Page 68 of Shade
Am I being rude?
I probably am. You’re not surprised, are you?
I’m scrolling through my messages on my phone, most having to do with my reactions after the race last night and the reason for the tequila in the shower, I’m assuming.
Tiller’s checking his phone as well and chuckles at a replay of my run and tips his phone in my direction to show me a tweet from Red Bull. “Ican’tbelieve you won.”
“I can.” I point to the double backflip I perfected with a flare of my own where I turned it into a nac nac at the end. “I’m the best.”
Roan approaches, his heavily thudded barefoot steps slapping against the marble floor of the suite. He knocks me upside the head when he approaches and reaches for the one remaining cup of coffee, twists it around and glares at Tiller. Then his daunting stare sweeps to mine. “Why’d you lock us out?”
“I don’t remember locking it.” I toss my phone on my lap, bringing my coffee to my lips as I shrug. “I don’t even remember what happened.”
“I know what happened. You’re pissed they mentioned Rhya in the interview.” Tiller groans, shoving my shoulder. “It’s been seven months. Getoverit.”
I should, shouldn’t I? I should get over it and not think about her anymore. Should and actually doing it are completely different. I want to move on. I do. I don’t want to think about her any longer. She consumed my thoughts enough when she was alive, but now, even in death, her presence in my life is haunting.
“I didn’t realize there was a time frame on getting over your best friend blowing her brains out,” I snap back at Tiller, shoving him away from me. “But thanks for the advice.”
He shoves me right back, only harder and knocks me off the end of the couch.
As I’m picking myself up off the floor, I’m strangely focused on the fact I didn’t spill my coffee. Pretty sweet.
Roan rolls his head to the side, shooting Tiller a look that screams intimidation. “That’s enough.”
Do you see the way Tiller blows him off? You don’t know much about Roan yet, but you know about the scary motherfucker with the black hair and canyon-colored eyes, don’t you?
I’ll explain Roan later. Focus on Tiller for now.
Remember when I said Tiller’s mind is a scary place? We don’t poke the devil. It’s a rule with us.
Roan’s the exception. He can get away with putting Tiller in his place. Sometimes. There was a time when Tiller looked up to Roan. I think it was when he was like six years old and it lasted an hour. Long enough to get Tiller what he wanted, and then back to being a dirty fuck.
There’s always been competition between us.
We can turn anything into a competition. Hell, eating dinner is a competition. Most of our bets originate from things like, “I bet you can’t jump that.”
“I bet I can.”
“I bet I go higher than you.”
“I bet you I land it better. . . .”
You get the point. It never stops. Worst of all, we live together. All three of us with Ricky and whoever else seems to be crashing at our fifteen-acre playground in Pasadena.
Do you see the three of us sitting in the living room arguing? Get used to it. We do this shit all the time. And it’s more than arguing most of the time. It’s downright blood for blood, mutually destructive brotherhood at times.
Don’t believe me?
Just watch what happens next.
“No, it’snot,” Tiller defends, standing up and knocking the table in front of us over. He’s got a quick fuse, and when it’s lit, it’s a goddamn disaster. “He’s acting like an idiot. He doesn’t even remember what he did last night.” His psychotic stare cuts to mine. “You locked us out like a bitch.”
Do you think he’s pissed off I won in the head-to-head competition against him last night?
He is. Tiller despises losing.
“You’re the one acting like a bitch,” Roan taunts.
