Sicko(2)

I push off his chest, ignoring how hard his muscles are beneath his shirt.

“Give me my phone!” I place my hand out to him with the other on my hip.

“I heard that one of these little freshmen at school wanna take my sister out on a date…” he teases, and it’s then that I hear another voice behind me.

Orson’s whistle pierces through my eardrums. “Damn, someone new to the rules? Didn’t know that you can’t take little Miss Jade Kane out on a date without going through her big brothers?” Naturally, my annoying brother also has annoying friends who also annoyingly have claimed my—so-called—annoying ass. I’m untouchable at school. It’s not helpful when you wouldn’t mind being touched.

“He’s new. I will let him down nicely,” I plead with Royce, watching as his thumb hovers over my phone. He wouldn’t actually go through my phone, but if a text happened to come through while he was holding it, then I’m almost certain he would—Ding.

Fuck.

He tilts his head. I watch in sheer horror as his eyes fly over whatever words have popped up.

He glares at me. “Who is this little fuck?”

“What’d he say?” Orson asks, running his fingers through his dark, curly hair. Orson is a six-foot-six half-Mediterranean French, half-American basketball god, and one of Royce’s best friends. I’m not actually sure how they became so close, since Orson is talented and managed to graduate from high school top of his class. Royce isn’t dumb, but he can be an idiot. Yes, there’s a difference. Orson also just got drafted into the NBA, which only adds to his ever-growing list of reasons why so many girls want him. I had a serious crush on him for the better part of my life, until I watched the girls he’d go for. All so beautiful. Way out of my league. His smooth brown skin and dark green eyes were killer, but when he flashed his pretty smile, all the girls dropped dead. He and Royce had that in common for sure, but that’s about as far as the similarities go.

“He fucking said that he wants her to sneak out,” Royce snaps, his fingers flying over my keyboard.

“Royce.” I shake my head, scolding him. “I’m fucking fifteen. It’s a lot less than what you were doing at my age and you damn well know it.”

“Beside the point.” He glares at me, his thumb hovering over the send button. “I lived through all of my shit so you didn’t have to.” He winks at me. “I’m a good brother like that.”

“Royce,” I whine, stomping the sole of my Vans against the concrete.

Orson bounces the basketball between his legs and aims up at the hoop, shooting from the three-point line.

“You guys will never stop picking on her.” Another familiar voice comes from behind me again, and I turn to face the third boy to make up the triple threat—Storm Mitchell. Royce, Orson, and Storm have all been best friends since elementary school—which means yes, I’ve known them practically all of my life. Storm Mitchell was nothing like Orson or Royce. Storm was the smartest kid in our school and had an IQ to back it. He has never had a girlfriend—though plenty wanted him—and he always, always, had his laptop near. See, Stormy was going to cure the world of all their problems one day, he just had to create the right app to do so. Storm has blond hair, gray eyes—that match angry skies—and his skin is as white as snow. His eyelashes are thick, his teeth straight. He is perfection in a strangely odd package. I loved Stormy, even if he never smiled. You get used to it after a while.

“Yes,” I say to Storm as he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. “Royce is trying to scare a boy that I already said I would turn down.”

“Because said boy is trying to get you to sneak out after dark,” Royce sneers at me. The way his mouth curls has my mind drifting to how badly I want to punch him right in the face. “I’ll give you your phone back later.”

He turns to walk away from me.

“Royce!” I snap, but he doesn’t stop. “I mean it! I’m following you everywhere today until you give me my damn phone!”

Royce spins around and licks his lips. His lips have always been distracting. Bet they’re real fucking soft. I remember last year, Jessica Rueben slept with Royce, and then she went around the whole school talking about his—ahem—skills. She cried for months when he didn’t call her back after one night.

“Oh yeah?” He’s walking backward with an annoying smirk on his mouth. The fact that my brother is painfully attractive is beside the point and not at all helpful when it comes to him and I fighting. “Then I guess you’re coming on the boat.”

“Fuck.”

He disappears into the house and I turn to watch as Orson shoots yet another three-pointer. I didn’t want to go out on the boat with them today because I did actually want to sneak out tonight and meet up with Colson.

“You know, you gotta stop playing with the boy…” Orson teases, bouncing the ball with skill between his legs. His arms come up as he flicks his wrist, shooting the ball through the chain basket. “You’re dancing with the Devil.”

“The Devil doesn’t dance.” I stick my tongue out at him before storming back toward the house. Boat parties are something that all the rich kids throw and always end in a disaster. I hate going to them. I don’t drink. I don’t sleep around with boys—I’ll blame Royce for that—and for the most part, I’d consider myself a pretty good kid.