The End Game

“I said no such thing. Now everyone eat before di

We begin filling our plates when Hattie walks into the dining room, a gravy boat in her hand. I give our housekeeper a wink. “Hey, Hattie. Thanks for di

Hattie’s lips twitch as she sets the gravy in the center of the table, but otherwise she doesn’t acknowledge me—not after seeing my father’s nostrils flare. She’s staff. I’m not supposed to thank her for something she gets paid to do.

“How was dance class?” I ask my sister as we eat.

Her bottom lip pokes out, and I know a complaint is imminent. A

“It sucked. Emily Simpkins did a ballo

“So help me, A

The light in her eyes dims, and she hangs her head. My sister needs to stop cussing so much, but I know she does it for the attention. They don’t pay her any otherwise. It makes my chest ache because I know how she feels.

I kick A

Our parents talk between themselves during di

My stomach drops instantly, and my knuckles whiten on the knife and fork in my hands. My mother’s query appears i

I glare at her. Don’t do it. Just let it go. Lie.

I draw in a deep breath and let it out. “Fine.”

Her brows rise and her expression is not only skeptical, it’s cold. “Fine?”

“Is that all we get from you, Brody?” My father joins in, and now I have the both of them double teaming me. Awesome. “We’re the ones sinking our hard-earned money into your education and all you can give us is fine?”

I might be attending CPU on a full sports scholarship but my father pays for the apartment, my car, and everything else. He wants to control what I drive, where I live, what I damn well wear, because the Maddens have a public image to maintain. God forbid I embarrass the family.

A

“The truth,” he bites out.

“Come on, Dad, really?” I force a chuckle. “You’re a politician. You deal in lies, right? I’m just learning from the best.”

His face reddens. I’ve riled his temper and that’s never good. I should keep my mouth shut, but I can’t seem to help myself.

“You want to know how it’s going?” I put down my knife and fork with a clatter. What little I’ve eaten sits heavy in my gut. I won’t be eating anymore tonight. “Two weeks in and I’m already flunking out. I’m going to take a stab in the dark and guess you both had that figured out already.” With hardened eyes, I turn a glare on my father, unable to restrain the sarcasm from my voice. “But there are no expectations, right, Dad? So you could hardly be disappointed. On the plus side, Uncle Patrick arranged a tutor because he’s willing to acknowledge just how low the levels of my stupidity go, so at least he gives a shit.”

My gaze slides back to my mother. A glass of chilled white wine sits poised in her hand, and her jaw is tight. She doesn’t like the reminder of my failures, so why she asked the question in the first place is beyond me. Every time a teacher suggested outside assistance during my formative years, my father always vetoed the idea. Knowing her place, my mother agreed. I hate that she’s so weak. I hate that she doesn’t care. I swallow hard, not allowing the hot prick of tears to reach my eyes.

“So yeah, it’s going great, Mom.”

Before I can draw breath, my dad reaches across and cracks his open palm across my face. My jaw snaps sideways, and I blink back stars.

A

I take a deep breath and fix steady eyes on my little sister. “Go upstairs, Moo Moo.”

Her bottom lip quivers. “Brody.”

“I’ll come see you again soon, okay? We can go out on the horses.”

She hesitates.

“Go!”

A

“What the fuck, Dad!” My mom flinches as I rip the napkin from my lap and toss it on the table. “Don’t you ever do that in front of A

Mom’s brows draw together, her expression stern. “Brody—”

Dad cuts her off. “Your mother asked you a simple question. Don’t treat her with such disrespect again.”

“I’m sorry,” I say with quiet sincerity. I didn’t mean to lose my shit in front of my sister. “I guess I just got sick of all the crap.”

“You little sonofabitch!” Dad shoots to his feet, his chair tipping and skidding back on the timber floor with a crack. He fists my shirt in his hand and hauls me to my feet. I stumble and my elbow bangs on the table, sending my plate crashing to the floor.

“You want to go at it?” he growls. My body tenses. It’s taking all my restraint to keep from shoving him out of my face. “Is that what you want? For me to smack some ma

He shoves me away—hard. My head smacks into the wall. I suck in a breath, feeling my brow split on impact. When I touch a hand to it, it comes away covered with blood. Dizzy, I lurch backwards, planting a shaky palm on the wall. It smears blood in a long, messy arc.

“Hattie!” my dad yells as I blink blood from my eye. “Come in here and clean up this goddamn mess.”

“Fuck you!” I slur, lightheaded and sick from the white-hot pain. Straightening my shoulders, I turn and draw back a fist, slamming it in my father’s jaw. Mom screams when the impact sends him sailing into the dining table. Dishes crash to the floor and food stains his suit.

I laugh. My knuckles are throbbing and my face aches, but I don’t care. All I can do is laugh, but it’s not remotely fu

“Get out!” my mother shrieks at me. Her face is pinched and her side sweep of blonde hair has loosened to fall on her forehead. “Get out of our house!”

Jordan

Two days prior…

Fielding messages from Brody, and the subsequent riot of butterflies every time his name pops up on my phone, I cut my Saturday morning run short. I don’t want to like Brody messaging me; in fact, I don’t want to like Brody at all—but I do.

After a long hot shower, Leah suggests going out for a late breakfast. I know a short stack of gingerbread pancakes will go a long way toward making everything better so I agree. But it’s not until we’re at a table, eating, that I realize Leah’s purpose for this little breakfast outing: pumping me for any and all information Brody Madden related.