Brutal Boy by Selena

eighteen

Harper Apple

In Royal’s bathroom—yeah, he has his own fucking bathroom, and I’d bet every other room in the house does, too—I take care of my lip as best as I can. There’s not much I can do about it but let it heal on its own. If I were rich like the Dolces, I’d probably go get stitches like their dad said. But I’ve had worse, and they’ve healed, so I know this one will, too. I think about skipping the shower, since being naked in someone’s house is too fucking vulnerable, but I’m pretty sure our water got shut off at home today, so I might not get a shower for a few days if I don’t take one now.

A little thrill goes through me when I peel off my clothes. I try to crush it back down, to stop imagining him walking in, the way his eyes would darken with desire when he sees my body bared to him for the first time. I shake the thought away and shower quickly. When I finish, I pull on his t-shirt and my jeans and leave the bathroom.

I’m surprised to find the room still empty. My brain tells me to take this opportunity to go through his shit, but in truth, I’m intimidated as hell. It’s one thing to know he’s rich, to see his fancy car and clothes, to look at his house from the balcony next door. Being inside it… It’s like I’ve been swallowed by the beast. I’m in the belly. I’m in at last, at least physically.

Instead of wanting to poke around, I find myself wanting to get the fuck out of there, to run away from this reality slapping me in the face. His room is huge, with a giant bed, two chests of drawers with mirrors, an armoire, two bedside tables, a computer desk with a laptop on it, another long desk in front of the window, and a small table in the corner with two recliners and a TV mounted on the wall. It’s practically as big as my house. On the way in, he rushed me through the back door and down the hall, but I caught a glimpse of the living room, all high ceilings and leather furniture that probably costs more than my house would sell for. It’s too much. I’m out of my element, practically dizzy with the reek of wealth around me.

Before I can get my head on straight, footsteps thud in the hall, and the door opens. I jump, even though I heard him coming. This place has me crawling out of my skin. Royal stands there, fixing me with an accusatory stare. I feel suddenly guilty, as if I really did go through his shit instead of just thinking of it. This house is so rich it makes me ashamed for just existing inside its walls.

He steps inside and pulls the door closed. His expression is unreadable.

“How’d it go?” I ask, edging away from him. I can smell whiskey on his breath, and I’m not sure if I want to see what Drunk Royal is like. Sober Royal is scary enough.

“It was nothing,” he says, his voice flat. “A false lead like all the others.”

I want more details, but I know better than to expect them. Royal doesn’t share personal shit. What he told me in the car is like a fucking revelation, way more than I hoped for. I still can’t quite believe it was real, that any of this is real. I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole into Wonderland tonight, and I’m not sure I like it.

“You ready to take me home?” I ask.

“I’ll take you in the morning,” he says. “I’m going to take a shower.”

He grabs the bottom of his shirt and peels it off over his head, and even though I’ve never wanted to have babies in my life and probably never will, I swear the sight makes my ovaries seize up. Or something a hell of a lot deeper inside me than my pussy. My brain shuts down, all reason disappearing as he drags the hem over the deep, thick ridges of muscle in his abs. And then the absurd slo-mo porno soundtrack in my head screeches to a stop when he pulls it over his pecs, each one a slab of muscle the side of a fucking dinnerplate.

One of them being a commemorative plate with the face of a gorgeous girl on it. Just as I’d recognize Zephyr’s art without seeing his tag, I recognize Maverick’s work when I see it on someone’s skin—the painful attention to detail, the emotion captured in every line. Her face is delicate and ethereal, strands of hair floating around it, her full lips slightly parted and her haunted eyes staring out at me from the canvas of Royal’s chest.

He smirks when he sees me ogling his body like a fucking creep. “Enjoying the show?” he asks, slowly tugging his belt loose with one hand.

I tear my eyes away and feign nonchalance. “I just didn’t expect you to be the kind of guy who tattooed a chick’s face on his heart.”

“Heart’s in the middle, Cherry Pie,” he says, touching the center of his chest, over his sternum, and running two fingers slowly down the center of his abdomen between his eight-pack abs, toward his belly button. His belt is open, his jeans slipping dangerously low on his hips, until I can see the muscles that bulge over his hip bones, the sharp V carved below them, the point leading toward the hint of dark hair peeking out above his jeans. His skin is smooth and dark but ridged with veins, and a light trail of hair leads from his belly button downwards, as if every line on his body leads the eye straight to his cock.

I swallow hard, remembering the heart-stopping heat of it, the size of it in my hand, the way he tasted when I ran my tongue over his skin. My pulse throbs, and heat blooms in my cheeks and between my legs when he reaches for the button on his jeans, slowly undoing it and letting them fall. Even when he’s not hard, it’s impossible not to stare, not to marvel. Every inch of him is intimidating, commanding, and dizzyingly masculine.

He chuckles quietly. “Get in the bed if you want me to fuck you.”

He strides into the bathroom and closes the door in my face. My heart is stutter-stepping in my chest, and I shake my head, trying to clear it. What the fuck. I need to get myself together, not act like my mother, seduced by her own desperate fantasies to escape the hand she’s been dealt. Yes, Royal radiates power, oozes sex appeal, and would probably blow my fucking mind.

He’d also obliterate my heart, take my life, and walk away unscathed. Even if I made it out alive, he’s the kind of man you never forget, the kind who changes you so deep it’s in your DNA. The connection I feel with him, the obsessive pull of his magnetism, the knowledge that clicks in my brain, my heart, my bones… It tells me this is it, that this kind of thing is rare and comes along only once, if ever.

It also tells me not to be stupid, and there’s a reason it only comes along once—because if you give in to this, let it wash you away, you never recover. You never feel that way again because after the devastation, you’re incapable of feeling that again. Your soul knows you won’t survive it again, that the part you gave to him died when he walked away.

Because he will walk away. Men always do. They’ve been doing it all my life. Hell, before I was even born, they were already walking. And me, I’d end up just like her, a broken woman who chose the wrong man, one who never looked back, who left her to clean up the mess he’d made of her life. She never quite recovered, never found her feet or fit the pieces back together, and though she doesn’t hate him for it, sometimes I do.

I sit down at Royal’s desk and consider my options. This is one of those moments when my decision to not have friends seems really fucking stupid. I could call Jolene, but I don’t really want her truckload of rednecks coming here to gape at Royal’s house. He gets that shit enough at school. I could wait for the twins to get home, assuming they’re coming home tonight at all. Or I could go downstairs and ask Mr. Dolce for a ride.

Considering Royal was obviously pissed that we even met, I don’t think it would go over so well if he came out and found me downstairs with his dad. I could walk, but it’s a long way, and I don’t have any defense but my bruised fists. It would be pretty fucking stupid for a girl to walk home alone this time of night without at least some pepper spray, and even then, once you cross the tracks, it’s not a sure thing.

If he’s really not taking me home, I’ll sleep in one of the recliners. They’re probably more comfortable than my bed, anyway. Was this his plan all along, refusing to take me home so he could fuck me? But that’s stupid. He could fuck me and then take me home, or fuck me in his car. Is he really worried about the fact that he’s had something to drink now? I wonder how much he drank. Duke’s words from the bridge flash in my mind—he doesn’t care if he lives. He’s the kind of guy who would do something reckless like driving after drinking, so why not now?

Is it because he doesn’t want to drive drunk with me in the car? For whatever fucked up reason, he defended me tonight. Sure, I probably could have finished the fight on my own, but he protected me. He came back just to knock those guys out. I’m here because he didn’t want to leave me at the party, thinking I wouldn’t be safe. Which is so fucked up I can’t even comprehend why. His bed is a hundred times more dangerous than a party.

I’ve already decided I’ll sleep with him at some point. It’s inevitable. But that doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy, that it won’t mean anything. I’m not sure I’m ready to do it yet, even if it does get us closer.

Whatever his reasons for bringing me here, I need to do something. I’m bursting with energy and nerves, and I’m fucking in. Maybe not really, not in their trust, but this is the closest I’ll ever get to Royal’s outer life. I’m inside his house, his home, his lair. When he was at my house, the thought of him coming inside was instantly abhorrent, and there’s a reason for that. People’s houses, their rooms, their stuff, it tells you something about them. It becomes part of them, part of their story. Even a room like Mabel Darling’s, with no sign of her but what’s hidden in her closet, tells you something about her.

I spin around in the ergonomic leather chair and open his laptop, but of course it requires a password, so I close it again. Then I open his desk drawers, not really looking for anything in particular. It’s not like I’ll find a secret decoder for Royal Dolce’s screwed up psyche. Though his room is neat, his drawers are messy and chaotic, like he shoves all his random crap in there when his dad tells him to clean his room—papers, pens, mints, an old cellphone, Chapstick, gum wrappers, a yellowed paperback copy of The Great Gatsby.

I pick up the book and fan through the pages, but there’s no hidden note, no secret compartment inside. It’s just a book about some rich guy with champagne problems.

I hear the water shut off, and I slam the drawer, not wanting Royal to see me snooping.

He emerges in a cloud of steam wearing nothing but a towel around his hips. I gulp at the sight of him, but I’m not about to lose my head again, even if just looking at his body makes me wet. He glances from me to the bed, raising a brow. “I figured you’d be spreadeagle on the bed when I came out.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I say with a shrug, my gaze following the path of a drop of water that slips out of his wet hair, tracing the graceful, strong line of his neck to his shoulder, settling on his collarbone. Thirsty bitch that I am, all I can think about is licking the water off his skin.

“Suit yourself,” he says, turning to the dresser. Even his back is glorious, with ridges of muscle flexing when he moves, and those back dimples that make smart girls stupid. He pulls out a pair of grey drawstring pants made of T-shirt material and pulls them on, every movement fluid and casual, endowed with the grace of a guy who owns every inch of his impressive body, who recognizes and enjoys its power.

God, it’s like he’s trying to torture me. Every line of his muscular ass shows right through the pants, and when he turns around, I can see his cock hanging against them, just enough of it to tantalize. The fabric barely hints at the ridge around the head of his cock, but it still makes my knees squeeze together involuntarily.

“Fucking tease,” I mutter.

He gives me a cocky grin and shuts off the light, plunging us into darkness. I tense, but a second later, I hear his body hit the bed. My eyes begin to adjust, and I get up and move to the closest recliner.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“You expect me to sleep on the floor like a dog?”

“Don’t be stupid,” he snaps. “Get in the bed.”

“Yeah, not happening.”

He sighs. “We’ve already established that you’re the only one interested in your pussy. Just stay on your side and try to keep your hands off my dick for once, and we can both get some sleep.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s late, I took a beating tonight, and I’m too fucking tired to deal with your drama,” he says. “Get in the damn bed, Harper.”

I move warily to the bed and climb on, acutely aware that he can flip the script at any moment, that he can claim this is some kind of consent, since he told me to get in the bed if I wanted to get fucked.

His weight shifts on the bed as he rolls over, turning his back to me. I lie perfectly still, wide awake though it must be well after midnight. The room is filled with a silence as heavy as the darkness swallowing us. I blink up at the ceiling, considering whether to let myself fall asleep next to a guy who tried to kill me only a week ago. I can feel him breathing, can hear every rustle in the sheets when he adjusts his position. I wonder if he’s thinking about his sister, the pain fresh all over again. I think about how much that must hurt, that they never got closure, and any little comment can open the wound all over again.

This time, however inadvertently, I’m the one who broke the skin on it and made it bleed again.

At last, I roll over to face Royal’s back. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

He’s silent for a minute, and I think maybe he’s asleep after all.

Just in case, I add, “I know better than anyone that false hope is worse than no hope at all.”

“What, you waiting for your darling daddy to show up?”

“Maybe, when I was really little,” I admit. “But I never knew him. It was easy to let that hope die. It’s the ones that stick around that do the most damage.”

“Your mom?”

“Yeah,” I say, shifting my position to lie flat on my back. “It’s hard to let hope die when the person is still there, and you see the good moments along with the bad. When they do big things every now and then, like get you out of the trailer park and into a real house. You keep thinking maybe one day they’ll drop their crutches and make another giant leap forward, reaching for something better.”

“Harper?”

“Yeah?”

“That’s some poetic shit right there, but shut up and go to sleep.”

I laugh quietly, then roll over, scooting cautiously across the bed to wrap my arms around him. I curl my little body around his big one and press my lips to the center of his back. He doesn’t tense when I touch him, but after a minute, he rolls over, tucking me into the crook of his body. His arms are huge, and I feel both delicate and vulnerable with all that muscle wrapped around me. Then I feel his cock, stiff against my ass, and I’m the one who tenses up.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“You did it first.”

“Why are you hard?”

“Because you’re touching me,” he says, tucking his top arm around me so he’s cupping my tit in one huge hand. My nipples are instantly, painfully erect, and my clit throbs at the sensation of his warm, whiskey breath on the back of my neck. I once thought a girl would need some massive tits to make a handful for him, and I’m right. My tiny tit doesn’t fill half his hand. He doesn’t seem to mind, though. He lets out a soft, sleepy moan, running his thumb over my nipple and tightening his hips against mine.

He nuzzles against my ear, and I think I’m so fucked, I’m not going to be able to stop this if it’s what he wants. I drop my head back, and he skims his lips down the column of my throat and onto my shoulder, sending spirals of heat coiling through my body.

He lays his head back on the pillow and groans. “Now for the last time, will you please shut the fuck up and go to sleep?”

I can’t sleep, though. I’m all keyed up in every way, and as soon as I feel Royal’s body relax around mine and his breath go deep and heavy with sleep, I slip from under his arm and lie on the far side of the bed. There’s too much in this house, and I’m drowning in it—the shadow of his dead sister, the memory of what I saw the twins doing in another room, Royal’s hatred for his dad, and the mystery in all of it.

Finally, I get up and tiptoe to the door, holding my breath. I check over my shoulder, expecting him to be right behind me, ready to grab me, his eyes all dead and empty. But he hasn’t moved. I slip out the door and close it carefully, making sure it’s not locked from the outside.

Morbid curiosity wars with the desire to find out something useful as I stand in the broad hallway, wondering where to go now. Lantern-style lights line the walls between the rooms, but the only room I know is the one I saw from next door, which I’m assuming is Duke’s.

Royal told me all the doors were locked, but that doesn’t mean it’s true. I can’t bring myself to go in a dead girl’s room, especially when the memory of Mabel’s empty, barren room returns to me. I think about snooping in the twins’ rooms, but what’s the point? I don’t even know what I’m looking for. Just something to bring back to Mr. D, since I didn’t report back to him today.

But the best place to get information isn’t digging through old desk drawers or even logging into someone’s laptop. Sure, I could read emails and look at their social media and shit, but that stuff is all meant to be seen, at least by someone. I don’t want to know things I can find online. I want to know them, these dangerous, damaged Dolce boys who confuse the fuck out of me, most of all because I can’t seem to stay away from them any more than they can stay away from me.

I tiptoe on bare feet back toward the stairs. The house is so big it feels empty, even though I know at least two other people are here. From what I’ve heard, the twins haven’t come home, but they might be downstairs. My stomach flutters at the thought, but I’m not sure if the sensation is fear or excitement, dread or hope.

I step onto the cool hardwood at the bottom of the stairs and turn toward the huge sitting room. I can’t see most of the details, but I can make out the stone fireplace in one wall, a chandelier hanging high above, and a lot of leather furniture. On my left is a doorway that leads to what looks like a long, formal dining room with chandeliers above the table and a skylight inset in a ceiling I can’t even describe. Where I’m from, ceilings are flat or popcorned. This one has like crazy-ass molding and carvings and gold trim. It makes me feel like I’m dreaming again, like this can’t possibly be real. People can’t actually live like this.

“Harper, right?” comes a deep, accented voice behind me.

I spin around, my heart thudding. “Mr. Dolce,” I say, trying to sound normal, like I wasn’t just snooping around his ridiculous house. “You scared me. I didn’t hear you.”

He’s standing outside the open door to the same room he came from earlier, the warm light slanting across the hall and lighting up the edges of his form in silhouette. He slides his hands into his pockets and regards me from the dimly lit hallway. I can’t see his face clearly, but I imagine the suspicion etched there. “Are you looking for something?” he asks.

Shit. He probably thinks I’m down here to nick some silver.

“No,” I say quickly. “I mean, I just couldn’t sleep.”

I realize he probably thinks I’m fucking his son. Shit.

I don’t do parents. Why am I meeting all the parents of these rich guys, and why do they seem to actually want to talk to me? I’ve known Zephyr for years, been to his house a dozen times, and I could count the number of words his dad has said to me on one hand. Maybe rich parents actually give a fuck about their kids’ social lives. More likely, they’re trying to protect their sons from the gold diggers they must attract on a daily basis. When you have next to nothing, it’s easy to pick out people who want to use you, because you only have one thing they want. When you have everything…

“I see,” Mr. Dolce says.

“Royal set me up in the guest room,” I blurt. Surely a house this big has at least one of those. “In case you were wondering.”

Even I didn’t expect myself to freak out quite so hard when I met his parents. Not that I ever thought about meeting his parents, but damn. I can throw out the bitch attitude to anyone in school, even the administrators and teachers. I’m not the type of person who gets thrown off her game so easily, who gets flustered. But apparently rich parents are a line I can’t cross without turning into a complete dumbass.

“I see,” Mr. Dolce says again.

God, would he stop saying that? My palms are fucking sweating, and all I want to do is turn and run back upstairs. This was the worst idea ever. Who was I even wanting to meet down here? The twins, yes, but I wasn’t sure they were home. I didn’t expect their dad to be up so late. Maybe I was just going to walk around, haunting the halls like their sister’s ghost, waiting for her to talk to me, to tell me if she really bought a shitty car from a guy outside a liquor store in the middle of the night. Looking around this house, it’s hard to believe someone who lived here would want Mr. Hertz’s rattly old heap.

“Would you like a drink?” Mr. Dolce asks.

No, I don’t want a fucking drink. I want to end the painful awkwardness that’s humming in the air around us so hard I swear I can feel it making my limbs stiff as I dumbly follow Mr. Dolce into the room he was in.

When I get to the door, I see a large office, the walls lined with books. Now this, I could get behind. Maybe we’ve read some of the same ones. Fuck knows we have nothing else to talk about, nothing in common. What can I say to a guy who’s lost his daughter, whose son hates him, whose wife, if rumors are to be believed, ran off and left him without a word.

I pull my eyes to the long, fancy wooden desk where he’s standing, pouring whiskey into two crazy, double-walled, geometric glasses. God, even their cups look like they cost a fortune. That weird sense of unreality sets me off balance again, making me feel like I’m in a funhouse where the mirrors make the floor look slanted. Wonderland is not my jam.

I take the glass without thinking when Mr. Dolce holds it out. I was expecting him to pour me a glass of water and send me off to bed, not give me a real drink. Instinct kicks it, and my focus lasers in on him.

He’s attractive in a more seasoned way than his sons, but it’s easy to see where they get their godlike good looks. My attention goes deeper than the surface, past his hair that’s cut short and combed back to reveal a widow’s peak, his chiseled features and sleeves rolled up to show tan forearms sporting a Rolex on one arm and a simple masculine bracelet on the other. I read people—it’s what I do. So I narrow in on his eyes, a light hazel color that he obviously didn’t pass on to his sons, a slightly unfocused, glass quality to them.

Mr. Dolce clinks his glass against mine and takes a sip. “Like what you see?” he asks.

“I was just noticing how much you look like your sons,” I say, forcing a laugh, my whole body on high alert. As well as he holds himself, he’s drunk, or well on his way there. Not that I’m surprised—it’s got to be around two in the morning by now, and he’s sitting up alone. He must have had a drink with Royal earlier, and that’s why Royal came back smelling like whiskey. He was probably already drinking, and if I had to guess, I’d bet he hasn’t stopped. Suddenly, I’m not just edgy because he’s a rich guy and the father of the boys who torment and fascinate me.

He’s an intoxicated older man, and though I’ve had plenty of practice avoiding those, this isn’t one of my mom’s hookups. This guy has power. Not just because he’s an adult or a man, either. He’s filthy rich, and more than that, he owns Faulkner. He took down an entire family, the founding fathers of the town, who had plenty of money and power to fight him. And they were a big family, with cousins and uncles and distant relations all over the place. Through bribery and inside deals, he put his own family in their place and claimed the town as his own. He can do anything, have anything, that he wants.

Royal’s words flash through my head—You’re just his type. Almost legal.

If he wanted me… Well, I’m sober and could probably take him, but if I couldn’t, there’s not a damn thing I could do about it afterwards. No one would believe me. I wouldn’t even bother calling the cops whose salaries he pays, taking it to court before a judge he got elected, to convince them. The mayor himself kisses this guy’s ass. Maybe he’s a mafia boss himself. He’s quiet, but power lurks inside him, even scarier because it’s hidden like a secret.

This guy raised the three monsters who run the streets and enforce his rule like hired thugs. I know better than to say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, but I also know that no kid can grow up unscathed by their parents’ influence. Even the father I’ve never met affects me, whether I like to admit it or not. I’ve internalized his absence, categorized it as part of my worth. Every day I see ways I’m like my mother, and I consciously make an effort not to fall into the same traps. Everything I do is colored by her influence, and at least some of what those boys do is colored by Mr. Dolce’s.

The question is, which part?

“Don’t be shy, have a seat,” Mr. Dolce says in that New York accent that sounds so sharp compared to the southern accents I’m used to. There’s something about it that commands obedience, just like his son’s. I can see where they got their alpha dominance thing. I want to walk away, but something holds me there, some edge in his voice that says he won’t stand for any bullshit. I’ve never had a problem disobeying authority when I needed to, but this guy… He’s not just an adult, an authority figure. He’s like a fucking god.

It strikes me, too, that this is a great chance to get a different perspective for Mr. D. I’m not just talking to the sons of his enemy. I’m in the belly of the beast, after all. I’m staring at the living heart, the head, of the family. I sink onto the very edge of the chair, making sure I have a direct line to the door if he makes a move. Instead, he sits down behind his desk, leaning back and studying me as intently as I studied him when I walked in. “So,” he says, slowly circling his glass in the air with one hand. “You’re Royal’s little plaything.”

I cringe at the term. It’s bad enough when Royal uses it. Hearing his dad use it, knowing that he told his dad something like that about me, is all kinds of creepy.

He chuckles at my expression. “My sons don’t do a lot of dating,” he says. “Or whatever you kids call it these days. I’m sure you know that by now.”

Maybe not dating, but they do plenty of fucking around.

“So being Royal’s plaything, that’s as close as you’ll get,” Mr. Dolce says. “It’s a privilege most girls at that school only dream of.”

I bite my tongue so I don’t tell him exactly what I think of his astonishing ability to patronize a perfect stranger.

He stares at me for a long moment, like I’m supposed to answer.

“Well, I’m sure I’m flattered,” I say, forcing another smile.

“You should be,” he says. “You know, I pictured you as a blonde. You actually look a little bit like my daughter. The hair, I think. Her eyes were darker, though, like Royal’s. And she dressed better.”

Okay, then. He’s a straight shooter, I’ll give him that. Considering the mind games his sons play, it’s a bit refreshing. Most adults spew nothing but bullshit, empty platitudes and fake niceties. This guy doesn’t pull any punches.

“I’m sorry about your daughter,” I say, finishing the shot of whiskey and setting the glass on the desk. “I should probably go back to bed.”

“Stay,” he says, waving a lazy hand and pouring me another shot in the bottom of the fancy glass. “I insist. I usually only see my sons’ girls on their way out in the morning.”

“Lovely,” I mutter.

“Oh, don’t get worked up,” he says. “Royal doesn’t bring girls home like the other two. That’s why it’s nice to finally meet the one he’s been spending time with, see what she’s made of. What she’s after.”

I know he’s just looking out for his son, but it’s still offensive.

Or it would be if it weren’t one hundred percent true. While I’m not after money, I walked my ass down here looking for answers. For dirt. So I can’t exactly complain when he calls me on my shit.

“I just want to understand him,” I say honestly.

Mr. Dolce chuckles and rises from his chair, coming around the desk. I scoot back in mine instinctually, putting space between us. He stops right in front of me, parking his ass on the edge of the desk, so I’m at eye level with his crotch. Resting his hands on the edge of the desk next to his hips, he leans down toward me. “You darling girl,” he says with a patronizing smirk. “Dolce men are too complicated for the likes of you to understand. There’s only one thing you need to remember. Give us what we want, for as long as we want it. When we’re done, keep your mouth shut, let us forget your existence, and your life can go on as you like.”

I swallow hard, knowing a threat when I hear one, even if it comes from smiling lips and is delivered in a purr of a voice. I grip the arms of the chair, cursing myself for sliding back in it, so I can’t dive out of it without getting real fucking close to Mr. Dolce, close enough that he can grab me. But if he expects me to give him what he wants and keep my mouth shut, he’s in for a surprise. I don’t give people anything they haven’t earned, and even then, only when I want it.

Mr. Dolce leans back so he’s not in my face and picks up his whiskey glass again. “You look alarmed,” he says. “Isn’t that what all the girls at school do for my boys?”

I want to tell him to go fuck himself, that they’re Royal’s boys, not his. But they are his boys, Royal included. And he’s right. That’s all I’ve heard since I started at Willow Heights—how you have to obey the Dolces, that if they call, you have to let them do whatever they want to you. And though they must have fucked nearly all the girls at school, I really don’t hear much of it from the mouths of those girls. So they must be keeping their mouths shut, letting other people do the talking and spread the gossip. Even the Waltons, who are apparently gunning for the position of official girlfriends, have never told me they fucked the Dolces.

The closest anyone’s come is when Gloria told me how to recover from a blowjob from all three of them, obviously lying when she said she hadn’t been in my situation. And that was a private conversation between the two of us, and she knew I wouldn’t talk. Suddenly, I wonder how much of the gossip about the Dolce boys is even true, and how much is rumor and speculation based on what an outsider sees. They saw the Dolces take me to the basement, and everyone assumed they ran a train on me. They did nothing to combat that rumor, even though all that happened was one blowjob. They let their lore grow.

If I hadn’t seen Duke and Baron double-teaming a girl, I’d wonder if it was all fabricated. And even that was one girl. One time.

Again, frustration wells inside me, and I get that feeling that every time I find out something, I end up even further in the dark than I was before. Do I know anything real about them at all?

“I should go,” I say. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Oh, but we’ve barely started,” Mr. Dolce says, leaning forward and bracing his hands of the arms of the chair this time, caging me in. “Just because you’re my son’s plaything doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun, too.”