Lords of Pain: Chapter 19

I don’t know what it is between Dimitri and Tristian the following day, but things are notably antagonistic.

At breakfast, which Killian happens to be absent from on account of game-day matters, they’re both sitting at the table—talking about me, I suspect. I can tell, because the instant I enter the room, they both go conspicuously silent.

Dimitri is kicked back casually in his chair, watching me with bright, interested eyes. “Sweet Cherry,” he says, eying me up and down.

Tristian frowns. “You aren’t dressed yet.”

Embarrassed, I pull at the sleeves of my sweater. “I wasn’t sure what to wear today. For our plans, I mean.” It’s a Saturday, which means no school. But there is the FU game. People have been talking about it all week. Football is a very big deal at Forsyth.

“We have plenty of time. More than seventy-four minutes.” Confused about the odd emphasis, I look at him in confusion as Dimitri pats his thigh. “You can sit right here this morning.”

“No. She has to eat,” Tristian argues, pulling out the chair beside him. “I got you bagels with chia and flax today. Plus, a wheatgrass smoothie.” He gestures to what he’s prepared for me as if it’s a special attraction. Maybe in his own way, it is.

Dimitri gives me a look. “I’ve got greasy bacon, cheesy hash browns, and chocolate chip pancakes. Your call.”

Tristian clucks his tongue. “She doesn’t want to eat that garbage. It’s all fat and sugar and processed preservative bullshit. Come on, Story. I added some cinnamon to the wheatgrass, so you’ll like it this time.”

Knowing I definitely won’t, I’m paralyzed for a moment, surprised at being given a choice.

I almost think I see Tristian’s face fall when I round the table to reluctantly perch on Dimitri’s lap.

He laughs. “Look at it this way: more wheatgrass for you. How many sips is that glass? Less than seventy-four?”

I duck my head at Tristian’s icy stare. “Sorry.” Defensive, I add, “I like bacon.” It’s going to take a lot more than cinnamon to make that radioactive green goo appetizing.

Dimitri slides his plate closer to me, his other arm winding around my waist. “Don’t worry about him,” he says, lip grazing the shell of my ear. “If you want to put something in your mouth, then you should be able to.”

My face heats at the innuendo, eyes jerking up to catch Tristian’s eyes on us, narrowed.

All of breakfast is like that. Dimitri will say something flirtatious and Tristian will look anywhere on a scale of disapproving to outright agitated. I’m not stupid enough to think it’s a jealousy thing, but there’s clearly some sort of pissing match going on that I’d rather not be involved in.

It’s because of this that, when I go upstairs to change, I pick a short denim skirt to wear. Tristian will like it, and he’s already called me out on dressing for Dimitri in the past, so he’ll see it for the gesture it’s meant to be.

After a long, dreadful moment of consideration, I pull Killian’s jersey from the rack and slip it on.

Then, I take it off.

Groaning, I put it back on again.

I do this three more times before I finally bite down on my annoyance and follow through. It’s more like a dress than a shirt, but I knot it at the waist and slip into some heeled boots, and it’s good enough. I nod at myself in the mirror, oddly proud at having dressed for each of them, while also being appropriate for the occasion.

Later, I stand in the foyer and listen to them bicker about who’s going to drive. Definitely a pissing match. Dimitri might have won the one at breakfast, but this one goes to Tristian, who struts to the garage with a smirk on his face.

I slip into the back seat.

Dimitri does, too.

Tristian adjusts the rearview mirror until he’s looking right at us. “What the fuck are you doing.” It’s said in a carefully even voice, and not pitched as a question.

“You always get shotgun with Killer drives.” He rubs a hand over the back of the seat, stretching until it’s around my shoulders. “What can I say? I got used to being back here.”

If Tristian wants to argue, then he exercises some self-restraint by just pulling in a deep breath and cranking the engine. “Fine.”

The whole drive is awkward. Dimitri keeps walking his fingers up my bare thigh, chuckling every time I squirm, and Tristian keeps shooting us cold glances from the front.

It’s taken me some time, but I eventually realize there really are perks to being the Lords’ Lady. Privileges, outside my primary goal of being safe—of keeping others safe—from Ted. There’s the gorgeous home, obviously. Plus, having a housekeeper who prepares my meals and keeps my bathroom spotless. But all of that pales when we arrive. The three of us stroll right past the tailgaters outside and enter Mercer Field through a special entry. Right. The stadium is named after Tristian’s family. It explains a lot about his level of entitlement.

“I thought you’d want to be down in the fray,” I say to him as we’re ushered by security to what I’m told are special box seats. A plaque by the door shows the name ‘Mercer’. Underneath are smaller Greek letters. LDZ.

“It’s fun down there,” Tristian admits, sweeping his blonde hair back, “but up here we can eat and drink to our hearts’ content. And not that shitty junk food they’re slinging in concessions, either. I hand-picked the caterer and approved the menu myself.” The door to the suite opens and I see that there are already a fair number of people here. I’m struck by the spicy scent of the delicious-looking spread arranged across a long, linen-covered buffet-style table. Tristian’s right. It’s not shitty stadium food but instead, a gourmet meal.

There’s also a fully stocked bar, comfortable seats, and enormous TVs scattered around the room for a better view.

Tristian pulls me close. “More opportunities for privacy, too.”

A shiver runs down my spine, but it’s not out of fear of Tristian. Well, not completely. Things between us have been a little stilted since the lunch with his sisters. More accurately, since the ride home following the lunch. He didn’t take too well to being called out.

I’m just about to play into it a little bit—to pander, to mend whatever needs patched in order to make things run smoothly with our arrangement—when I see him.

My blood turns to stinging, sharp ice.

He’s across the room, piling his plate with Buffalo wings, and I watch on, horrified as he places one last drumstick on top and licks his fingers.

At first, it’s like all the air has been wrung from my lungs, too constricted to take in more. Then, it’s like I can’t pull in enough, gulping in a hard, shuddering gasp.

“Oh my god!” I whirl around to them, ducking my head to shield my face with my hair. My heartbeat turns to a thick staccato in my ears, drowning everything out.

Tristian immediately lifts up my chin and continues, “Well, if you’d rather not have privacy, I can manage that too. It may be a bit awkward with my mom in the room, though.”

Dimitri snorts, but I’m not really listening to either of them. For once, there’s someone else in the room that I fear more than the Lords.

Tristian slowly picks up on this, frowning as he ducks down to meet my gaze. “Hey, what’s going on?”

Frantically, I shake my head. “Nothing! It’s nothing.”

“You’re shaking,” Dimitri says, his fingers grazing mine. He looks up and around the room. “What are you afraid of?”

I glance back over my shoulder at the man. He’s moved over to one of the big TVs with a few other men, watching a pregame show. He’s not a bad-looking guy. Dark hair with streaks of silver at the temple. Straight but casual posture. Strong, aristocratic features and expensive clothes. I knew he had money—it’d been on his profile.

His Sugar Daddy profile.

“Do you know that guy?” Dimitri’s fingers curl around my wrist, tugging. “Story, how do you know Saul Cartwright?”

Saul is not the name I know him by, although it’s vaguely familiar. He went by DaddysAlwaysWright on the app, but if I’ve learned anything about online activities, it’s that people hide under many personas. I’ve considered more than once that DaddysAlwaysWright could even be Ted. That theory shakes me to my core now that I realize he’s at the University, standing in the same room. Can this be a coincidence?

Quietly, Dimitri demands, “Cherry, answer the fucking question.”

I take a deep breath. “That…guy. He was one of the men on the Sugar Daddy app. I sent him a few pictures and video chatted with him a few times.”

The image of him jerking off on the other side of the screen is burned into my memory. His fancy Rolex, jiggling up and down on his wrist, the deep navy of his slacks, opened wide at the zipper, the sounds he made.

“For money,” Dimitri says, dropping my wrist. The disgust on his face is clear.

“Or gift cards,” I clarify, feeling oddly stung by the rejection, “but yes.”

Lip curled, he makes it very obvious how he feels about the whole thing. “That guy’s in his fifties. I can’t believe you got off on that.”

I gape at him, chest swelling in indignation. It’s not fair that I should feel ashamed. These two have done far worse things, for far worse reasons. “What makes you think I…” lowering my voice, I hiss, “got off on it?!”

It’s Tristian who answers, and although his face is schooled into a perfectly passive expression, I can still see the distaste in his eyes. “Why else would you bother? You lived in a fucking mansion as the newest little pampered Payne. Killian does tell us shit, you realize. His dad would have bought you anything you wanted.” I’m not sure why he says it like that, all dripping with disdain.

But I know one thing. “You’re wrong.” So wrong, in fact, that I’m no longer shaking from fear, but anger. “I needed money. Money I couldn’t ask Daniel for. Money that I couldn’t earn fast enough doing anything else!”

Dimitri still looks doubtful. “Daniel probably wipes his ass with Benjamins. There isn’t anything you couldn’t ask for.”

I take a calming breath before my head explodes, looking around to make sure no one’s close enough to overhear my next words. “I was trying to run away.”

Tristian smiles indulgently. “Sure. You were trying to run away from a cushy new life of luxury and privilege.”

I glare at him so hard that his smile actually disappears. “Yeah, what a great life it was, with a stepbrother who tormented me every fucking day. I don’t know why anyone would want to get away from that!” It’s not the whole truth, but it’s more than enough justification. “I was in a rough spot and I did something stupid, but only because I was desperate. And if living with me for this long hasn’t given you even that much insight into my character, then you’re both a lot blinder than I thought.”

“And what? Now you’re scared of him?” Dimitri asks, nodding toward Cartwright. “What’s he going to do, take the money back?”

The sad fact of the matter is that my brief time being a sugar baby was the only time I’ve been able to use my body, my way, for my own gain. It was never something I was proud of, but it did have a way about it. A way of making me feel empowered. Coveted. In charge.

It was all fake. I know that now, seeing Cartwright, knowing that he could be the man who’s terrorized me for so long. There were consequences that I couldn’t have possibly have expected. Dimitri and Tristian have no idea. But now is definitely not the time to tell them about Ted, if ever.

I deflate, still hiding my face. “Seeing him like this, out here, it’s…” Softly, I confess, “It’s weird and uncomfortable. What if he tries to talk to me or something?” The ‘or something’ is intentionally loaded, just not in the way they probably read into it.

Tristian watches me, his blue eyes searching mine, contemplative. I’m not sure what he finds in them, but he seems to come to a decision, putting his drink down on the table. “Well, we can’t have that, can we? The good news for you is that Saul Cartwright definitely has more reason to be afraid of you than you do of him.”

I frown. “Why do you say that?”

“Because he’s the head of Forsyth’s Athletic Department. If it got out that he was soliciting sex from a minor,” Tristian laughs wickedly, “his whole fucking career would be over. He’s the highest paid man on campus, and you’ve got his balls in a vice, Sweet Cherry.”

Smirking, Dimitri adds, “And now, so do we.”

That’s why I’ve heard the name before. I just didn’t connect the dots. Nothing Tristian just said makes me feel any better. If anything, I could be in more danger. DaddysAlwaysWright—Saul Cartwright—is more powerful than I realized.

“I should go,” I say, panic rising once again at the thought of him so close. “Upsetting this party isn’t fitting behavior for your Lady.”

Tristian gives Dimitri a look before saying, “What isn’t fitting is for you not to be here, with us, your Lords, supporting another Lord who is about to kick some serious ass on the field. This is my box seat, Story. No one will shame our woman out of here. He’s the pervert.” His arm loops over my shoulder. “Plus, that dirty old man may need to understand exactly who you belong to now.”

“But—” I try, but Tristian heads across the room with an easy, confident swagger. I start after him, trembling in terror at the thought of a confrontation, but Dimitri’s hand lands heavy and strong on my shoulder.

“Stand down, Story. He’s got this.”

My stomach flip flops, sweat prickling at the base of my neck. Everything could blow up in this moment. If Cartwright is really Ted, then he’s about to find out everything—where I live, who I’m with, everything. I’ll need to get back to the house and…what, pack? Leave?

No.

Then I’ll not only have a stalker chasing me, but also the three pissed-off Lords I’d made a contract with.

Tristian approaches Saul Cartwright, resting a hand on his shoulder. It’s hard to watch, but my eyes are peeled, like watching a car crash. His head tilts forward and he says something quietly in his ear. Everything goes still and silent, and then, a moment later, they’re shaking hands like old pals who just finished a business transaction.

Cartwright turns abruptly, heading straight toward the door. I turn as he passes, cringing into the lean wall of Dimitri’s body. His hand comes up to cup the back of my head, pressing me closer. I hear the door open, and then shut.

Gently, Dimitri says, “He’s gone.”

Tristian walks back over, hands in his pockets, smug grin on his face.

“What did you say to him?” I wonder, heart still tripping over itself.

He shrugs. “I made it clear pedophiles aren’t welcome in the Mercer suite, and if he didn’t want to be exposed and lose his job, he should leave immediately.”

Relief floods through me—at least for the moment. I give Tristian a grateful, “Thank you,” but he shakes his head.

“It’s not necessary to thank me. You belong to us now. We protect our own. You know that.”

The weird thing is, I kind of do. It’s what I wanted when I agreed to this position, but I didn’t realize then how far that loyalty would extend to me.

“Tristian!” a woman calls, interrupting us. A blonde woman dressed in orange and purple has just entered the room. She’s not wearing the tacky stuff you buy down from the vendors outside the stadium. Everything looks very expensive, like she purchased her checkerboard scarf at some fancy Forsyth U boutique for rich ladies. “I wasn’t sure if you’d show up.”

“Hello, Mother,” he says, giving her a hug. Mother? Eager to shake off the tension of encountering Cartwright, I embrace the curiosity about the woman who spawned a demon like Tristian. Did she find the mark of the beast on his forehead at birth? Did she have to cover up cloven hooves? “Just running a little late. You know how it is.”

“Partying late this week, I assume.” Her gaze shifts past me to Dimitri. “Oh Dimitri, you’re looking as handsome as ever. How’s the music?”

“Mrs. Mercer,” Dimitri greets, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “Everything’s going well. My classes are a bit more complicated this year, but I think I had a bit of a breakthrough last night.” His lips curve into a grin. Despite our little spat, I find that it’s actually quite nice to see him smile, especially knowing that my lesson had something to do with it.

Mrs. Mercer pats him on the shoulder, her gold bangles clicking together. “Pushing through an artistic block is part of the process. I know the program is very challenging. Tristian’s father gives generously to the music school every year.”

“Mother,” Tristian says, placing a hand on my lower back. “I’m sure you remember Killian’s stepsister, Story.”

She finally settles her gaze on me. “Oh, Story! Yes, I’d heard you were back in town. I figured you might be another one of Tristian’s…friends.”

Her smile is pleasant but tight, and I can’t help but shift uneasily as she assesses my outfit. No one told me we were going to a fancy suite. If they had, I probably would have chosen something a little more dressy and a little less bleacher-friendly. “I’ve actually invited your mother and Daniel to the box today. I didn’t realize you’d be available, or I would have extended an invitation personally, of course.”

“Oh really?” I ask, fighting down a wince at the thought of seeing my mom. My mom and Daniel. This box is a certifiable circle of hell. “I haven’t had much of a chance to see them since I got back.”

“That’s right. You spent some time…away, didn’t you?”

“Boarding school,” I explain, but her tone makes me wonder if she knows about my disappearing act, too. The suspicious way she keeps looking at me makes me uneasy.

“It’s about time for kickoff,” Tristian says, hand pressing into my lower back. “I’m going to get a drink before the game starts. Anyone want something?”

“Count me in,” Dimitri says, heading to the bar.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Mercer,” I say, ready to make my escape.

“Same, dear.” She spins off, scarf fluttering behind her, and joins some other women her age.

When I catch up to the guys at the bar, Tristian shoves a glass in my hand. “Drink this.”

“Why?”

“Because you look one step past freaking out.”

“Why would I freak out?” I ask in a whisper, inspecting the brown liquid. “Because I almost ran into someone who probably still has naked pictures of me as a teenager? Or because I just got ambushed by your mom, who probably thought I was one of the tacky whores you sleep around with, but then realized I’m just Killian’s fucked-up little sister?” I toss the glass back, letting the cool liquor coat my throat in one big swallow. “Or is it the fact my mom and stepfather are coming, and I have no idea how to be your Lady in front of them?”

“Chill out, Sweet Cherry,” Dimitri says. “We’re not animals. We can behave in polite society.”

Maybe they can, but I’m not sure I’m able to. What I do in that house, with these guys…it’s something I’ve had to compartmentalize while I focus on staying safe. But around all these other people, I keep thinking about what Tristian and I have done all over campus, and what I did to Dimitri last night. Can people tell? Do they know?

Mostly they ignore me because the game starts, and everyone is focused on Forsyth U’s golden boy, Killian “Killer” Payne. Seeing his broad shoulders and confident stride as he commands the field triggers the memory of what he did to me on the hallway floor. I can feel his hot breath on me, the pain in my arms and legs, his scent, how red his face looked when he grew closer to—

“Story! Oh my goodness, I can’t believe you’re here, too!” Spinning, I see my mother and Daniel have arrived. I push back all the thoughts and plaster a smile on my face.

“Mom! Hi!” I give her a hug. She’s still elegant and thin, although she’s cut her hair shorter than I’ve ever seen it, curling around her ears in a tidy bob. She’s dressed in similar clothes as Mrs. Mercer. She’s no longer the hard-working single mom that had two jobs just to keep the lights on. She’s a fancy real estate magnate’s wife, from head to toe. “Tristian invited me.”

“What a wonderful surprise.” She takes in my jersey, eyes bugging out. “Daniel! Look, Story is wearing Killian’s jersey!”

“Well, look at that,” Daniel says, grinning. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

I tug at the knot, working around the fist in my throat. “Just trying to show my team spirit.”

“You look good,” Daniel says softly, “like things are going well?”

“They are. Really well.” I bob my head reassuringly, even though I want nothing more than to go hide in a closet somewhere.

Mom grabs my hand, gushing, “I’m just so glad to see you! I want to hear everything about college so far. How are your classes?” Her voice lowers. “Have you met any handsome boys?”

“Blair!” Mrs. Mercer calls, diverting her attention. My mother squeals and they hug like two teenagers. A moment later, her interest in my academic and social lives has been overtaken by a discussion about a fundraiser. Thankfully, Daniel seems bored of me too, leaving to find a seat with a good view of the field. The other men clap him on the back, obviously impressed with how his son dominates the field. The distraction is a relief. The last thing I need is her seeming like the doting mother, probing into my life. Even if Ted isn’t Cartwright, he’s still out there. Watching, waiting.

“Who knew our parents were such close friends?” Tristian says, sidling up to me. The smirk on his face tells me that he definitely knew.

“Yeah, who knew?” I suppose I should have. Tristian and Killian are so close. Why wouldn’t they be? “Isn’t it a little weird that we’re here together?”

He waves it off. “Don’t be so high school, Sweet Cherry. No one carries those old grudges into college. Plus, no one could blame us. Who knew little Story Austin would grow up to be such a fox?”

I shy away from his compliments, feeling uncertain and out of place. Everyone else here fits in, but I know I stick out like a sore thumb. Do they all know I’m the Lady? Do they know what a Lady is forced to do? If so, no one mentions it. Maybe this is just how things operate in their world, because I do notice a few other young women in the room. One is sitting next to Mr. Mercer and is acting particularly friendly.

“Who is that?” I ask Dimitri.

His dark eyes take in the blonde. She could’ve been one of the girls Killian tossed out of his room at the party. “Oh, that’s Ruthie Jones. She’s Mercer’s side-piece.”

“Side piece? Here?”

I have so many questions.

He shrugs. “Things operate differently with rich people, you know that. Mistresses, lovers, sugar babies,” his eyebrow lifts, “it’s part of the lifestyle.”

“But what about his wife?” She’s right there!

“I’m sure she’ll get back at him by getting railed by her tennis coach tomorrow.”

“Jesus.”

“Story, we live in a mansion with a housekeeper, personal lawyer, and a sexually indentured servant. You’re just now figuring out things operate differently around here?” He gives me an incredulous look and then heads back over to the bar for another drink.

I try to adjust to the new normal of my life. Does my mom know about all of this? Does Daniel? I think back to Killian’s threat that he had leverage on my mom. God only knows.

Despite everything, spirits continue to rise as the game proceeds, and then bubbles right over when Forsyth wins. Mr. Mercer has the staff pass around champagne, toasting Killian’s leadership. Even after the field and stadium clear, there’s no sign of this little party ending. I’m starting to feel a little tipsy from all the drinks and more than once rely on Tristian to keep me standing upright.

“How about you and I go score a touchdown of our own,” he whispers in my ear. “You can show me your pom-poms.”

I roll my eyes, buzzed enough to feel okay about saying, “You’re ridiculous. Don’t you think someone would notice if we suddenly went missing?”

“Do you think I care?” I know he doesn’t, and when he snakes his hand up under my shirt while my mother—Jesus, and his mother—are two feet away, he proves it. “I know you wore this for me,” he says, nosing into the space behind my ear.

Before I have a chance to decide if I’m going to fight him off or not, the door opens and Killian enters the room.

Now, it’s definitely a certifiable circle of hell.

He’s cleaned up, wearing an FU sweatshirt and jogging pants. His hair is damp from the shower. Even with my family here, I feel uncomfortable—like I don’t belong. These are his people, not mine, and I know he doesn’t want me anywhere around him. He never has. Unfortunately, as he steps into the suite, mine seem to be the first eyes he meets. I shift anxiously under the weight of it, especially when it drops down, taking in the jersey I’m wearing.

Killian stares.

And stares.

And stares.

A moment later, he’s swarmed—first by his dad, then the other adults, congratulating him on a good win. Someone presses a beer in his hand while a large, older man claps him on the shoulder. I take the opportunity to escape, but before I can, my mom grabs my arm and pulls me over. In what I have to consider an orchestrated move, Daniel has done the same with Killian.

“I’m so glad to see you two getting along better now,” Daniel says once we’re in a tight circle. “I know things were rocky for you two back in high school, but a little space and some maturing has probably helped you both.”

Killian doesn’t answer, but even though he looks at me, it’s without the aggression and open hostility I’m used to. Instead, he just looks tired and hard and massively confused.

“I have a great idea,” she says, eyes lighting up, “how about the two of you come to dinner tomorrow night?”

“Dinner?” I ask. An image of the four of us, gathered around a table in stiflingly uncomfortable silence comes to mine. And that’s a best-case scenario. “At the house? Together?”

Killian rubs the back of his neck. “I actually think I have a—”

“No excuses,” Daniel says, holding up his hands. “We finally have our family back in one place. I think it’s time to celebrate.”

It’s a terrible idea, Killian and I, back at home together after all these years. He didn’t behave himself then, and he doesn’t behave himself now. Just accepting the invitation would be putting myself at risk for personal harm. At least back in the Lords’ house, I have Dimitri and Tristian as buffers.

Killian is the greater of three evils.

‘No,’ is on the tip of my tongue, but my mom is looking at me with such hope. It’d need to be a really good and convincing excuse. Stupidly, I look to Killian for a life raft.

He just stares back at me.

Biting back a sigh that’s sure to be full of misery, I say, “Sure. I think that sounds great.”

My mom gives me a tight hug around the neck and everyone looks at Killian for his response. He glances at his father, mouth pressed into a tight, unhappy line, and grunts out a curt, “Fine.” He turns to me, eyes boring into mine, and adds, “How about I give you a ride tomorrow, Story? We can catch up on the way.”

“Perfect,” my mother cheers, hands clasped together, unaware that Killian’s offer to drive me has nothing to do with generosity. It’s just another opportunity for him to torture me.

And there’s no way out.