Twisted Palace Read online

  5

  Reed

  “Think word’s already spread, bro,” Easton mutters under his breath.

  I shove my shit into my locker before surveying the room. Usually chatter and jokes are tossed around the locker room during our early morning practice, but everyone is quiet today. A number of eyes slide away, not willing to meet mine. My gaze ends on Wade, who winks and gives me the thumbs up. I’m not sure what that means, but I appreciate the support. I return the gesture with a brief nod.

  Beside him, our left tackle, Liam Hunter, stares at me. I give him a nod of acknowledgement, too, just to piss him off. Maybe he’ll come at me and we can work out some of our aggression on the tile floor. I lift my hands to motion for him to come forward, but then the lawyer’s admonition rings in my ears.

  “No fighting. No detention. No bad behavior.” Dad had stood next to Grier outside the police station, glowering as the lawyer reeled off instructions. “One wrong step and the prosecutor will be all over it. You have that assault charge for whupping that kid’s butt at your school last year.”

  I had to bite a hole through my tongue to keep from defending myself. Grier knows why I beat that boy’s face into a pulp, but I’d never hurt a woman.

  Though if there ever was a woman who needed hurting, it was Brooke Davidson. I hadn’t killed her, but I’m sure as hell not sorry she’s dead.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” a low, angry voice says from behind me.

  I pluck the athletic tape out of my gym bag before turning to face Ronald Richmond. “That so?” I say easily, taking a seat on the padded metal bench in front of my locker.

  “Coach kicked Brian Mauss off because he accidentally hit his girlfriend.”

  I roll my eyes. “As in her face accidentally fell onto his fist and she sported a shiner for three weeks and all her homecoming pictures had to be digitally altered? That accident?”

  Beside me, Easton snorts. I finish wrapping my hands and toss East the tape.

  Ronnie scowls. “About as accidental as you offing your dad’s trashy girlfriend.”

  “Well, then you’ll want to tuck away Brian the Abuser’s invite, because I didn’t kill anyone.” I give him my friendliest smile.

  Ronnie juts his weak chin. “That’s not what Delacorte is saying.”

  “Daniel’s not around to talk about shit.” My dad had that rapist asshole shipped off to a juvenile military prison.

  “I’m not talking about Daniel,” my teammate sneers. “Judge Delacorte was over having drinks with my dad yesterday and he said the case against you is open and shut. Video shows you went into the apartment. Video shows you leaving. Hope you like getting it up the ass, Royal.”

  Easton starts to rise. I clamp a hand around his wrist and drag him down. Around us, the team looks uneasy, some of them whispering to each other.

  “Judge Delacorte’s dirty as hell,” I answer coldly. He tried to bribe my dad to prevent Daniel from being punished. It hadn’t worked, so I guess now he’s coming after me to stick it to my father.

  “Maybe you don’t belong here.” Liam Hunter’s quiet voice slices through the room.

  We all swivel toward him in surprise. Hunter’s not much for talking; he’s all about action on the field. He doesn’t run with our crowd, despite the numerous invitations that I know come his way. He keeps to himself. The only person I’ve seen him hang around with is Wade, but then again, everyone gets along with Wade.

  I quirk an eyebrow toward my friend, who responds with a small shrug. He’s as clueless as I am about Hunter’s thoughts.

  “You got a problem with me, Hunter? Say it.”

  This time when Easton pushes to his feet, I don’t stop him. As for me, I remain seated. As much as I like to solve my arguments with a fist, the lawyer’s warning sits like a weight on my shoulders.

  “We want to win the State Championship,” Hunter points out. “And that means no distractions. You’re a distraction. Even if you didn’t do it, there’s still going to be a lot of negative attention.”

  Even if I didn’t do it? It’s a big step from beating some kid’s face in for trying to smear my mother to actually killing someone, but the entire locker room appears to be making that leap today.

  “Thanks for your support,” East says sarcastically.

  Wade decides to step in. “Reed’s a hothead. No offense, brother,” he says to me.

  “None taken.” There’s no point in pretending I don’t like a little physical violence. But just because I like to punch a few people in the face doesn’t make me a killer. “But since I didn’t do it, then this will all go away.”

  “In the meantime, there’s going to be a circus around here.” Ronnie decides to pick up Hunter’s train of thought and stupidly run with it. “We’ll constantly be asked questions about it when the focus should be on football. This is the last year for half of us starters. Is this the way we want to go out?”

  More than a few of my teammates are nodding in agreement. Status is everything to a lot of these kids, and graduating with a football championship under their belts will give them some serious bragging rights.

  But I never imagined that they’d hang me up by my nuts just so they can win a damn game.

  I slowly unclench my fingers. No violence, I remind myself. None.

  Sensing my patience is strained to the limit, Wade gets up. “Ronnie, we have all of a dozen reporters who cover our games, and most of them ride our jocks so hard, I don’t even need to get laid after the last whistle. Besides, Reed’s one of our best defensive players. Without him, I’m gonna need to score five, maybe six touchdowns, and I don’t wanna work that hard.” He turns to Hunter. “I hear what you’re saying, but Reed’s not gonna be a distraction, are you, man?”

  I shake my head curtly. “No, I’m here to play football, nothing else.”

  “Hope so,” the big man says.

  And then it hits me, what Hunter’s really concerned about. He’s a scholarship student at Astor and needs a free ride for college. He’s worried my drama is going to scare colleges away.

  “Scouts are still gonna come to the game to see you, Hunter,” I reassure him.

  He looks doubtful, but Wade pipes up in support. “No doubt. They’re all salivating over you. Plus, the more wins, the better you look, right?”

  That seems to satisfy Hunter, because he doesn’t voice another objection.

  “See?” Wade says cheerfully. “’S’all good. So let’s just go practice our nuts off and compare notes about who we’re all taking to Winter Formal next month.”

  One of our wide receivers snickers. “Seriously, Carlisle? What, are we a bunch of chicks now?”

  With that, the mood in the locker room lightens.

  “This is bullshit,” Ronnie snaps. “He shouldn’t freaking be here.”

  Or maybe it doesn’t.

  I stifle a sigh.

  At Ronnie’s unhappy glare, East slaps his chest. “C’mon, Richmond, let’s do a few Oklahoma drills. Maybe if you can put me on my ass once, you won’t worry so much about the press.”

  Ronnie flushes. The Oklahoma drill requires one player to take on another while the teammates huddle around in a circle. East hardly ever loses, and certainly never to Ronnie.

  “Fuck you, Easton. That’s the problem with you Royals. You think violence solves everything.”

  My brother takes a step forward. “It’s football. It’s supposed to be violent.”

  “Gotcha. So killing a woman you don’t like is just natural for you guys, huh?” An ugly smile twists his mouth. “I guess that’s why your mother killed herself. She was tired of dealing with psychos.”

  The thin thread of my self-control snaps as a red haze washes over my eyes. This piece of crap can say whatever he wants about me, but to drag my mother into this?

  Oh. Hell. No.

  I’m on him in a heartbeat, one fist slamming into his jaw as we both crash to the floor. Shouts break out all around us. Hands reach out and grab my col
lar and the back of my shirt, but nobody is able to haul me off him.

  I hear a sickening crack. Primal satisfaction rushes through me when blood spurt out of Ronnie’s nostrils. I broke his nose and I don’t give a shit. I get one more blow in, a jab to his chin, before I’m suddenly wrenched away.

  “Royal! Where’s your fucking head!”

  Instantly, the anger in my gut is sucked away and replaced by a knot of anxiety. Coach is the one who pulled me to my feet, and now he’s standing there, his face red and his eyes glittering with fury.

  “Come with me,” he growls, bunching his fist into the bottom of my practice jersey.

  The locker room is as silent as a church. Ronnie is staggering to his feet and wiping his bloody nose. The other players are staring at me in apprehension. Before Coach drags me through the doorway, I catch a glimpse of East’s uneasy expression, Wade’s frustrated one, Hunter’s resigned one.

  Shame churns inside me. Damn it. Here I am, trying to prove to these guys that Royals don’t answer every minor bit of bullshit with a fist, and what do I do? I bring out the fists.

  Fuck.

  6

  Ella

  Word of Reed’s arrest spreads like a prairie fire. While working the register at the bakery, I can hear the aborted whispers and feel the weight of covert stares. The Royal name is mentioned frequently. One fashionable elderly lady who comes in every Monday for a blueberry scone and a cup of Earl Grey tea point-blank asks me, “Are you that Royal ward?”

  “Yes.” I swipe her heavy platinum card and hand it back.

  She presses her pink-painted lips together. “Doesn’t seem like a good environment for a young lady.”

  “It’s the best home I’ve ever had.” My cheeks burn, part embarrassment and part indignation.

  For all their faults—and the Royals have many—my statement is entirely truthful. I’ve never had it better. For the first seventeen years of my life, I lived with my flighty mother, one foot in the gutter, one hand reaching for the sky. At any given moment, I wasn’t sure we’d have enough to eat during the day and a roof over our heads at night.

  “You seem like a nice girl.” The lady sniffs, her whole demeanor saying that she’s reserving judgment on that comment.

  I know what she’s thinking—I might be a nice girl, but I live with those evil Royals and one of them is on the front page of the Bayview News as a potential suspect in the death of Brooke Davidson. Not many people know who Brooke is, other than she was the sometime companion of Callum Royal. But everyone knows the Royals. They’re the biggest employer in Bayview, if not the state.

  “Thanks. I’ll bring out your stuff when it’s ready.” I dismiss her with a polite smile and turn to the next patron, a younger professional woman who’s clearly torn between wanting to hear the gossip and wanting to make whatever early morning appointment she’s all dressed up for.

  At the wave of my hand for her card, she makes the quick decision that she can’t be late. Good call, lady.

  The line moves on, and so do the comments, some hushed, some intentionally carrying across the small café. I ignore them all. So does my boss, Lucy, although her ignorance stems from busyness rather than deliberate indifference.

  “Weird morning, isn’t it?” Lucy says as I’m hanging up my apron on the back hook. She’s elbows-deep in flour.

  “Why do you say that?” I feign ignorance.

  From the racks of cooling baked goods, I pluck an extra muffin and donut for Reed. If it were me, I wouldn’t be able to eat a bite, but that boy seems to have a stomach of steel. Apparently being accused of murder doesn’t faze him one bit.

  Lucy shrugs. “Vibe seems off. Everyone’s quiet this morning.”

  “It’s Monday,” I say, and that reply seems to satisfy her.

  After all my goodies are packed away, I sling my backpack over my shoulder and make the short walk to Astor Park. It’s hard to believe that only a few months have passed since I started school here. Time flies when you’re fighting bullies and falling in love.

  Only Easton is waiting for me on the front steps when I arrive from the bakery. I frown, because usually Reed is with him, but my man is nowhere to be seen. It’s clear by the acre of space around Easton that the Astor Park kids are all up-to-date on their daily news. Any other day and this gorgeous boy would be surrounded by girls.

  “What’d you bring me, sis?” Easton jogs over to snatch the white pastry box from my hands.

  “Donuts, muffins.” I look around again. “Where’s Reed?”

  Easton doesn’t look up from his examination of the goodie box, so I can’t make out his expression. I do notice that his shoulders tense up a little. “Talking to Coach,” is all he says.

  “Oh. Okay. Like, a meeting or something?”

  “Or something.”

  I narrow my eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Before he can respond, Val comes strolling over to us.

  “Hey, girl!” She flings an arm around my shoulder. Either she hasn’t read the papers yet or doesn’t care. I’m hoping it’s the latter.

  “Hey, Val.” As I greet her, I don’t miss the relief on Easton’s face. He’s definitely keeping something from me.

  Val’s gaze falls to the box in Easton’s hand. “Tell me you have something for me,” she begs.

  “Chocolate chip muffin.” I smile wryly as she grabs the muffin and takes a huge bite. “Bad morning?”

  “You have no idea. Jordan’s alarm went off at five this morning and she slept through Katy Perry’s “Rise” for five repeats. I officially hate Katy Perry and Jordan.”

  “That’s what makes you hate Jordan?” In the chronicles of mean girls, Jordan Carrington might be the patron saint. There are so many things to hate her for other than her music taste.

  Val laughs. “Among other things. Anyway, you’re a goddess. And a trooper, because your morning must be a million times worse than mine.”

  I frown at her. “What do you mean?”

  She raises one eyebrow, which gives her already pixie-like face an even more elfish look. “I mean, Reed beating up Ronald Richmond at practice. Everyone’s talking about it and it only happened an hour ago.”

  My jaw drops. Then I spin around to glare at Easton. “Reed beat someone up? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He smiles around a mouthful of pastry, and I’m force to wait until he swallows before I get a reply. “Because it’s no biggie, okay? Richmond was running his mouth and Reed put a stop to it. He didn’t even get suspended or anything. Coach just gave him a warning—”

  I’m already marching to the front doors. I can’t believe Reed got into a fight and Easton didn’t tell me about it!

  “Wait up,” Val calls out.

  I stop to let her catch up to me, then take off at a brisk pace again. Maybe I can intercept Reed before he goes to his first class. I know he can handle himself in a fight, but I want to see him with my own two eyes and make sure he’s okay.

  “I saw the paper this morning,” Val says in a quiet voice as she keeps up with my breakneck strides. “My aunt and uncle were talking about it. Things are bad in the Royal palace, huh?”

  “Badder than bad,” I admit.

  We’re halfway to the senior wing when the first bell chimes. Crap. I skid to a stop, torn between hurrying forward to find Reed and making it to class on time. Val solves the dilemma by touching my arm.

  “If he’s already in class, his teacher won’t let you go in and talk to him,” she points out.

  She’s right. My shoulders sag as I turn back in the opposite direction. Again, Val keeps up with me.

  “Ella.”

  I keep walking.

  “Ella. Come on. Wait.” She grabs my arm again, and there’s concern etched into her face as she studies me. “He didn’t kill anyone.”

  I can’t even begin to explain how relieved I am to hear her say that. My own doubts about Reed’s innocence have been gnawing at my insides ever since he got arrested. I ha
te myself for even entertaining those thoughts, but every time I close my eyes, I remember his torn stitches. The blood. The fact that he went to the penthouse without telling me.

  “Of course he didn’t,” I force myself to say.

  Her gaze sharpens. “Then why do you look so worried?”

  “I’m not worried.” I hope my firm tone is convincing. I think it is, because her features relax. “It’s just…everything is such a mess right now, Val. Reed’s arrest, Steve showing up—”

  “What?” she exclaims.

  It takes me a second to remember that I haven’t even told her about my father yet. I didn’t want to say it over text, and there wasn’t a single opportunity to call Val yesterday because of all the chaos in the house.

  “Yeah. Steve’s back. Surprise—he’s not dead, after all.”

  Val looks a bit dazed. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Nope.” Before I can elaborate, the second bell rings. This is the one that warns us we have one minute to get to class—or else. “I’ll explain everything at lunch, okay?”

  She nods slowly, the stunned expression never leaving her face. We part ways at the next hallway, and I head for my first class.

  Within three seconds of sitting down at my desk for first period, I discover that Val isn’t the only one who’s seen the morning paper. When the teacher turns her back on the class for a moment, some douche leans past two desks to shout-whisper, “You can come live at my house, Ella, if you’re scared of being murdered in your bed.”

  I ignore him.

  “Or maybe that’s what turns your type on.”

  When I first arrived at Astor Park, I learned pretty fast that most of the kids here aren’t worth my time or effort. This campus is so gorgeous with its lush green lawns and tall brick buildings. It looks picture perfect, but it’s filled with the unhappiest, least secure teens I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting.

  I swivel in my chair, lean across Bitsy Hamilton’s desk, and stare directly into the douche’s muddy green eyes. “What’s your name?”