by Monroe, Evie
He shook his head. “I ain’t seen nothin’.”
I crouched in front of him at eye level. “You saw nothing?”
He nodded, and a smile spread over his lips. “Yeah.”
“Then why the fuck were you shooting at our guys, if you saw nothing? Just for the fun of it?”
He hitched a shoulder and looked away.
“What about the Fury? How long have you been with them?”
His smile turned cocky. “How long have you been circle jerking with those guys out there? You guys are the biggest bunch of pussies on the planet, kissing each other’s asses.”
So he was going to play it like that.
Taking my piece from the back of my jeans, I reached out, grabbed him by the shirt, and brought my gun to his face. “Listen to me. Don’t be smart, whoever you are. If it was up to me and most of those guys out there, you’d be dead. So you should start being a little grateful you’re still breathing air.”
I felt him stiffen against me, and he started to sniffle again. “Fine,” he said quietly, looking away.
I dropped him back on the chair and slid my piece back in my jeans. “Now. Like I said. Let’s just have a conversation. What’s your name?”
He looked away. “Yuran.”
“Yuran?” I was already pretty sure the kid was yanking my chain again.
“Yeah. Yuran Asshole,” he said, giving me a big smirk.
I backed up, brought the gun out again. I aimed it at his forehead. “I don’t think you’re understanding how close you are to dead?”
He shrugged, meeting my hard gaze with defiance. “Go on. Shoot me. I don’t care.”
“You don’t?” I pressed the gun against his forehead so hard that he stiffened. I cocked the trigger. “All right, then . . .”
I wasn’t going to do it. But I had a feeling about this kid.
And my feeling was right. He cracked, right down the middle.
He took a deep breath and started to shake. So he thought I was bluffing. “Wait. Wait,” he said. “Okay. My name is Joel—er, J-Dawg. That’s what the brothers call me.”
I put the gun down again. Held out my hand. “Joel.” I sure as hell wasn’t going to call him by the name the Fury had christened him with. “That’s more like it. I’m Hart.”
He stared at my outstretched hand for a moment, then shook it warily, his eyes scanning me. “You’re a Cobra.”
I nodded. Proud. “I’m the secretary of the Steel Cobras. And you . . . you’re a Fury prospect. Tell me about them. How long have you been with them?”
He rubbed at his nose. “Not long. Few months.”
“Why? How’d you get involved with them?”
“Couple of buddies said they’re the toughest guys in town. So I thought I should give them a look. And I liked what I saw,” he said.
“And what did you see?”
One corner of his mouth quirked up. “Thought you’d like to know that.”
“So you’ve heard of the Cobras?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I’ve heard of who you are. Also heard you were a bunch of pussies.”
How anyone could admire the Fury was beyond me, but they’d undoubtedly been feeding their prospects all kinds of shit about us. “You think we’re pussies? How long you been riding a bike? You looked like a goddamn six-year-old with training wheels out there.”
He gave me a wounded look and his shoulders slumped. “Yeah. Got the bike a couple of weeks ago. But I’m getting there.”
I remembered my first bike when I was fourteen. I didn’t know much of anything back then, either. And didn’t have anyone in the family to show me. Luckily, some of the Cobras at the garage had shown pity on me and pitched in to teach me all I needed to know. I chuckled.
“All right. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m gonna take you out of here, to my apartment. You’re going to do everything I say, and if you do, we let you live. If you don’t, you die. Simple as that. You got it?”
He gave me a surly look, but then sighed. “Fine. Whatever.”
I bent down to have a look at his eyes, under that unruly mop of hair. “Yeah?”
His voice got defensive and he sulked more. “I said yeah.”
I leaned in real close to his face. “I don’t think you do. The last thing you want in this world is the Cobras on your ass. Do you understand me? We’ll be good to you. But if you fuck this up and go running back to the Fury, you won’t just be Public Enemy Number One to us. We’ll go after your whole goddamn family. Do you understand me?”
Not that we ever had, but this kid didn’t know that. It had the desired effect. His eyes widened. He began to bob his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I understand.”
“Good.” I motioned to him, then went to get my helmet and keys. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. It’s fucking late. I’m beat.”
Chapter Two
Charlotte
“Aw, come on baby, what’s wrong?” I said to a cute little fluffball as he grunted in his cage.
I opened the wire door and lifted the little black lop-eared bunny from his pile of timothy hay, scratching him behind his long ears. He’d been brought in with a GI infection, but now that had healed, and he was ready for adoption.
“Flopsy, you’re doing good. The doc has given you the all clear. That means you can go find your fur-ever home!” I exclaimed, hearing him purr a little against my chest, his heartrate slowing.
Dr. Grace Andrews, the vet, smiled at me. “You have such a way with those shelter animals. That one wouldn’t let anyone pick him up. He was so skittish.”
I laughed. “This sweet baby? I can’t believe it! He’s nothing but a great big sweetheart.”
She went back to her desk piled high with work. “That’s what you say about all of our patients. I don’t know what we would ever do without you, Charlotte.”
I looked into the bunny’s black button eye. What could I say? The rescues were my favorite of all the animals brought into the Aveline Bay Veterinary practice. I understood lost-and-lonely better than anyone. This particular one was all black with a little white spot on his nose. “He’s so adorable.”
“He’s up for adoption!” Dr. Andrews reminded me.
I set him back in the cage with a reluctant sigh and started to scuff away in my comfy work shoes and scrubs. “Don’t tempt me.”
I was so on the verge, as I was at least once a day, at this job. The problem was, my tiny apartment was a two-pet establishment. And I was already testing that to the limit. I had two . . . dogs. But also, one practically hairless cat, a bunny, a blind turtle, and a gerbil with three legs. And my stupid brother.
I lived in constant worry that my landlord would find out and boot my ass. But I couldn’t help it. I loved all the abandoned and sad creatures of the world.
Speaking of abandoned and sad . . .
I walked to the reception area and reached into my purse for my phone. I stared at the display with a rush of disappointment.
No messages.
Dejected, I pocketed the phone, then grabbed my jacket and hoisted my purse onto my shoulder. I said goodbye to the rest of the techs in the reception area of the veterinary hospital and walked out to the parking lot, cursing the name of my little brother.
We’d talked about this Jojo knew better. Knew how I worried. And yet he just seemed to get worse and worse. At nineteen, now, I thought after he graduated from high school, he’d get a job, start taking on more responsibility and help out around the house. I didn’t know he’d turn into a big old party-loving loser who hardly ever came home.
When I slid into the driver’s seat of my car, I checked his Instagram to see if he’d posted anything. He loved posting himself doing keg-stands or getting high.
But nope. He hadn’t updated his status in a week.
I tried to tell myself that it was all normal teen behavior, and I should be happy he was having a normal teen life, since I’d been all about working at the grocery store at night, and college during the day when I
was his age. No time for fun. He had it easy.
He could have at least sent me a text to let me know he was alive. Was that asking too much?
I turned the key in the ignition and tried not to worry. But he was still just a kid in so many ways. And he hadn’t come home last night, or the night before.
Usually, when he stayed out drinking with his friends, he’d let me know he was okay. Send a quick text so I’d know where he was. So I wouldn’t worry.
Not this time.
Of course, he was notoriously bad about remembering to charge his phone. Maybe his battery just died.
Or maybe . . .
I swallowed, once again thinking the thoughts that had consumed my mind during my entire shift. He’s getting worse, Charlotte, and you know it. It’s got to be those loser friends of his. Maybe he’s gone from pot to something worse.
Pulling out of the parking lot, I tried to rein in my brain to stop it from imagining the worst—Jojo dead of an overdose in someone’s basement, or in a ditch from a drunk driving accident. Considering the pictures I’d seen on his Instagram lately, neither of those scenarios was much of a stretch.
I turned up the music loud as I drove across the town of Aveline Bay, to the apartment we shared. I was twenty-five, now, six years older than my baby brother, but in my head, I’d always be his mom.
His dad, too.
Pretty much his everything.
Growing up, we’d never had much in the way of parental figures. I was seven when our parents drove away and left us at the Circle K, too strung out on heroin to realize we weren’t in the car with them. Joel could barely walk at the time, a little over a year old and an adorable little bouncing boy.
I still remember sitting in the police headquarters that night, thinking they’d arrested me for being a bad girl and afraid I’d spend the rest of my life in jail. They’d taken Jojo away from me, and I sat on one of those hard plastic chairs in the waiting room, in my pink unicorn shirt and pigtails, while everyone buzzed around, ignoring me.
Eventually, a social worker named Ms. Nettles came in and told me that my parents had gone away for a while, and that I’d be living in a home with other children while they tried to find a more permanent place for me.
I screamed my head off. Not for my mom. Not for my dad. They’d always been transient in my life, floating in and out, often absent when I needed them.
I screamed for Jojo.
Whatever I did must have worked, because two days later, we were placed with a foster family, but together. I still remember holding his sweaty hand in mine. He looked up at me and said, “La-la?” his name for me, his dark coffee-colored eyes full of sadness and confusion.
That placement didn’t last, though.
After that, we bounced around from foster family to foster family. Sometimes we’d be placed together, sometimes not.
Whenever not, I was miserable. I acted out. I screamed. I cried. I made them know that I was not happy with the arrangement until I went back into the “foster kid shuffle,” as I’d come to call it.
So the second I turned eighteen and went out on my own, I applied to be Jojo’s legal guardian.
Forever, it’d been just the two of us, against the world.
I struggled a lot figuring out when I should be a parent and when I should just be his sister. Especially when he technically became an adult. We’d been fighting more and more about that. He kept saying he didn’t need me telling him what to do anymore. Kept threatening to move out.
Maybe I should have let him. Allow him to make his own mistakes.
But yet, I couldn’t.
I was everything to him—and he was pretty much all I had, as well.
So for the past few weeks, I’d been bending over backward for him. I didn’t hound him about getting a new job after Jack in the Box fired him. I’d let him get that awful, death trap of a used motorcycle with most of his savings, instead of insisting he help me make rent. I hadn’t said a word when I saw him hanging out with these tough leather-bound guys in front of the liquor store. I’d let a lot of bad stuff slide.
Maybe I shouldn’t have.
God, if this was the way parents felt about their decisions—all this regret and self-doubt—I never wanted to be a mother.
I pulled into our shitty apartment complex and looked up at number 313, our little slum on the third floor.
Our one large, picture window looked into the living room. Seeing it dark, my stomach sank.
I sat there, my hands on the steering wheel, wondering where he’d be if not here. Oh, I could think of thousands of places in Aveline Bay, all of them bad.
I’d gotten sick of him last night. I’d found ants in our living room from the dirty dishes he left all over the place, so I’d had it. I stormed through the apartment on a cleaning binge, the animals all staring at me, a woman possessed. He usually locked his door, but I could smell the stench of his body odor and old food from the hallway, so I found a hammer and broke in.
That’s when I found it.
He had a gun.
Just lying there on his dresser, innocent as a hairbrush.
I had no idea where he’d gotten it from, or that he even knew how to use one. I’d plucked it up from his dresser like it was a live, dangerous thing and held it out in front of me like a grenade that was about to go off.
When he’d gotten back, I’d started to lay into him about it, but he took one look at his open door and screamed at me, “What the fuck? What gives you the right to go through my things?”
I’d never seen him so angry.
Then he called me a fucking bitch.
Sure, he’d used those words before. What teenage kid didn’t? But he’d never, ever used them on me. As much as we argued, I always felt like he knew I was his best ally. His “La-La.” We had a certain respect for each other because of our shared history. Our relationship was sacred. Or so I’d thought.
I’d just stared at him, stunned, as all the air left my lungs. Whatever complaints I’d had in my throat died instantly.
He’d grabbed the gun easily, like he’d been handling one his entire life. He shoved it into the pocket of his jacket, and stormed out, his dark hair in his face, black eyes never meeting mine. Maybe he was strung out. A second later, I heard him speeding away on that stupid motorcycle.
That was the last time I saw him. Almost twenty-four hours ago.
Bracing myself for disappointment, I cut the engine and climbed the two flights of stairs to my place. Sometimes, when he’d hear my key in the lock, Jojo’d run to greet me, open the door for me before I could twist the key. I’d go into a warm apartment and a macaroni and cheese dinner he’d cooked for me.
He hadn’t done that for me in a while.
This time, I opened the door to a dark apartment.
When I went inside, all the animals raced to see me—Burt and Ernie, Opie, and the little bunny. But other than that, sure enough, everything was just as when I’d left for work.
Jojo hadn’t been home.
Chapter Three
Hart
On the way back to my apartment, I would’ve stopped at one of the 24-hour fast food places that lined the main drag near my place, especially since I didn’t have much in my fridge, but I didn’t want anyone—especially the Fury—to see me with the kid. I’d had him turn his prospect kutte inside out before he got on the back of my bike, just in case.
I parked outside my apartment and we went upstairs, opened the door, and I threw my shit down in the hallway. The kid looked around at all the extra computer parts and peripherals I had scattered all over the place in cardboard boxes. He squinted at my coffee table, where I’d been building a robotic arm. I expected him to make a smart remark about it being a shithole, but he didn’t. He just yawned.
I’d been thinking about where I’d keep him on the drive over. If I let him sleep on the couch, I couldn’t trust him not to escape the second I went into the bedroom. The only option was letting him have my bed. And
that thought pissed me off, but I muttered, “You can have the bed,” before going into the kitchen and grabbing a couple of beers. I peered inside the fridge.
“You hungry? I got grilled cheese and . . . cheese. And bread.”
He shrugged and made himself comfortable on a kitchen island stool. “Whatever.”
I pulled out enough bread and cheese for two. I started the grill, popped the top on the beer, and slid one over to him. “So . . . you said your friends got you interested in the Fury?”
He crossed his arms, the tough guy again. “That ain’t none of your bees wax.”
“Look, kid. We can sit here in absolute fucking silence and look at each other while we eat, but I think it’d be better if we got to know each other,” I said, getting the sandwiches ready for the grill. “Me? I joined the Cobras when I was fourteen. Unofficially, of course. Couldn’t really join until I got my motorcycle license. So, I was a prospect at sixteen. How old are you?”
He stared at me, then reached over, grabbed the beer, and took a swig, like Fuck you, you just gave an underage kid beer. Not that it mattered to me; my dad had given me my first beer at six. “Nineteen.”
I raised an eyebrow. He looked younger to me. “Why you want to join a club?”
He just stared at me. I kept talking. “My dad ran the garage where all the Cobras went.” I flipped the sandwiches and shrugged. “I was the nerd, the fat kid with the brains who always had his head in a computer. Head of the robotics club at school. I was bullied like crazy at school. My father didn’t like me hanging around the garage, but when I did, I would talk with the guys from the club and they were all so badass. No one ever fucked with them. I wanted to be one of them.”
He didn’t say anything for a long time. He just sat there, flipping the cap from the beer bottle. Then, he let out an incredulous laugh and said, “You were a nerd?”
That was a good sign, from a kid who’d called the Cobras a bunch of pussies and fags. “Yeah. Big-time. Still kind of am. I like to tinker on shit like my father.” I held up my hands, which were covered in cuts and calluses. “See?”
