Page 7 of Bruised

“Yeah? Well, it’s mine too, and if you don’t like it, take it up with Mommy.”

“She’s in Europe; she can’t do anything.”

“And you can’t either.”

Oliver glares at me, and I glare back. I didn’t want it to be like this between us, but he started it—first by waking me up, then by trying to order me around like a fucking prison guard. I just came from a place where other people set the rules, but here, I set my own kind of rules; I’m not about to let Oliver set them for me.

Oliver clenches his fists at his sides like a child having a tantrum. “What are you going to do?”

“With what?”

“With him.”

“You want to know details?” I ask with a smirk.

Oliver shakes his head. “Lane isn’t… Lane’s different.”

“Yeah?”

“You can’t just… use him and then discard him like he means nothing.”

“He’s over eighteen, right?” I ask casually.

Oliver sours further, and his voice cracks at his next few words. “Yeah, but it’s none of your business either way, ’cause you’re not going to do anything.”

“Well. It’s like I said, Ollie: I’m not about to take orders in my own house.”

Oliver shakes and trembles all over, like he’s about to hit me or something.

The thing is, maybe I would’ve left that goth kid alone if I’d thought he wasn’t worth my time. But now that Oliver’s so adamant I stay away, the temptation only becomes greater. Oliver should’ve thought of that before he woke me up and tried to act all high and mighty.

“Any other rules I won’t follow?” I ask. “Or are you gonna let me go back to sleep?”

Oliver’s mouth tightens, and he turns around like a dog with its tail between its legs. “I hate you.”

“Thanks for the warm welcome, by the way,” I tell him as he rips the door open and slams it shut.

Later that night, I’m in the kitchen trying to hunt down some meat. I’m sick to death of prison slop and the junk from the commissary. I could eat a whole cow.

I don’t find shit in the fridge, though, and the cabinets are filled with childish junk like chips and candy. Rolling my eyes, I grab one of the candy bags in lieu of anything else and start scarfing it down.

Oliver and Lane are in the living room, playing an Xbox game on the big-screen TV.

I watch Lane quietly, or more like study him. That mop of messy black hair covering his pale forehead, the black makeup lining his eyes, his slightly upturned nose, and that collar around his neck…

Oliver glances at me suspiciously, and the moment he catches sight of the bag in my hand, he shouts, “Hey, that’s Lane’s!”

Lane sends me a quick glance and then turns back to the game. I would’ve preferred his gaze to linger, but maybe he’s too shy. I kind of like that more, to be honest.

“It’s fine,” Lane says. “He can have some.”

“See, Oliver?” Smirking, I keep eating the candy, eyes firmly fixed on Lane. The sour sugar stings my tongue. Too sweet. Like him, probably. “Some people are willing to share.”

It might just be my imagination, but I see Lane’s cheeks deepen in color the longer I look at him. He’s gripping the controller too hard, his back stiff, feet tapping, eyes fixed on the TV, as if he’s trying not to acknowledge my stare. I can’t see it, but I feel him sweating. His throat bobs as he swallows and blows a strand of his messy hair out of his eyes, his jaw jutting out as he focuses on the screen.

I chew the sour candy, smirking as I stuff them one by one into my mouth. Candy bag in hand, I pass the kitchen island, and before I leave, I feel Lane’s gaze on the back of my head.

He’s Oliver’s best friend. That should be reason enough to leave him alone, but no one’s ever accused me of good decision-making. After all, there’s a reason I landed in lockup to begin with.