Page 68 of Crush
The Weatherbys are your line. Your family.
I’m struck by the thought at the wrong time—as I toddle through the upper level of Briar mansion, my knees unwilling to support me yet, after what Thorne did to them. My inner thighs are sticky, but they don’t brush together as I walk, so I decide to forego a bathroom stop and go home to take a full shower instead.
It must be after two o’clock, but the Halloween party rages below, everyone shouting and laughing downstairs, hanging out with their longtime friends and passing drinks, dancing, getting drunk and high. I guess the fight between Thorne and Zeke is long forgotten, and they’re onto new fun. A tug of FOMO latches onto my heart, but I ignore it, setting my shoulders and heading to the painting that will lead me out of here. I chose what I wanted to do, and becoming entrenched in Winthorpe’s social scene isn’t part of it.
The underground holds more allure, anyway.
I wonder if Savannah felt that way, too.
Counting the artwork, I find the gold-framed acrylic painting of water against light—beautiful and at odds with its traditional, thick frame. I’m reluctant to admit its effect. Anything owned by the Briars is gorgeous on the outside but lethal if you look too close.
I take one last study of the paint-brushed girl breaking through the surface and diving deep before I unlatch the frame and slip in through the back.
Zeke’s phone provides enough light to avoid broken stone and scare away the rats and spiders that no doubt live here. I use it like a shield, swinging it back and forth. Concentrating on not breaking an ankle helps me forget how I left Thorne—haggard, rumpled, and confused. Exposed in ways I doubt he realizes. The open denial on his face as he tracked the marks he left on my skin as though he refused to believe my effect on him, that he lost control, is one of those memories I will put away for safekeeping until I need it again.
And I’ll use it. As much as I’m hot for Thorne Briar, he’s still my enemy.
A noise draws me out of my thoughts. Halting, I use the phone’s flashlight, a beam of yellow bouncing off the cracked, gray walls.
Another pebble skips across the uneven ground, then the sound of a shoe scuffing against concrete.
“Fuuuuuuuuck.”
I whip the phone toward the voice. “Hello? Come out, asshole.”
“Em … Ember?”
His voice is mostly air, but the accent gives him away. “Zeke?”
I shoot forward, dodging the cracks in the floor, then think to hell with it and kick off my heels.
My spotlight falls on a curled form against the wall, moaning and mumbling incomprehensible words.
“Zeke?” I ask again, coming to a crouch and grabbing his shoulder. “Are you okay?”
I turn him gently into the beam of light. His short hair is slick and wet on one side, his eye mask askew. A nasty scratch mars one cheekbone, and the opposite eye looks more purple than not. He’s also currently using his cape as a blanket while he shivers underneath it.
“Shit.” I cup his better cheek. “Zeke? Can you hear me?”
“Mm.” He blinks, then shifts against the wall, angling his torso toward me. “You should see the other guy.”
I did. And he’s not nearly as battered as you. I staunch the thought. “What did Thorne do to you? We need to get you to the emergency room like now.”
“No, no, no.” Zeke flaps his arm in my direction while making a meager attempt to focus on me with the flashlight blasting his face. “Paps will hear about it and descend like vultures. I don’t want the press. Not unless Thorne looks worse. Does he look worse? Did I get him?”
Wincing, I pat his head. “You sure did.”
“Good. Prick. He messed up my face. Do you know how expensive this mug is? I have to film in a month. He’ll be paying for any delays with his goddamned fingers. I’ll cut them off myself.”
“How about we decide not to choose violence and get you some ice and a bed?”
Grunting, Zeke concedes my request by allowing me to tuck under his arm and try to lift him. We fall on our asses a few times, Zeke complaining loudly, but eventually, get upright.
“Did you crack a rib?” I ask him as we hobble out of the shadows. “Can you breathe okay?”
“That fucker focused on my prized possession. He left the rest of me unharmed.”
“Then why are you limping?” I can easily picture Thorne stomping on Zeke and blowing out a knee. He’s nasty like that, incapacitating a person before they can blink.