely truthful. I’ve never had it better. For the first seventeen years of my life, I lived with my flighty mother, one foot in the gutter, one hand reaching for the sky. At any given moment, I wasn’t sure we’d have enough to eat during the day and a roof over our heads at night.
“You seem like a nice girl.” The lady sniffs, her whole demeanor saying that she’s reserving judgment on that comment.
I know what she’s thinking—I might be a nice girl, but I live with those evil Royals and one of them is on the front page of the Bayview News as a potential suspect in the death of Brooke Davidson. Not many people know who Brooke is, other than she was the sometime companion of Callum Royal. But everyone knows the Royals. They’re the biggest employer in Bayview, if not the state.
“Thanks. I’ll bring out your stuff when it’s ready.” I dismiss her with a polite smile and turn to the next patron, a younger professional woman who’s clearly torn between wanting to hear the gossip and wanting to make whatever early morning appointment she’s all dressed up for.
At the wave of my hand for her card, she makes the quick decision that she can’t be late. Good call, lady.
The line moves on, and so do the comments, some hushed, some intentionally carrying across the small café. I ignore them all. So does my boss, Lucy, although her ignorance stems from busyness rather than deliberate indifference.
“Weird morning, isn’t it?” Lucy says as I’m hanging up my apron on the back hook. She’s elbows-deep in flour.
“Why do you say that?” I feign ignorance.
From the racks of cooling baked goods, I pluck an extra muffin and donut for Reed. If it were me, I wouldn’t be able to eat a bite, but that boy seems to have a stomach of steel. Apparently being accused of murder doesn’t faze him one bit.
Lucy shrugs. “Vibe seems off. Everyone’s quiet this morning.”
“It’s Monday,” I say, and that reply seems to satisfy her.
After all my goodies are packed away, I sling my backpack over my shoulder and make the short walk to Astor Park. It’s hard to believe that only a few months have passed since I started school here. Time flies when you’re fighting bullies and falling in love.
