Page 67 of Unlucky Like Us

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Page 67 of Unlucky Like Us

“I’m okay too,” I tell him. All things considered, this could’ve ended a lot worse. Sharp pushpins are littered across the carpet. Ben or Eliot could’ve rolled onto them, but they managed to avoid needles.

Ben scrapes a hand through his hair, eyes welling up. He says nothing as he gathers his collegiate shirt off the floor and jeans.

“What’s wrong, dude?” Tom asks him.

“It didn’t have to get that far.Thisdidn’t have to happen. I’m tired of seeing everyone get hurt—”

“We’re not hurt. I’m not hurt!” Tom shouts. “You should be more upset over the fact that you split your pants, dude.”

Ben tries to look backwards at his ass, and sure enough, there is a four-inch rip right down the middle, showing off his gray boxer-briefs.

Eliot stifles a laugh. “You tore the ass ofThe Ben.”

“Way to go,” Tom banters. “Mom will love that bare-assed fashion statement.”

Ben’s chest caves, his throat bobbing. He drops their humor like a fragile egg cracking on pavement.

Tom’s face falls. “Ben. I was joking. Mom won’t care.”

Beckett walks over to console their youngest brother, but Ben is quick. He’s already gathered the rest of his things, and he leaves. One of the bodyguards follows.

Tom exhales as the door shuts. “God, I never know what to say to him sometimes.”

“He’ll be okay,” Beckett says, bending down and collecting the pushpins. He still has Eliot’s phone.

I upright a mannequin and ignore the pain swelling in my mouth.

“Why’d you bring Luna into this?” Eliot asks Tom. “This isn’t about her.”

“This isallabout her,” Tom says with heat. “And she wouldn’t want you to burn everything to the ground in her name.”

“I’m right here,” I remind them. “Right. Here.”

Eliot spins to me. “Then you should know that I’m burning everything down inmyname.” He points a finger at his chest. “Mine.”

“What’s going on?” I ask both of them.

“Show her the video,” Tom tells Beckett, and after short consideration, Beckett rises and sets aside the pushpin cup to play the video for me. He lets me hold the phone, trusting me with that much.

It’s a five-minute video recording. Muted. Eliot wields a bottle of whiskey in one hand, and he’s shirtless, sculpted abs on display, as he talks to the camera with clear unadulterated rage.

“This isn’t role rehearsal, is it?” I whisper. He’s currently Hamlet inHamlet, a mega-big role for the fall, but if this has to do with me, he can’t be acting a part.

“It’s not,” Beckett answers.

“He wants to post this on social media,” Tom explains. “It’s a five-minute unhinged rant as he curses out his troupe.”

“They’re dead to me,” Eliot says.

Beckett catches my eyes. “Delete it, Luna.”

Delete it?

I’ve already deleted enough, haven’t I?

I can’t help but think if Charlie were here, he’d tell me to post it. Charlie and Eliot are alike in some ways—it’s the Loki in them, the destructive, mischief-wielding power they cradle and toss like bombs. But they’re also so vastly different.

My mind is whirling. “Why are you cursing them out, Eliot?”And what does this have to do with me?But an outward dread starts thundering down.




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