Brothers, right?

Fucking brothers.

Hunter growls under his breath. “Come on!” I learned about a year ago to stop giving into their games. I’d avoid them or just not play whatever they wanted to play.

It doesn’t always make things better, but it makes me feel like I stood up for something. Davis stares at me like I’m a little rebellious punk.

“It’s football,” he reminds me.

“Cool, you two play,” I tell them, heading for my bike again. “I’m out of—” Hunter tackles me, wrestles me on top of my bike, the metal digging into my kidneys. I grimace and thrash beneath him, cursing and trying to throw him off.

He lays his weight into me, his usual insult ringing in my ears. He smacks my face a couple times, the blows harder, and then I gather the strength to shove him off and roll out beneath him. I cough once, digging my soles into the grass, and then I stand up enough to grab my backpack and run.

“Garrison!” Davis yells. “We’re just playing!”

Fuck you.

I run faster, almost tripping as I reach the asphalt, and I look back once to see if they’re following, but all three of my brothers stay behind in the yard. I gather speed towards the main street, off Cider Creek Pass.

Then I slow down, my pulse never slowing with me.

I rub my hands through my hair. “What the fuck,” I whisper, hearing the sound of my shaking voice. Are you going to cry? Then I rub my throbbing cheek, the wetness apparent. “Stupid shit,” I mumble softly and then rummage in my backpack.

I collect a cigarette and lighter, putting the end in my mouth. I suck in deeply, and then I look up and realize how far I’ve sprinted and then walked.

I’m at Loren Hale’s house. It’s a mansion, not as ostentatious as my family’s. The lights are off, and the driveway is empty. I pace back and forth by the mailbox, smoking a cigarette.

I don’t know why I linger. My friends and I—we’ve pranked their house since they first moved to this neighborhood, and at first, we were just curious. Who the fuck are these people? we all thought.

They’re not famous because they did something revolutionary or because they acted, sang, and entertained their way into peoples’ hearts.

They’re famous because Loren’s fiancée is a sex addict. The heiress of Fizzle—a soda empire—sucked a lot of cock.

You know, I met him—Loren.

He caught me after I shot paintballs at his house windows, and my friends—they just left me there, racing off with their own paintball guns, thinking he’d turn me into the police. Being loyal, I wouldn’t have ratted them out.

But that night, Loren Hale let me go.

I don’t get it.

I don’t understand why he didn’t turn me in. He seems like an ass. He’s always glaring in tabloid photographs, not more than his half-brother, but still. He looks like a fucking dick—and he let me go.