“Why do you care what she thinks?”

Hanging on to the side of the door, I spin to see Felicity standing a few feet away. She’s traded her Astor Park gear for some high-end athleisure. Silk Prada track pants and a cashmere bomber jacket. It’s an outfit that would look good on Hartley. I could buy it for her—I shove the thought away.

“It’s none of your business.”

“She’s not worth your time,” Felicity continues as if I haven’t said a word. “You’re richer than Bran. You’re better looking. You have better social status. It’s natural for the two of them to gravitate together. They operate on the same low sphere.” She waves her hand from side to side close to her waist. “You and I, Easton, we belong up here.” The hand moves above her head. “Together.”

“I’d rather stick my dick in the exhaust pipe of my truck than in you,” I reply, and climb into my truck. Felicity doesn’t move and I end up having to drive up on the curb to avoid hitting her.

That girl is operating on her last few brain cells if she thinks I’m ever going to get together with her. If she were the last woman on earth and I had to screw her in order to live, I’d throw myself into the nearest volcano.

But she’s right about one thing. I do think I’m better for Hartley. It’s not that I have more money than Bran, although that’s true, too. It’s that I’ll fight for her. Bran showed some interest in Hartley when she first showed up at Astor Park but after one talk with me, he gave up. He doesn’t deserve a second chance. I’m not done with Hart. I’m never—I slam on the brakes, having missed my turn to the hospital. I jerk the truck into reverse and whip it around in the middle of the road, ignoring the honking horns and angry shouts of nearby motorists.

I give them the one finger wave and shoot into the hospital driveway, leaving the truck in the valet lane. I toss the keys to the waiting attendant. “Easton Royal,” I say through clenched teeth and then whip through the front door without waiting.

I’m still hot when I reach Seb’s room.

“That didn’t take long,” Sawyer chirps when I storm in.

I throw myself onto the rock-hard sofa and flip on the television.

“Did you bring me a shake?”

“You said you didn’t want one,” I growl.

“I never said a thing. You told me you’d bring me a large.”

“If you want one so bad, get it your own damn self.” I jab the channel button and flip through the options—none of them are good. ESPN? Who wants to watch bowling? USA? Is that Baywatch again? How old are these fucks? MTV? Teen pregnancy? Thanks but no.

“What crawled up your ass and died?”

Hart, I want to scream, but I don’t because I’m not a baby. I’m a man and I don’t get torn up about shit like this. About girls moving on to other guys. About people who you care about giving up on you. Those emotions are for the weak and stupid.

I gave all that up when my mom killed herself. Her promise to love me forever lasted until I was fourteen. And Hartley never said those words to me. There are no oaths broken, no lies stated. She can’t even remember me. I’m that unimportant.

“This fucking room did.” I fling the remote aside. “We don’t need milkshakes, Sawyer. We’re not ten. We need booze. That’s the only way we’re going to make it through this shit.”

“Yeah?” He sounds intrigued. “But does the hospital allow that?”

He whispers the last part as if talking about it is as illegal as drinking it.

“How will they know?”

“Where are you going to get it?”

I grab my backpack and rip it open. Inside, at the bottom, are the two bottles of Smirnoff that have been clinking around in there since the last football game of the season. There’s only about a third left. I twist open the cap and offer the bottle to him.

“You carry around a bottle of vodka?” Sawyer says in surprise, taking the booze and tipping it to his mouth.

I feel a twinge of guilt, but I shove it aside. Is it that abnormal to carry around a little liquor? It’s not like I’ve drank anything in days—not since the accident. And I don’t plan to drive right now. I’m here until Ella shows up, and by that time I’ll be sober. A few ounces of Smirnoff won’t be getting me tanked. I might not even get a buzz.

“There’s not much here.” Sawyer swipes a hand across his mouth.

“There’s more in my truck,” I promise, because it’s true—I always stash a few extra bottles in the trunk compartment where I keep the car jack. Grinning at Sawyer, I tip my head back to pour the vodka straight down my throat.

Chapter 15

Hartley

It all happens so suddenly. The ice cream falling off the cone. Bran’s hand resting on my shoulder. Easton storming out. Every eye in the joint seems to be stuck on me. I don’t think I was ever the center of attention before my accident, because it doesn’t feel comfortable. I glance down to double check that my zipper is up, only to see I’m still in my Astor Park plaid skirt.

I’m all put together—at least on the outside. On the inside, I’m confused and shaky and want to sink into the floor. But in the two days that I’ve been back at school, I’ve learned quickly that a show of weakness is an invitation to be targeted.