Because Grace was my weakness.

And Appleton thrived on exploiting others’ weaknesses.

West: No retaliation. He’ll answer to me in the ring. Which reminds me—Grace cannot know about the fight with Appleton.

Reign: How can you keep this from her? Shit’s gonna sell out in a day.

East: Your friend here is not wrong, Westie.

West: I’ll tell her closer to the date. She’s got a lot on her plate. She doesn’t need to worry about this too.

Between finding a caregiver for Savannah, and potentially failing a semester, Texas didn’t need to worry about me. My plan was to spring it on her the day before the fight. Explain why I had to do it, even though I’d tried to get out of it, and assure her it would all be over in less than twenty-four hours. That way, she’d worry about me for a day, not weeks.

East: I’ll tell Max to keep the ticket sale on the DL.

West: Appreciate it. How’re things going with Tess, @Reign?

Reign: They aren’t. Her lady boner is still firmly directed at you.

East: She’ll come around.

Reign: And on my face.

East: Amen.

I wasn’t Tess’ number one fan after she’d been bitchy to Tex, but I was all for her hooking up with Reign. The faster she landed in the idiot’s lap, the less she’d bother Tex.

East: Talked to your folks recently, @West?

West: Negatory.

East: You’re the worst.

West: But I’m the best at being the worst.

I’d just sent them a few pictures of my new shiner and welts when Grace entered the room, patting her blonde hair dry with a towel after coming out of the shower. Her face was full of makeup, as always. I’d been with this chick for a while now and still didn’t know exactly what she looked like under all the foundation.

She was still freaked out, but fairly pacified since we’d called Mrs. Contreras and given her the rundown of what happened. We’d had to wait for the cops to arrive to give a bullshit statement before being promptly sent home. Mrs. Contreras was there, too. She went back with Sheriff Jones to the station to file an official report.

Texas collapsed beside me, kissing my wounded shoulder. I tucked her under my arm and gave her neck a soft bite.

She closed her eyes, her little breaths tickling my jawline. Her fingers trailed circles around the tattoo on my inner bicep.

“Who were you texting?”

“East and Reign.”

She cleared her throat. “That it?”

“Who the fuck else?” Had she missed the memo that I wasn’t exactly a social butterfly?

“Tess?” she asked quietly.

I snorted, stroking away ribbons of gold hair from her face. She looked so much like an angel, sometimes I wanted to run a hand over her bare back just to make sure she didn’t have wings.

“Green looks good on you, Tex.”

“Remember the first time we met?” She strummed my hair with her fingers, like I was a violin, her head tucked under my arm.

Of course I remembered. It was the night I’d lost the bet to Tess and bought everyone slushies and tacos. Tess and I had probably looked chummy that night. It was the same night I’d bent her over the Ducati and fucked her raw in the junkyard, barking at her to mind the paint. It made sense that we were cool with each other. That was how guys operated—we were nice to chicks we wanted to bang, until we banged them.

The morning after I’d twisted Tess’ gymnast ass like a pretzel, I gave her a ride home and got rid of her number. I was crude enough to make a stop at the food truck for the job interview, to make sure the position wasn’t taken.

“Vaguely,” I lied, mostly because it was pathetic to admit most of what I remembered from that night included Grace, not Tess. “Why?”

“Tess asked you what the tattoo on your bicep meant while I served you.”

My heart stopped beating for a second. She proceeded with caution and determination.

“What does the tattoo mean, West?”

I knew I had to tell her. That if I didn’t, she’d think she and Tess were in the same category. They weren’t. Tess was a one-night stand, and Grace … Grace was an every-night lay. A girlfriend. The first girl to mean something to me in a long while. She ought to have known that.

“A stands for Aubrey. My baby sister.”

“You said you’re an only child.” I felt her eyes fluttering open, her lashes flapping over the side of my chest like little butterflies.

I sucked in a breath. “No. I said I have no siblings. And I don’t. She died when she was six. I was seventeen at the time.”

“Oh.” The quiet around us was so loud, I wanted to rip down the walls with my bare hands just to hear the crickets outside. “I’m so sorry.”

What could I say to that? Thank you? I hated thanking people who didn’t help me. Being sorry for my loss didn’t bring Aubrey back.

“How?” she asked.

I felt my split lip reopening as I bit down on it. “Car accident.”

“Were you in the …?”

“No,” I snapped. The wound of her death was too raw for me to pick at it. “There you have it, Tex. Something you know and Tess doesn’t. No one does. Well, other than East. Can we stop talking about it now?”

She didn’t answer. Rightly so. I was being a prickly sonovabitch again.

A ten-minute silence stretched between us. I hoped to hell she’d never bring Aub up again, but knew that in all probability, she would.

“You okay?” I asked finally, when I felt her going under, surrendering to sweet slumber.

“Yeah.”

I knew it was a lie.

I still took it.

Grace

A for Aubrey.

It didn’t mean anarchy or asshole or any of the things I’d guessed as I’d tossed and turned in the nights we were just friends, trying to read the impossibly mysterious West St. Claire.

Aubrey. What a beautiful name. The pieces were finally clicking into place, creating an exquisitely tragic picture.

West had gone through one of the greatest losses one could experience. His parents were broken after losing their daughter, possibly being in the car when it happened, possibly even being the reason why the accident occurred in the first place.

West was trying to help them back on their feet financially, but he still hadn’t forgiven them for Aubrey’s death.

Yes. That was what happened.

I clutched onto my boyfriend extra tight that night.

Loving him with every piece of my heart … and a little bit more.

Grace

“Professor McGraw wants you in her office. Pronto.”

Lauren, AKA Blanche, greeted me by my pickup truck first thing in the morning. Her voice was hoarse, like she’d spent the entire month going through seventeen packs of cigarettes a day; she swathed a scarf over her neck, even though the concrete hissed and sizzled with heat beneath our feet. I wobbled out of my Chevy, making my way straight to Professor McGraw’s office, thinking, Oh boy, that can’t be good.

McGraw was waiting for me, her hands folded over her desk.

“You want redemption, Grace Shaw. To be a phoenix. Everything about you screams it—your bag, your flame ring, your tragedy. You carry yourself in the hallways, taking as little space as possible, waiting for the change to happen. But in order to turn into a phoenix—you have to fight for it. To take flight. Well, it’s your lucky day.”