||Vicious||

Chapter 26

"HAVE YOU SEEN THE NEWS?" Rosie flopped on our small sofa beside me. The couch came with the place. It was small, but it was fun to sit on an actual seat when watching TV. Rosie clicked on buttons until she reached a news channel. A mansion we knew all too well was on fire, the roof collapsing into the dancing flames. I stared at it for a long time, knowing exactly what it meant.

Vicious.

When we were seniors, he'd set fire to La Belle, the yacht that was also a restaurant that belonged to another football player who'd become an enemy of the four HotHoles. Vicious liked fire. Maybe because he was so cold, he liked the warmth twirling in his palm. It had his signature all over it.

I grabbed my phone from the coffee table and jumped to my feet, dialing his number. I wanted to make sure my parents were okay. That he was okay. He answered on the fourth ring.

I stopped whatever it was I was going to say, because I heard he was somewhere noisy. A party? A restaurant? I heard women giggling and men shouting. My heart sank to my stomach.

"Hey," I croaked. "Is everyone all right? I saw there was a huge fire in your old neighborhood." I kept it vague because I knew there was no way he was going to tell me the whole story over the phone. Or maybe even ever. Tucking a lock of my lavender hair behind my ear, I clasped one hand behind my neck and paced the apartment.

"Your parents are at The Vineyard." He was curt, as always, even when he was chasing me every day. I made a memo to thank him for the taxi that had waited for me today, when he wasn't able to walk me home. "I'm taking them to LA tomorrow. I need someone to be in charge of the catering at the Los Angeles branch, and your mom's perfect for the job."

I closed my eyes, breathing hard. The last thing I wanted was his charity, but my parents weren't proud people. They just wanted to work and earn their way. I pinched my nose with my fingers, hating that I needed his help and was going to accept it, even after everything we'd been through.

"Thanks," I said. "Well, I'll let you go back to your party."

"Bye," he said, as if nothing had happened. As if he didn't save my butt...again.

"Wait," I hurried out before he hung up. The line was still there, but he didn't say anything. I rubbed a hand against my thighs. "When will you be back in New York?"

"Can you just admit you miss me? It's not that fucking hard." I heard the smile in his voice.

I cringed. I did. I missed him. I hated that he wasn't here today.

"I'm willing to give you your five minutes." I dodged his accusation.

"Ten," he argued. Even after all this time.

"Eight," I retorted. It was all a game. I'd have given him as many hours as he needed to explain everything to me.

"Terrible negotiator," he said in a tsking tone. "I would've taken five in a heartbeat. Good night, Em."

Em.A tentative smile curved my lips. I knew it would stay there for long hours afterward.

He called me Em.

On Thursday, I wore a white and gold floor-length dress to the exhibition, letting my thick wavy hair fall against my bare back. Brent rented me this dress—rented!—knowing how important the exhibition was for me. I couldn't sleep all night thinking about it. I tried to convince myself that it wouldn't be a big deal if no one bought my painting. It was going to be the first time a painting of mine would be on display and for sale in a gallery—a prestigious one too—and I was with some of the best artists in New York. I should've just been happy with the fact that my painting was there.