shuhaige
Chapter 9
Phi
August 29
Peace does not exist in my life.
It is always filled with some form of mayhem. If not from my own actions, then it comes from my dumbass brother and the Caldwell twins.
I slam my car door, glancing up at the arrow-shaped neon sign jutting out above the motel entrance. Streams of turquoise and pink light pierce through the fog, illuminating every puddle on the asphalt as I trudge toward the front door.
There I was, minding my business, having a solo movie marathon, when my phone rang. Ezra never calls me, and fearing someone was dead, I answered, only to find out they didn’t have anyone sober to drive them home.
So not only did I have to change out of my Tardis-themed pajamas and put on real clothes, I also had to drive to the Wastelands to pick them up.
I will not know the definition of calm Saturday night until I relocate to Mars.
When I push the front door open, a couple of missing persons flyers trickle to the ground as the bell rings, the silvery sound echoing around the mismatched chairs that haven’t been replaced since the eighties.
I don’t think anything here has, including the small TV mounted on the lobby wall that is rattling with static, struggling to stay on.
“Welcome to Whispering Pines. Checking in or out?”
I glance at the battered front desk, a striking blonde sitting behind it. Her elbow is bent, chin resting on her palm as she mindlessly plays on the ancient computer.
“Just here to pick up some people.”
Three fucking idiots, to be exact.
She pops her blue gum, continuing to stare at the screen. “Still gotta pay a nightly fee. Fifty bucks. Cash only.”
“Right,” I snort, reaching down the neck of my cropped tee, grabbing the money stashed behind my bra.
Cash only, code for no paper trail for all the illegal shit they allow.
“Here to save the Heartbreak Prince from breaking his neck?”
My heart drops to my ass, head snapping up. “What?”
She’s looking at me now, fully aware of who I am. Her round cheeks turn a bright shade of pink at my furrowed brows, my anger swelling to the surface, making it clear on my face.
“Your brother. He—” she stutters, motioning with her hand toward the hall. “He’s been promising to flip into the pool from the balcony all night.”
I feel the tension in my shoulder release as my eyes begin to roll. Of course he fucking has. No death in the future for the oldest Van Doren, just stupidity. As per usual.
“Thanks for the heads-up…” I give a tiny smile, glancing down at her name tag. “Ever. Cute name.”
My palm meets the wooden counter, sliding the money across and toward her.
“Oh, thanks.” She huffs out a laugh, tucking a strand of practically white hair behind her ear. “Enjoy your stay.”
With a thank-you, I head down the hallway. Once you navigate this shithole drunk enough times, it’s a breeze when you’re sober.
The floor beneath my boots is uneven, tiles chipped and cracked. A chill runs down my spine as shadows dance along the dingy, peeling wallpaper. Every time I come here, I can’t help but think of how many people’s last memory is of this place, their entire lives frozen inside this eighties relic on the side of a deserted road.
After the state rerouted the highway, the lack of traffic made Whispering Pines invisible. It stopped being a motel and became a tomb.
The owner doesn’t care about new customers or town guidelines. It doesn’t matter how debaucherous the parties get, how stepped on the drugs are, or how brutal the murders are, as long as he gets his cut.
We party here, we wreak havoc here, but everyone knows the golden rule.
You stay the night, you wake up missing.
Pushing open the heavy metal door at the end of the hallway, I immediately feel the atmosphere shift. Unlike the dying lobby, the courtyard is screaming with life.
It’s heady, dirty, adrenaline-laced trouble. The only good things about West Trinity Falls. That itch beneath my skin builds, begging me to scratch it, to find a blunt and trouble.
But I can’t ’cause I’m on babysitting duty tonight, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little bummed about it.
Moving from the doorway, I fight the urge to groan. None of them are answering their phones, so finding them is going to be like collecting fucking infinity stones.
I give a few waves to Ponderosa Springs’s locals lounging under worn umbrellas, asking some of them if they’ve seen any of my guys. Which is a stupid move because everyone is so trashed I doubt they even know where they are.
Pausing by the pool’s edge, I scan the U-shaped layout. It’s a blur of movement and flashing lights, pumped full of reckless abandon, and the air smells of sex fused with weed.
I need a fucking blunt. I am far too sober for this shit.
A scream comes from the pool, drawing my attention. Girls bathed in an erratic neon glow are wrestling for each other’s tops in the water. Sharp whistles come from the balconies of the second floor, horny dudes leaning over the rusty railings, cheering on their antics.
When I glance across the rectangular pool, I hit the jackpot. Or a partial jackpot.
Ezra Caldwell is sitting under a fake palm tree, a blunt in his lips, leaning against the plastic tree trunk, eyes closed in his own little world. I should have known he’d be in whatever spot had the least amount of people.
I call his name a few times, but he doesn’t budge, just sits there coated in a pink neon light as he blows out a cloud of smoke. It’s not until I walk over and kick his black combat boots that his dark eyes pop open.
Red-rimmed and shining, as always.
“Phi?”
“No, it’s the goddamn Easter Bunny,” I shout above the music, taking a step back as he stands. “What the hell happened, Ez?”
“I just finished a gig at the Grove. Reign was supposed to DD.” His lips twitch as he continues. “So I hit a dab, and after that, it’s a little blurry how we ended up here.”
My gut twists, knowing this isn’t the time or the place to say anything, but I can’t fucking remember a time when Ezra wasn’t high on something.
So instead of pissing him off by bitching him out while he’s stoned, I work on finding the next infinity stone.
“Where is Atlas?”
He runs a hand across the top of his black faux hawk. “I’m a twin, not a fucking GPS.”
“Cut the attitude, jackass. Where is he?”
“Room thirteen, last I saw.”
Yeah, that’s what I thought.
The Caldwell twins have been a constant presence in my life since I was a baby. I know both of them the same way I know my siblings, and while they share similar features, they couldn’t be more different.
Both have their father’s inky-black hair and mother’s smile. They have the same nose and freckles, but that’s where the similarities end. Atlas exudes warmth, lighthearted and open. Meanwhile, Ezra has always preferred the dark, followed by an air of mystery and forever keeping people at arm’s length.
Two sides of the same coin.
The infamous Saint and Shadow.
The two of them may not get along all the time, but no one is more protective than Ezra and Atlas. They’ll have each other’s back till the grave. Not even their conflicting personalities could tear that bond apart.
“Reign! Reign! Reign!”
My spine goes ramrod straight the moment the speakers start blaring some Justin Bieber song.
“Please tell me he isn’t—”
“He definitely is,” Ezra mutters beside me, his tone laced with amusement as he looks over my shoulder.
Following his gaze, I turn and look up to see Reign dancing his way past a few girls on the second floor. The top of his brown hair catches the light as he pushes his hood down, shedding the jacket.
Effortlessly, as if he does it for a living, he scales the railing, a mischievous grin spread across his face, revealing deep dimples that have never failed to get him his way. With fucking everything.
I cringe as he jerks his shirt over his head, tossing it to the crowd of girls below. Like hungry lions after a scrap of meat, they practically maul each other for it, and I am seriously fighting the urge to barf.
They would not be obsessed with this dude if they knew he still wears Superman underwear and has the worst-smelling feet in the world. The stench got so bad in high school, I threw out his favorite soccer cleats and refused to apologize for it.
With not a single fuck to give, he stands at the edge of the concrete balcony before launching forward. Reign completes a full flip before he meets the surface of the pool, sloshing water over the edges.
Idiot.
Despite myself, a small smile tugs at my lips.
He’s the life of the party when he’s drunk or high or both. Even on the day-to-day when he’s an asshole, he’s got a presence that feels too big for any room. Impossible to ignore, he’s just one of those people you have no choice in loving.
Reign’s the favorite of our family. Our parents wouldn’t admit it out loud, but everyone knows it’s true.
It’s not because of his natural athletic ability or his brash yet charming demeanor. He’s just kinda golden. Always has been.
Ezra and I stand side by side near the edge of the pool, mutely gawking at Reign, whose tongue is alternating between two different girls with no tops on.
“Ezzzzz,” I singsong, nudging him with my shoulder slightly. “You wanna fish the dog out of the water for me?”
“Fuck no.”
“Dude, please.” I pull my keys from my pocket, shaking them in my hand, trying to tempt him. “I’ll swing by Tilly’s on the way back.”
“You suck,” Ezra grunts, snatching the keys from me. “And you’re buying.”
“I’ll meet you at the car. Give me ten to grab Attie.”
I spin on the heel of my boot, intending to flee before he changes his mind and leaves me to get my brother out on my own. I hear him negotiate with a drunken toddler behind me.
“Goddammit, Reign. I’m too fucking high for this. No, do not take your pants off—”
Not bothering to stifle my laugher as I walk away, I weave through the crowds of people. The pulsing music and laughter thrums in my ears as I walk down the row of doors on the bottom level, counting the room numbers.
9…10…11…12…
Something sticky soaks the front of my body, and I let out a small gasp as I peer down at my drenched shirt. Beer trickles down my exposed stomach, clinging to my gold belly button ring.
“You look damn good wet, Cherry.”Còntens bel0ngs to Nô(v)elDr/a/ma.Org
Panic swells on my tongue, mouth watering like I’ve been chewing on pennies. Every ounce of blood pumping through me runs ice-cold.
“Don’t fucking call me that,” I bite, running a hand down the front of my shirt, trying to fling the beer off.
Oakley chuckles, tossing his head back from the force. That laugh lives in my nightmares, sinister and hollow. I’m afraid no matter how much time passes, I’ll never forget the sound.
“It’s my right to call you that. I own it.” He wears a slimy smirk like a badge, hands shoved into the front pockets of his blue jeans as he leans in close to my face. “That sweet fucking cherry. It’s still on my tongue, ya know?”
His gross breath skates across my face, bile crawling up from my stomach. My throat works, swallowing the urge to vomit. Painting on an unfazed smile, I slowly look him up and down with disgust.
The wind catches a few stray pieces of greasy brown hair tied back in a bun. His white teeth peek from behind his lips as he grins, secrets only we know living behind his ratty eyes.
Oakley Wixx stole a lot from me, but he’ll never get the privilege of watching me break.
Ever.
“Hope you savored it. It’s the only taste you’ll ever get of me.”
I step to the side, trying to get around him so I can get Atlas and leave, but he mirrors my movement.
With a shake of his head, he clicks his tongue, grinning down at me.
“Not so fast. Catch me up, Phi. How’s the vixen been? You been keeping that pretty mouth shut?”
My stomach lurches, vomit sitting in my throat as my anger physically manifests in my gut.
I know how to play this game with him. That’s what this is—a twisted, fucked-up game with no winner. This is not the first time I’ve run into him since that Halloween night, and it won’t be my last.
I paste on a cold smile, my voice sharp as a knife. “And embarrass myself? You’re stupid if you think I’d tell anyone that a deadbeat drug dealer fucked me.”
“Watch your mouth, bitch.”
“Or what?”
His eyes turn to slits, charging closer.
I silently beg for him to touch me. I wish he fucking would give me an excuse to kill him in public. Add him to the list of souls Whispering Pines has stolen.
A vivid image of me shoving his face into my spinning bike tire hits me hard. It’s so clear, the manic laugh that would bubble from me as the hot rubber peeled his skin clean off. I wouldn’t ease up either, not until his body went slack and I was sure his heart stopped beating.
He’d die slowly, and when he tried begging for mercy, I’d lean in real close and say, Be a good boy. It’ll be over soon.
Oakley lifts his hand, and as his mouth opens, so does the door right next to where we are standing.
“Only thing I love more than a threesome is getting to bash your skull in, Waster. Touch her and I’ll be two for two tonight.”
My need to puke doesn’t drop when Oakley’s hand does. I’m teetering on the edge of upchucking all over him. Which, when I think about it, wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen.
“I was just leaving, Caldwell. No need to get your panties in a twist.” He jerks his chin toward me. “Isn’t that right, Phi?”
When I turn my head, my eyes clash with my best friend’s. The muscle in his square jaw twitches, eyebrow arching in silent question. My teeth sink into my tongue as I give him a little nod.
The tension from his shoulders doesn’t let up, but I see his fingers flex out of their balled-up fists. He crosses his arms across his bare chest, turning sideways to let me in the hotel room.
There are few people in this world who know me better than him. In my utter silence, he hears me, and I think if I went blind, I’d still be able to see him.
Atlas Caldwell is my person. Everyone in this family has one, and he’s always been mine.
Not sparing Oakley another glance or bothering with a parting jab, I slip inside the room.
“Unless you want a spin on my dick or to pick your teeth up from the ground, I’d get to fucking leaving.”
I’m not sure if he replies or leaves; the only sound in my ears is my boots thumping against the grimy, brown carpet. I barely register the girl and guy still tucked in the dingy bed as I practically sprint past them.
The bathroom door rattles as I slam it shut just before my knees hit the filthy linoleum floor. My body is racked with gut-wrenching heaves as I violently empty the contents of my stomach.
All of my anger pours out of my body and into the toilet. Which is a dangerous thing when I’m in public. My anger gives me something to hold on to, and without it, I’m free-falling.
Anger, I can use as a shield.
Now, it’s sitting in a disgusting toilet, and I’m left vulnerable.
My bones ache as I sink back against the side of the cold tub. Sweat beads at my hairline as I try to catch my breath. The acidic taste of vomit still coats my mouth, and I fucking wish I had a toothbrush.
This doesn’t happen every time I see Oakley, but the past few run-ins have left me in a similar position.
On the outside, I can fake it. I can pretend what he did doesn’t haunt me, with catty jabs and plastic smiles. If I let him see how ruined I am, he wins. I refuse to give him that power over me.
But below the surface, there is a hatred so potent it’s turned my heart the shade of spilled ink. The world will never be in full color again because of him. Wonder, hope, love. They are all tainted now. They aren’t hues that exist on my palette anymore.
My head falls to the side, my gaze catching on something in the dim, flickering light of the motel bathroom. Lines of messy handwriting snake across the yellowing wallpaper, half-hidden by years of grime.
Checked into a graveyard, that swallows people whole,
Sinks its teeth into weary souls.
I’m just a name that time forgot,
A boy that’s been left to rot.
Ripped from a life I used to know.
Nowhere to stay, nowhere to go.
The perfect guest for this motel.
No one will miss, no one will tell.
Checked in for the night.
I’ll stay for life.
My tomb will read,
Final resting place, room 13.
-E
The words bleed into the wallpaper, a quiet confession carved out in shaky, desperate strokes. I reach out, tracing my fingers over the uneven script, feeling as if I’m touching the ghost of whoever wrote them. In this dingy, forgotten bathroom, their pain echoes my own, a kindred spirit buried in the walls of this place.
Carefully, I start to peel the wallpaper back, my movements slow and deliberate, as if pulling too quickly might tear the fragile connection between us. The paper gives way, and I fold the scrap, slipping it into my pocket like a secret. It’s a token of solidarity, a bond with a soul as lost as mine.
“Wanna talk about it?”
Atlas’s voice pulls me from the haze, and I flick my eyes toward him. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his expression a mix of concern and patience. He’s searching my face, looking for something I’m not ready to give.
“No,” I grunt, forcing myself up from the floor. “Zip your pants. I promised Ezra Tilly’s.”
“Phi—”
“I’m fine, Attie,” I cut him off, but there’s a soft plea in my tone as I add, “I promise.”
He doesn’t call me out on the lie, though we both know it’s there, hanging between us like the heavy silence that fills the room. Without another word, we head out to my car, the quiet stretching between us.
As the engine hums to life and we pull away from the motel, I can’t shake the feeling that the boy who wrote those words never escaped room 13. But his pain, scrawled across that dingy wallpaper, found a way out.
And it makes tonight feel worth the pain.
“Can you be any fucking louder?” I hiss, turning around and glaring at Reign as he clumsily fumbles into the wall.
It’s a little past midnight, and my hopes of not waking our parents are going down the drain. I should’ve taken Atlas up on his offer to help ’cause now I’m left to deal with a drunken toddler solo.
Reign falls, landing on the tiny velvet couch by the entryway. It groans beneath his weight, looking absurdly small with his large body laid across it. He laughs to himself as he tries to toe his Jordans off his feet.
Universe, give me strength, please.
Wanting to get him into bed as quickly and quietly as possible, I walk over and kneel down, the cold marble pressing against my knees through the plush Persian rug. The smell of tobacco and booze rolls off him like a tsunami, mingling with the faint scent of expensive cologne that clings stubbornly to his clothes.
“You reek,” I mutter, my fingers working at the stubborn knots in his laces.
He scoffs, leaning his head back against the wall, eyes half-lidded. “Pot’s cool, but cigarette smoke is where you draw the line?”
In this light, he’s not the self-centered jackass everyone thinks he is. Reign’s normally razor-edged features are softened. He shifts slightly, his broad shoulders sinking further into the couch. The expensive fabric seems to swallow him, as though it’s trying to absorb the mess he’s made of himself tonight.
This guy isn’t the Heartbreak Prince or Ponderosa Springs’s hotheaded soccer star.
Right now, he’s just my brother.
“Nicotine smells like lung cancer. Weed smells like escapism.”
I tug the lace free, sliding off his right shoe. The soft thud of the shoe hitting the floor is muffled by the thick rug.
“You make no sense.”
“The universe is under no obligation to make sense to you. If the cosmos don’t owe answers, neither do I.”
Reign laughs again, his broad shoulders shaking with the effort. It’s a sound that echoes through the silent, cavernous space, bouncing off the high ceilings and ornate crown molding.
“You hated wearing shoes.”
“Huh?” I ask, looking up to see his familiar lopsided grin.
“When you were little, you refused to wear shoes.” He points to the ground, voice a little slurred. “Until your amazing big brother told you they gave you superpowers.”
Unable to stop myself, a smile tugs at my lips as I pull off his left shoe. The worn leather warm in my hands, I toss it behind me to join the other.
I clear my throat, speaking in a singsong voice. “Left shoe first, you’re strong as can be. Right shoe next, you’re quick as a bee.”
Apparently, I’ve forgotten all about waking our parents as we start to laugh while I guide him up the stairs. Our giggles mingle together as I get him into his bedroom.
It’s real and fills my belly with warmth.
When I was adopted, he was five months old. I was his little mimic, and without his knowledge, he was teaching me. Taking his first steps, speaking his first word, and anything else he attempted, I followed suit a few months later.
Everything I learned, I got from Reign.
“I fell in love tonight,” he announces, voice muffled as he collapses face down onto his bed, fully clothed and utterly unbothered by the world. The heather-gray comforter crumples beneath him, a soft rustle of fabric filling the quiet room.
I scoff, leaning against the doorframe with my arms crossed. “You’re always fucking in love, dude.”
It’s not an exaggeration either. He’s a love slut. Every day, three times a day, he’s in love. Which is exactly why women can’t get enough of him. They’re drawn to his relentless declarations that each new girl is the one.
“No,” he groans into his pillow. “She’s the one. She’s mine.”
I let out a breath, half a laugh, half a sigh, and walk over to the foot of his bed. The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the moon filtering through the thin curtains, casting a bluish tint over everything.
Grabbing one of the blankets that’s haphazardly thrown at the bottom of the bed, I toss it over his body.
“Whatever you say, Casanova.”
By the time I leave, he’s already snoring softly, his breathing steady and peaceful.
With a quiet sigh, I step out of his room, the door clicking softly shut behind me. The spiral staircase groans under my weight as I descend, each creak echoing in the stillness of the night. The darkness presses in, the faint light from the windows doing little to dispel it, and for a moment, it feels like the house itself is holding its breath.
When I reach the kitchen, the familiar scent of coffee and lingering spices from dinner envelops me, a small comfort in the quiet. It’s dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the soft green glow of the stove’s clock, casting long shadows across the countertops.
I reach for a glass, the cool surface smooth and reassuring against my fingers, and fill it with water from the tap. The rush of water is the only sound, steady and soothing, grounding me in the present. But as I lift the glass to my lips, something catches my attention—a faint murmur, barely audible over the quiet.
In the silence, my ears strain to pick up the hushed sound of voices. My brows knit together in confusion as I set the glass down on the counter. I move cautiously, my socks sliding soundlessly along the cool kitchen floor as I tiptoe toward the source of the murmurs.
The heavy wooden doors to Dad’s office are slightly ajar, a sliver of golden light spilling into the hallways. I pause just outside, my heart thudding in my chest as I peer through the small opening.
“I’m a judge, Sage. I am the court approval. We can give him access to the trust tonight.”
“Then what? Let him continue down a path he doesn’t deserve to be on?”
My parents stand in front of a teakwood desk, their bodies angled toward one another, the tension unmistakable. Confusion knots my brows together as I lean in closer.
What the hell are they talking about?
“We owe that family nothing. Not after what they did, or did you just forgive and forget all of that?”
“Fuck you, Rook. My twin sister was murdered. Coraline was nearly trafficked. There is a list of shit I’ll live with forever. No one forgot what Stephen Sinclair did to us.”
A cold chill racks my spine. Mom’s usually soft blue eyes have turned into flames, searing straight through the bone. I love her with every fiber of my being, but she’s also the one woman I’d never cross.
I’ve only seen this version of my parents a few times. They love each other in a…tangible way. You can see the embers and sparks, feel it like a warm fire after years of winter.
But sometimes, it scorches.
“Then why are you so hell-bent on letting Jude into this house?”
“Jude deserves the help we could never give Easton. He is innocent in this, and you can’t see past your hatred for his father long enough to see that.”
My chest seizes at the sound of his name. That familiar gnawing of guilt builds in my stomach.
Dad doesn’t speak for a moment, and the silence stretches between them, heavy and suffocating.
There is no way, no fucking way, this is happening. Jude can’t move in here. He can’t.
“Did you forget why you took the judge’s seat or what it’s like to live in the shadow of a shitty father? This is a kid, one who is a lot like you were at his age.” Mom’s expression softens just a fraction, her hands tugging her cream cardigan across her body. “Alistair has tried for years to be part of Jude’s life. We all are trying to move on. Why can’t you?”
“Because you almost died, Sage!” Dad’s voice is measured, but there’s an undercurrent of something darker—something I’ve only seen glimpses of—and it makes me flinch. “I held you every night for years before the nightmares stopped. I spent months of our relationship terrified I’d lose you to memories I can never save you from. I had to watch you slowly wither away until you found your way back.”
Those words hang in the air, heavy and raw. I can see the pain that’s never really gone away on his face as he drags a tired palm down his mouth.
The scent of Dad’s cigars wafts out, mixing with the faint smell of Mom’s perfume—usually comforting, but now it feels suffocating, like it’s choking me.
For the past four years, I’ve destroyed myself to protect this family. Sacrificed love to make sure they were safe. If Jude moves into this house, he’ll do everything to make sure it’s in vain.
It’ll be nothing but a constant reminder of Halloween night, of what he knows happened. And a living, breathing memory of my broken loyalty for a night of self-destructing pleasure.
I knew screwing him was wrong, our families too intertwined, the history too dark and painful. But I was drunk on him, addicted to the fire in his touch, and having him under the same roof will make it almost impossible to resist.
Mom’s face softens, and without hesitation, she steps forward and wraps her arms around my father. Immediately, the tension in his body seems to fall away, head dropping to her forehead.
“I’ll follow your lead anywhere, TG. You know that. But I cannot lose you or this family to a Sinclair again.” His voice is muffled against her light red hair.
“He is not Easton. You’re going to have to trust me on that because Jude Sinclair is a part of this family now.”
Fury ignites inside me, scorching my insides until I can barely breathe.
No. Jude Sinclair doesn’t deserve to be part of this family.
I want to unleash everything boiling inside—every ounce of rage, every jagged piece of pain—until my throat is raw and my voice is nothing but a shredded whisper. It would be so damn easy to tell them about Oakley, to explain that my hatred for Jude has nothing to do with his last name.
This isn’t about history. This is personal.
My throat works, knowing all I’d have to say is that Jude threatened to toss me off a water tower, and he wouldn’t just be homeless.
He’d be fucking dead.
But the words, sharp and ready, lodge in my throat like shards of broken glass. They cut deep, turning into acid that burns as I swallow them down.
Helping Jude means something to Mom. I can’t walk in there and rip that away from her, no matter how badly I want to. No matter how fucking hard this is going to be.
I despise Jude, but I love my mom more.