Maybe this is why he doesn’t like to stay with his own parents.
“How long has this—”
Christian shakes his head, cutting me off. “I don’t want to talk about it. You looking for Thayer?”
“I was trying to catch a ride with Holden. I came with Valen.”
“Let’s go,” he says, nodding toward his Black BMW in the spot next to where Samuel was parked. He digs his keys out of his pocket, wincing with the movement.
“Do you want me to drive?”
“I’ve got it,” he says, his tone clipped.
Once we’re inside the car, he starts the engine and I pull the seatbelt across my chest. Neither one of us speaks as he pulls out of the lot, heading toward Whittemore.
“What are you going to tell them?” I ask, referring to his bruised and bloody state.
“I’ll handle it.” His hands tighten around the steering wheel.
“Okay.”
Shayne
When we pull up to Whittemore, the first thing I notice is that Thayer’s Hellcat isn’t here. A sinking feeling hits my gut as Christian pulls the car around the fountain, coming to a stop right at the steps. Unbuckling, I open the door and hop out, but I stop when I notice Christian doesn’t make any move to get up.
“You’re not coming in?” I brace one hand on the top of the door, bending over to see inside the car.
“I gotta go clean up,” he says, gesturing to his face. Oh, right. “Tell Holden I’ll hit him up later.”
I gnaw on my lip, stuck between wanting to say something supportive and not wanting to make him feel uncomfortable at the same time. I end up settling with, “Thanks for the ride.” I straighten, turning for the steps, hearing music before I’ve even opened the front door. I have my hand on the handle when Christian’s voice stops me.
“Shayne.”
I glance at him over my shoulder, but he doesn’t speak, a conflicted expression on his face.
“I won’t say anything,” I assure him.
He gives a sharp nod, his jaw set tight.
“But you should tell them.”
He drives
off without responding, and I push the door open, the music growing louder. I tiptoe upstairs, following the sound of “Go Fuck Yourself” into the second floor living room. I don’t know if August is around here somewhere, so I peek around the corner, finding Holden with two near-naked girls kneeling in front of him and a bottle to his lips. His stance is wide, pants around his ankles. His tie is loosened, and his dress shirt hangs open but still clings to his shoulders. One of the girls works his length with her hand and her mouth, while the other one pays attention to his balls.
I cringe, but I’m unable to look away, caught somewhere between disgusted and intrigued.
“Hey, baby sister. You’re just in time for the party.”
The girl sucking on him pulls back, releasing him with a pop, but she doesn’t seem embarrassed by my presence. A scathing response is on the tip of my tongue, but then I notice the sadness in his eyes, and the way he sways on his feet, just a little. He didn’t seem drunk at the memorial. Did he manage to drink that much within the twenty or so minutes it took to get here?
“Where’s your brother?” I ask, crossing my arms like I’m not affected in the least by the scene before me.
He gives a bitter laugh. “Six feet under.”
Jesus, Holden.
The girls exchange looks, clearly uncomfortable with the awkward turn of events.