Thrive (Addicted, #4)(15)

Where I ran.

Where I became a thing to be hated.

Samuel Stokes showed up in Poppy’s life at fourteen.

I was only eight. I can’t imagine that he sees me as anything more than a delinquent, rich kid.

And then, within maybe a second, a fist raps against the door.

Connor goes to greet the person on the other side, simultaneously unbuckling his belt. When Connor constantly wears collared shirts and preppy attire, it’s hard to tell that he’s ripped. He has better definition in his muscles than me, and I work out a lot to rid stress—but running cuts my muscle mass down.

“You’re late,” Connor says easily, swinging the door open. Without paying much attention to Sam, Connor returns to his wardrobe on the bed.

“Try having a four-year-old throw a tantrum over her Princess Peach costume.” Sam walks further in the room, a travel-duffel slung over his shoulder. “I had to leave her at the Villanova house with Poppy’s mom.” Sam nods at Ryke and me in acknowledgement. “What are you two dressing as?”

I lean an arm on the television cabinet and swallow a smartass comment. “The Shirtless Wonder,” I banter. “With my sidekick.” I gesture to Ryke who hasn’t moved his ass off the chair. My brother raises his brows and sips his drink, sizing up Sam with a long once-over.

Really Sam can be described in two words:

Pretty boy.

When he was younger, he had the whole nineties grunge look down, his hair hanging half in his eyes, like he was part of the Hansons. Now his brown hair is out of his slightly unshaven face, dressed in a plain shirt and jeans—he’s the picture perfect representation of normality.

Without an ounce of humor, Sam says, “It looks like you’re going as Cyclops.” He motions to my navy and gold costume on the bed with a red visor: Cyclops circa 2010 comic book era. Before Bendis turned him into a villain. After he lost Jean Grey and had one of the strongest, most confident and beloved mutants by his side.

It’s this Scott Summers that I love the most. Somewhere between good and bad. Somewhere between a stiff and a revolutionary.

“Caught me,” I say with a half-smile.

He sets his duffel on the free bed and then glances back at Ryke. “What are you drinking?”

He shakes his energy drink can and then takes a large swig.

“Try this.” Sam rummages in the pocket of his duffel before pulling out a slim black can with a lightning bolt insignia. He tosses it to Ryke, who easily catches it in one hand.

My brother reads the label. “Lightning Bolt…with an exclamation point. What is this shit?” He inspects it like Sam handed him arsenic. And then Ryke pops the fucking tab and takes a sip.

I just shake my head. How has he not died yet?

“You didn’t know what it was, and yet you still drank it?” Connor says aloud. “Now I’m questioning our friendship.”

“Good,” Ryke says, “because I question it every fucking day.”

“I remember now, why we’re friends.” Connor steps into his costume’s black pants. “Every man needs a dog.” He pauses. “Lassie taught me that.”

I slow clap.

“Fuck you,” Ryke says.

“I thought it was a compliment,” Connor replies casually with a grin. “Everyone loves Lassie.”

Sam sits on the edge of the bed. “You’re holding an energy drink,” he tells Ryke, circling back to the point. “Fizzle created it. We’re unveiling the product in a few days.”

“It’s not bad,” Ryke says, scrutinizing the Lightning Bolt! can.

“Good because if you’re around Lily at all, you can’t drink brands from Fizzle’s competitors. It’s bad marketing.”

“No problem.” Ryke stands and tosses his old energy drink in the wastebasket.

We all concentrate on changing clothes. Sam rises and tugs his shirt off before unzipping his duffel. I become acutely aware that he has four years on Connor and Ryke and six years on me with the way he begins commanding the room. Confident posture, assured stance—a build that would suit someone heading into the army. Not that he’s ever going to enlist like his father and four brothers.

Sammy took another path in life to be with the rich and now the famous.

By the time I have the gold belt around my waist, along with tight navy pants and boots, Ryke lounges on the chair.

“You can’t seriously be finished,” I say, scanning his dark green leather jacket, a hood attached, and an identical colored crew-neck. Black jeans to top off his simple look.

Sam scrutinizes him. “Who are you supposed to be?”

“Green Arrow.”

I shake my head in disapproval. He wore the same exact costume almost one year ago—when I first met him.

“It’s the only thing I have,” Ryke says to me. “And what does it fucking matter?”

“I can see your face.” I point at him. “You can pretend your little hood will conceal your features, but the moment we hit the convention floor, people are going to swarm us.”

“I’m going to shave,” Ryke declares. “And I have black paint that I’m going to use for a mask.”

“Where’s your bow and arrow?” Sam asks, scanning the room for Ryke’s props.

“I left them at my apartment—”