Page 40 of Where Your Scars Meet Mine
“Where the hell have you been?” she slurs, peering at me with exaggerated suspicion.
The knot in my throat threatens to close again, but a smile stretches across my face anyway.
God it feels so fake.
“Silas took forever to leave the house,” I say lightly.
“Silas,” she mumbles, glancing around dramatically. “Where is that fine piece of a murderer at?”
“Chey,” I snap, sharper than I intend.
Her expression shifts instantly.
“It’s better for everyone if no one knows about his past,” I continue, lowering my voice. “Or that he’s my… brother.”
The word still feels wrong.
“Can we just forget about him? The last thing I need right now is to hear his name. Or see him.”
Cheyenne studies my face more closely then, some of the drunken fog clearing from her eyes. She motions for me to follow her away from the center of the room, weaving us toward a quieter corner near the hallway, before shoving one of the cups into my hand.
“Did something happen?” she asks quietly, eyebrows lifting. “After we left?”
The question lands like a weight.
Tell her.
Tell her about the hand under the table. About the car. About the way he covered your mouth and for a split second you weren’t in this neighborhood anymore.
“No,” the lie comes out immediately...too fast. “He’s just… damaged.”
The word tastes strange now.
“He’s going to make it impossible to get along with him,” I continue, staring at the clear liquid sloshing in the cup. “The less time I spend around him, the better.”
Especially after handing him pieces of my past I’ve never said out loud so bluntly. Especially after watching his face change when he realized exactly what kind of currency my mother preferred when she ran out of cash.
Stupid.
So fucking stupid.
Another weapon for him to use if he ever decides to.
The vodka burns as it goes down, sharp and warm. It settles in my stomach, spreading heat outward until my cheeks flush and the tightness in my chest dulls slightly. The second cup follows just as quickly when Cheyenne offers it without hesitation.
“Is he here?” she asks again, scanning the room.
“No more questions about him,” I mutter, tossing back the rest of the drink.
“Octavia!”
Maria’s voice rings out from the kitchen doorway. She’s already halfway through refilling her cup with whatever neon-colored punch someone spiked within an inch of legality. Her eyes find me, instantly lighting up.
Cheyenne and I weave through the crowd toward her, whispers starting up behind me as we move.
“Who is that?”
“What the hell-”
