Savage Lover (Brutal Birthright #3) - Sophie Lark Page 0,1
the year 3000.
They look expensive.
“Where’d you get those?” I demand.
Vic doesn’t meet my eye.
“Traded my Jordans to Andrew,” he says.
I know when my brother’s lying. He’s always been terrible at it.
“You didn’t shoplift those, did you?”
“No!” he says hotly.
“You better not, Vic. You’re almost eighteen, that shit stays on your record—”
“I didn’t steal them!” he shouts. “I gotta go, I’m gonna be late.”
He slings his backpack over one shoulder and heads out, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
I finish my soda, scowling. I love Vic with every spare inch of space in my heart, but I worry about him. He hangs out with kids that have a lot more money than we do. Kids who live in the mansions on Wieland and Evergreen, whose parents have attorneys on speed-dial to bail their idiot sons out of trouble if they do something stupid.
We don’t have that same luxury. I tell Vic over and over that he’s got to buckle down and study hard in his senior year so he gets into a good college. He’s got no interest in working with Dad and me.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t have much interest in school, either. He thinks he’s going to be a DJ. I haven’t burst that bubble just yet.
I chuck the soda can in the recycling bin, ready to head back down to the shop again.
I spend another hour tackling the transmission. The owner of the Silverado doesn’t want a replacement—he wants us to rebuild it. Since we don’t know exactly what’s wrong with the damn thing, I’ll have to disassemble it entirely, clean all the parts, and check to see what’s worn out or broken.
While I’m working, I’m thinking about Vic. I don’t believe his story about the shoes, and I don’t like that he’s hanging out with Andrew. Andrew is the worst of his friends—arrogant, spoiled, and mean-spirited. Vic is a good kid at heart. But he wants to be popular. That leads to him doing a lot of stupid shit to impress his friends.
I wipe my hands again and grab my phone. I want to check Find My Friends to see if Vic actually went to the theater.
I pull up his little blue dot, and sure enough, he’s not at any movie theater. Instead, he’s at some address on Hudson Ave—it looks like a house. It’s not Andrew’s house, or anybody else I know.
Annoyed, I switch over to Instagram and click on Vic’s stories. He hasn’t posted anything, so I check Andrew’s account.
There they are—all three boys at some kind of house party. Vic’s drinking out of a red solo cup, and Tito looks completely sloshed. The caption reads: “Gonna set a record tonight.”
“Oh, hell no,” I hiss.
Jamming my phone in the pocket of my coveralls, I grab the keys to my Trans Am. If Vic thinks he’s going to get hammered with those d-bags, he’s got another thing coming. He’s not supposed to be drinking, and he is supposed to be working a shift at the Stop n’ Shop tomorrow morning. If he sleeps in again, they’re going to fire him.
I speed over to the location of his little blue dot—or at least, I speed as much as I can without overheating my car’s ancient engine. This car is older than I am, by a lot, and I’m mostly keeping it alive by sheer force of will these days.
It’s only a seven-minute drive to the house. I could have found it with or without the app—the thudding music is audible from three blocks away. Dozens of cars line the street on both sides. Partygoers are literally spilling out of the house, climbing in and out of windows, and passed out on the lawn.
I park as close as I can get, then hurry up to the house.
I push my way inside through the crush of people, looking for my little brother.
Most of the partygoers seem to be in their twenties. This is a full-on rager, with beer pong, topless girls playing strip-poker, keg stands, couples halfway to fucking on the couches, and so much pot smoke that I can barely see two feet in front of my face.
Trying to spot my brother, I’m not exactly watching where I’m going. I plow right into a group of girls, making one of them shriek with rage as her drink splashes the front of her dress.
“Watch it, bitch!” she howls, spinning around.
Oh, fuck.
I’ve managed to bump into somebody who already hated my guts: Bella Page.